Monday, 21 August 2017


Kiara, 12, (left) and her sister Shakira, 16, seemed shy but the second the cameras started rolling Shakira went all Sasha Fierce on me. LIKE A BOSS! 
Video courtesy of my moron editor

If you're wondering why it's been Radio Silence here on Whorrified for a few days, it's because I've been in jail. (Kidding. If they didn't lock Scout Willis up for this terrorist attack on our senses I think my Travelling Corn Dog Show and I are safe.) No, the truth is, a friend has two cousins visiting from Barbados, so I offered to fulfill my selfless court-ordered community service role as a global outreach ambassador by taking these perfectly innocent children to the CNE and showing them a good time. 

Meaning I forced them to perform for my moron videographer, gave them fake chores to do while I cooled off in the beer tent ("See if you can find 'Ricoh Coliseum' on that useless map they gave us, will you? Take your time ..."), took them on rides that scared the living crap out of them and then traumatized them by forcing them to watch me perform my traditional Consuming of the Corn Dog ritual. It's a foodstuff I wouldn't THINK of ingesting on any other day of the year, but the CNE corn dogs? I don't know what they put in those damn things but I will tell you this: if there's a grainy cellphone video out there of Rob Ford consuming one of them in somebody's basement I will not be surprised. 

Anyway, the moral of this story is that the entire day went off without a hitch, meaning no one got sick, injured, drunk or lost. No, wait, that's not quite true: Kiara did give us one hell of a fright for about 15 seconds there, going missing in the teeming throngs at the exact moment I was slathering my corn dog in various lubricants. But I got down on my hands and knees and begged for divine tubular intervention, and she came pelting back just in time to catch me inhaling my last gobble. You can't tell me that's a coincidence.

Barbados, Canadian National Exhibition, CNE, corndog, the ex, toronto,
I consulted the Mystical Corn Dog for directions as to the whereabouts of our missing Kiara AND IT OBLIGED!

Sunday, 30 July 2017


So it's over. And I survived. It's rather telling how deeply relieved I am every year when Caribana ends and I find myself still standing, still conscious, not in a hospital bed, not wearing someone else's underpants and not smiling out from Wanted posters on signposts. 

 I was gone so long they almost had to 
send a search party out for me, and I sure 
as hell am glad they called THAT off, 
because here was the description: 
Age? We can't tell you. She'd kill us. 
Sex? Oh definitely. With just about anybody. 
Outfit? Well it's more like a get-up, really. 
Name? Whor ... Never mind. We see her. 
She's over there siphoning beer 
out of the kegs again.
Every year, just in case that last one happens, I make sure to have a friend take a good-ish photo of me, which can be supplied to federal agents if need be. It's bad enough to be wanted by the law without having to suffer the indignity of a bad mugshot as well. This woman here can tell you more about that. 

I have to admit I haven't a clue who she is, I'm just using her to make a point. And also I admire her obvious good breeding and the fact that she, like a lot of women I admire, does not see the need for the constant tedium of pants.

And speaking of pants, that is not what I wore to Caribana. Because Caribana is all about the sexy, the slinky, the embracing of your inner Rihanna. (Except for the thong flashing. And the nipple piercings. And the drinking of so much Bajan rum you'll butt grind an entire island. In fact, maybe Rihanna was a bad example.) 

Anyway, this post has spiralled badly out of control so I'm just going to assume I'm not sober yet after all and end with: "It was fun. Damn good fun. And now I must get back to my prayer book ... " *keels over backwards in dead-dog, legs-upright position*

Editor's Note: Pssst! I know where she hid the GOOD pictures and I will be posting every one of them just as soon as I make sure she's really out and not just trying to trick me. Last week I went down the basement stairs for that one!

Monday, 17 April 2017


giant tiger, best friends, relationship advice, editorspick,
HAD I KNOWN I WOULD BE SPENDING HALF AN HOUR on the floor of a Giant Tiger store while on a distress call, I'd have done my hair and worn something nattier.

