Friday, 28 October 2016


'I'M A NASCAR DRIVER' YouTube (video below)
After giving up drinking during the week, I survived a weekend of unprecedented debauchery but the drink didn't make me as crazy as I'd hoped. In fact, I'm thinking of taking up a new spirit: Novocaine. That shit's amazing. Just look at this teenager who's as high as the Burj Dubai on the stuff, which has not only taken away her pain but also somehow convinced her that she has just "won the World Series of being the fastest NASCAR driver." 

I spotted this video at work on Friday ... oh please, like you don't trawl the Internet for cheap laughs on a Friday (and Thursday, and Wednesday, and Tuesday, and Monday). We're allowed. It's practically in the Charter of Rights. Anyway, I was immediately obsessed. I sat there, tittering drunkenly at my desk, clicking Repeat, Repeat, Repeat, like a senior on a fixed income at a 25-cent slot machine, killing off a good half hour of precious work time thanks to Annie and her Novocaine bender. My favourite moment? Exactly 3:41, when Annie points menacingly at her mom and slurs: "I'm a NASCAR driver." Annie, you are the cutest little cotton-ball stuffed dental patient EVER. (P.S. If it turns out Jimmy Kimmel-toe had anything to do with this, I'm off the YouTube for good. I hear Instagram has some great Intervention knockoffs.) 

EDITOR'S NOTE: Aw, this just warms my cockles.
MY NOTE: Of your heart.
MY NOTE: You have to say "this warms the cockles OF MY HEART." Otherwise it's just friggin gross.

Tuesday, 25 October 2016


piggly wiggly, jian ghomeshi, lucy decoutere, trailer park boys, sex allegations, kevin donovan, toronto star, halloween costumes, bombay sapphire,
Just throw your best family-sized chocolate bars at us and concede trick-or-treat defeat. 

*And now, direct from the Whorrifiles, I hereby gift you with this irresistible blast from the past (below), in anticipation of Piggly's 2016 Hallowe'en outing. During which she will be dressing up as a ... well, I think I'll just pull a Donald Trump here and 'keep you in suspense.' Unlike his bullshit campaign, this suspense will be worth it! 

This. This adorable face. The joy, the innocence the sheer PIGGLY WIGGLINESS of it — this is exactly the tonic I needed after a solid week of trauma that included the funeral of a national hero and the explosive news that Jian Ghomeshi's private life is no longer a mystery, it's a horror movie. (Click here to read the latest shocking allegations, but I warn you, they are both NSFW and unfit to share blog space with a precious nine-month-old cherub. No one will compare ME to Mama June!)

This photo of my granddaughter taking her very first Halloween costume for a test drive is like a shot of overproof sunshine. It's even more adorable considering that the poor little pudding just got over her first cold … and  in the nick of time too because I am really counting on eating all the chocolate she gets when she goes trick-or-treating. 

We won't trouble ourselves with the niggling issue of just what the hell is she dressed up as (A kitten? A zebra? Big Ears Teddy?) because when your cheeks are this goddam squeezable it doesn't matter. The candy is going to pour into that trick-or-treat receptacle like Bombay Sapphire into a bucket. What? Why are you looking at me like that? Isn't that how everyone drinks it? Yes I tipple a bit but I'm an excellent grandma, you assholes! *slaps pasties onto bared drunken bosoms* HALLOWEEN! Woohooo!!! Two more sleeps, Piggly Wiggly! 

Monday, 24 October 2016


Nike, SportChek, Dri-Fit, Nike Pro, workout gear,
I foolishly assumed this Nike outfit's $200 pricetag was a gentleman's promise that it wouldn't disintegrate on the first wear.
I have a confession to make: I buy overpriced Nike workout gear. It's part of an ongoing effort to trick myself into going to the gym often enough to counterbalance a diet of constant pasta and booze and a work environment comprised of so much sitting my arse is literally starting to take on the shape of a chair. An ergonomically designed, lumbar-supporting, executive office chair, mind you, but still: a chair. Nobody wants a chair-shaped ass.

So I think I can be forgiven if, on my few precious days off, I sacrifice my wallet at the altar of SportChek so that I'll feel obliged to drag my body to the altar of GoodLife. Hence I've been treating myself to everything from mesh trainers to psychedelic track suits and venturing further and further afield to find ever more psychedelic outfits at ever more exorbitant prices until finally ... I hit the wake-up wall. 

This happened when I fell in love with a black-on-black Nike Pro Dri-Fit track suit with a fluorescent lemon-meringue-coloured swoosh. It's a little more subtle than the Nike Pro Dri-Fit track suit I got for Christmas but it has the same great fit and feel and, to be honest, the same cachet that comes with a swoosh one paid 200 bucks for. So you can imagine my chagrin when I got home, slipped into my hot new getup and heard a sound that can only be described as "rrrrrrrrrrrrrip." And looked in the mirror to see that the beloved "swoosh" had split in half and was curling up at either end like a scab. An obvious political protest to which I responded with a mix of rage and shame.

Because here's the thing, Nike: I already feel dirty enough for buying a product you paid some nine-year-old to cobble together. I already feel dirty enough paying $200 for a product that probably cost you $12. Your role in this disgusting charade is to convince me that, at some point, some major quality control honcho is brought in, perhaps even paid a living wage, someone who sees to it that the seams, the zippers and most of all THE GODDAM NIKE SWOOSH do not explode the second one of us materialistic Western mall whores tries it on. That is your job. Your only job. (Well that and, presumably, ensuring the underage Indonesians don't burn like kebabs when the shithole factory goes up in flames for the thirtieth time this year.) 

It doesn't seem like too much to ask but apparently it is and so guess what, Nike: I'm finished with you. The appalling shoddiness of your overpriced gear has, belatedly I admit, brought me to my senses. I will not EVER, I promise you, pay so much as five bucks for one of your wretched pieces of shite, even if it means I have to go to the gym in the nude. Furthermore, I'll be shipping this particular piece back to you and expecting a full refund, which I will then spend on pasta and booze, because what the hell, at least I don't have to picture Indonesian children succumbing to heat stroke while I'm enjoying it.

EDITOR'S NOTE Although, to be fair, those Indonesian kids are tougher than you might think. As this video clearly shows.

Sunday, 23 October 2016


and my sensible shoes, in my 
home office, where I  ... wait. 
Those wine bottles; I specifically 
 told him to crop those out. EDITOR!!!

It occurred to me the other day, as I took yet another tumble that I don't want to talk about but which was quite humiliating, involving vagina-flash and lying spread-eagled on a sidewalk, that we haven't had an update on my leg in quite some time.
In fact, my leg is the one that brought it to my attention.

"I'm not enjoying being attached to you anymore," it whined as my  physiotherapist mauled it like Alec Baldwin mauling a paparazzo. 
"Yeah well I don't give a flying fuck," I retorted. "You should have got better faster, you should have supported me instead of folding like a tripod in front of my very workplace and then maybe we wouldn't be going through this now."
"You could at least tell people how I'm doing," it sulked. "I'm sure they want to know."
"Shut your leghole before I kick myself down the stairs again, you wheedling little shit," I growled. And I meant it.

But let me backtrack a bit. For those of you who missed the posts about how my leg almost got blown off my body during a fun-filled vacation in Bermuda, it's been six months since the infamous mopedectomy. (You can read about it here.) I thought it would be all better by now, but it's not. It twangs with literally every step I take. 

Of course, any normal person would have admitted they needed intensive physiotherapy. Any normal person would have admitted they're not 45 anymore and don't just snap back from hangovers, let alone cataclysmic accidents, the way they used to. Any normal person would not stay up late after working a full day and write profanity-laced blogs about famewhores. So there you go. We've established that I'm not normal.

Therefore, I did not start physiotherapy until three weeks ago. After I'd tumbled for, oh, I'm gonna say "the sixth time" since the accident. (I do a lot of tripping over absolutely nothing since my leg went retarded. It's very sad.)
So there I was, getting massaged by my physiotherapist, when his eyes fell on the shoes I'd positioned neatly by the bedside.
"Wow," he said. "Those are crazy."
"I figured you'd approve," I said.

"How do you walk in them?" he asked.
"I don't walk in them," I said. "I fall. A lot." 
He looked so crestfallen I decided to stop being an asshole for a moment. "They're sitting shoes," I confessed. "I take them off if I'm actually going to be walking anywhere."

At which point my leg decided to pipe up.
"No she doesn't!" it tattled. "She walked all the way down to the cafeteria in them and had to hang on to the railing for dear life! I was really really scared!" 
Well that did it. Of course, I pretended to be calm in front of the physiotherapist (you never know who's gonna rat you out to the authorities) but the instant I got my leg alone, I gave it damn good thrashing. It's pretty much laid up in traction now and if it utters one single peep the rest of the weekend, I will be very, very surprised.

EDITOR'S NOTE: *clutches pearls* That's just vindictive!
MY NOTE: Yeah well you're next, wise guy. Don't think I didn't notice that wine bottle stunt.