The call came, as most urgent calls do, at a most inconvenient time. I had just finished a workout at GoodLife and was dressed in my most craptastic sweats and, because some genius civic planner put a Giant Tiger right next-door to my gym, I figured I'd grab a few groceries before heading home to swill vodka and ignore the housework for the rest of the weekend. No one will accuse me of not budgeting my time wisely. 

So there I was, weighing the merits of no-name brand freezer bags versus the vastly more expensive but superior Glad freezer bags, when I felt my phone vibrate. GODDAMIT! I huffed, it's probably one of my obnoxious exes calling to tell me he can't live without me. BLAHBLAHBLAH if I had a nickel for every time I heard that one. 

But then I saw the name on the caller ID and realized it was actually someone I like. In fact a dear friend.
I hesitated the merest fraction of a second ... I was mid-shopping, after all ... and then answered.
"Good morning you contagious slut!" I said breezily.
The slight pause was my first clue.
The catch in her voice when she said "Fuck off you dirty whore," was my second clue. She usually says that with such affectionate panache.
"Hey," I said, a little offstride. "You okay?"

RELATED: Whorrified's super fantastic excellent dating tips
RELATED: A girl must do whatever it takes to feel better

Well that was all it took. A flood of hiccupy tears and confessions followed and so I stepped out of the checkout queu, pacing and clucking and huffing, "He didn't! No way! The bastard!" at all the right places, but it soon became evident this was a much more indepth crisis. This was, in fact, a meltdown. 

So as my friend poured her heart out about her very bad Friday night and her confusion over who was actually to blame for what had transpired ... (Bestie Rule No. 1: It's ALWAYS his fault. Even if it's her fault) ... I was drawn more and more into the orbit of crisis and out of the orbit of shopping until finally I figured "Feck it," and just plopped the grocery basket on the floor and sat down beside it and gave myself over completely to listening. 

Finally, after about 15 minutes, my friend started to sound like herself again. 
"What's all that beeping?" she asked. "Where are you, anyway?"
"I'm sitting on the floor of Giant Tiger, with my grocery basket beside me. In my hoodie," I said. "Everybody's looking at me like I'm a vagrant. If Giant Tiger had a budget for security, they'd be harassing the hell out of me right now."

My friend laughed. It was a good sound. 
"Omigod," she said. "You're trying to do your shopping and your crazy friend calls and has a five-alarm crying jag. You should blog about this!"
"Oh, honey, trust me," I said, as I snapped a selfie. "I plan to."
"That's hilarious!" she chirped. "You cheered me up so much! Thanks for listening. Oh ... and, er, you won't mention my name, right?"
"Of course not, you herpes-infested harlot," I retorted.

"Thanks beyotch," she tossed back. "You're the best."
Ahhh, friendship. It makes up for all the shitty things being a woman has to offer. 

Friday, 14 April 2017


Piggly Wiggly, Things on Piggly's Head, Whorrified, Brampton,
Mother Hen: "Who put that baby in the swing
 without buckling her in? I WANT NAMES!"

I realize I thoroughly Easterblogged you yesterday, but I thought I'd update you with a few pithy anecdotes about the beautiful madness that is my family. We gathered at my younger daughter's home, the rule being that the person with the youngest child, the biggest house and the healthiest food gets to host the party. If I were her I'd start stocking the larder with pork rinds and tube cheese before the constant hosting drives her to a breakdown. The poor girl hasn't been guestless since the baby was born.  

The best part of our family get-togethers is the juxtaposition of eccentrics. On Easter, there was my firstborn, the mother hen ("Has everybody washed their hands?"), my second daughter the organic hostess, her husband, their baby  Piggly Wiggly, my brother, my Mom (the author), my moron editor (I had to bring him; the homeless shelter was closed) and of course, me (the eye candy).

We were gabbing and gossiping and enjoying the traditional Easter dinner of madras chicken and osso bucco favoured by all families who don't eat ham because it reminds them of a certain pig dog, but I had the niggling sense that something wasn't quite right. 
Finally, after the third shot of Hornitos, it hit me. "Hey! We haven't put anything on Piggly Wiggly's head!" 

A deadly quiet fell over the room while we looked at each other as if to say "Nobody thought to bring a hooker wig? What kind of family are we?" But then Piggly's mom produced a pair of bunny ears and we all took pictures for a solid half-hour. "Try one with the flash!" "Turn her around and take her from this angle!" "See if you can get her to smile; tilt the ears; try it with backlighting; just one more!" 
If that child doesn't grow up thinking Easter is about how Christ died on the cross to escape the throngs of madras-scented paparazzi, it will be a miracle.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Why do those bunny ears look so familiar?
MY NOTE: Because I was wearing them the night you met me at the Playboy Club. Which reminds me, you never did tip me.
EDITOR'S NOTE: Take if off the paycheque you've owed me for about three months now.
MY NOTE: *whips out notepad, affixes pentagram sticker beside 'Moron Editor' column* Great idea!

Wednesday, 12 April 2017


easter, piggly wiggly, things on piggly wiggly's head,
Well Piggly Wiggly's mom is more of a "Let's put things on the baby's head" kinda hostess. 
(See the interactive image below for more kneeslappin' good times.)

Happy Easter, everyone! Like most lapsed Catholics, I sometimes have to remind myself that this is in fact a deeply religious observance as opposed to just a three-day weekend which, after the week I just had, is as much of a miracle as the fact that Jesus our Saviour rose from the dead to hunt Easter eggs. 

I will be spending the blessed holiday with family at my daughter's home, where I can cuddle my beloved Piggly Wiggly and make sure her mom doesn't get out of hand with the head ornaments. This sort of thing can rapidly escalate from amusing prank to dangerous habit, as I learned when I tried it on the pig dog using a bowl of scalding chowder instead of a wig. The drama! The screeching! The mess! Although the aroma of chowder-dipped swine was oddly delectable and lingered for days afterwards.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go pour a martini and bark orders at the moron who's cooking the osso bucco I will bring to my daughter's and tell everyone I made myself. Oh ... and my wigs. I have to sort my wigs. If we're going to be putting things on Piggly Wiggly's head all bloody weekend, the least I can do as her grandmother is make sure they are worthy. 

EDITOR'S NOTE: *samples sauce, kisses fingertips* Magnifique! It's like velvet!
MY NOTE: *tosses empty bottle of Grey Goose in general direction of stovetop* Stop tonguing the osso bucco and come help me find my transvestite hooker wig! It's my favourite. 

EASTER EXTRA: HOVER OVER the pic below for captions.

Thursday, 12 January 2017


Beyonce, Solange Knowles, Gwyneth Paltrow, yoga retreat, Jay Z,
Which if you ask me was a waste of time 
because He hasn't lifted a finger to 
protect her from Gwyneth Paltrow.
Because Gwyneth Paltrow is insane of the opinion that there's nothing that drinking wheatgrass smoothies and watching her alabaster arse perform the Downward Dog can't cure, she is taking her friend Beyonce on a friggin yoga retreat. This is her idea of how to salve the humiliation of suspected infidelity and having your batshit crazy sister deliver a shitkicking to your husband in what will become known as "Elevatorgate."

Jezebel reports that Gwyneth selflessly organized the four-day luxury retreat because she "reckons this is just what her friend needs to get her energy back."

So I guess when Beyonce posted that message to God's Instagram account right after the shitkicking, asking Him to deliver her unto better relationships, this is how He responded. By delivering Saint Gwyneth of the Artisanal Yoga Mats rather than doing what I would think would be infinitely more practical, that being dropping nude Javier Bardem holding a keg of vodka on her doorstep. Seriously. He's creator of the universe, how hard would that be? It'd be like buttering a piece of toast.