WHORRIFIED. BECAUSE GOSSIP IS GOOD FOR YOU

JENNIFER ANISTON IS A STRIPPER NOW. I KNOW, RIGHT?

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Fri, 24 May 2013 02:32:00 +0000


JEN POURS ON THE STULTIFYING ENNUI AT DRESS REHEARSAL Jen: 'Hey there, you big boy. Oh yeah. Oh yeah. You know I like that. I want to spank you with my yoga mat.' How's that, director? Director!!! Director: snores loudly, sits bolt upright ... Huh? What?

Holy shitballs, am I ever glad this week is almost over. And not just because everybody except Doug Ford thinks our mayor is an ass-grabbing crack fiend and it's making Toronto long for the highbrow leadership of Mel Lastman, but because the celebrity news has been even more scumsuckingly dirty than usual.

First it was Rihanna baiting Chris Brown with strip-club tweets, then it was Lance Armstrong being ratted out as a butt-crack fetishist, then it was the super exciting news that Paris Hilton is having a ~~relapse~~ comeback, and now, WTF? Jennifer Aniston is a stripper.

Yeah, no, she just plays one in a movie. But it's even harder to believe when you see the actual movie because for some reason, Jennifer Aniston is less than the sum of her parts. She's the best-looking unattractive woman on the planet. She possesses zero titillation factor. She emits the torrid allure of porridge. She puts on the hooker wigs and the lingerie and she struts around like a mechanical windup toy and sits on clients' laps (gingerly, making the Rachel face) and your pulse does this: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Whoever got the high-larious idea of casting Jen in We're the Millers needs a good swift kick in the neuticles. Just to wake them up. I've seen the trailer, below, and just as I predicted Paris Hilton's drecktastic new song "Last Night" is going to be the summer's hit single, I'm predicting this is going to be the summer's hit comedy. There. I said it. *walks into oncoming traffic*

JEN'S EX-FIANCE'S NOTE: I'm feeling a curious stirring in my nether region. It's almost, it's like ... oh. Never mind. I just had to pee.

Watch the trailer of We're the Millers below. Warning: Will make you want to go to a strip club, just to get the awful taste of flaccid out of your mouth.

PARIS HILTON HAS A CAREER AGAIN. THANKS, LIL WAYNE

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Thu, 23 May 2013 02:20:00 +0000

A SCENE FROM PARIS HILTON'S NEW SINGLE
I'd like to tell you there's more to it than this photo suggests, but that would mean I'm insane.

You know how sometimes you get this frickin' gross annoying rash that drives you nuts, you just can't get rid of it, and then suddenly, whew, it's gone? AND THEN IT COMES BACK THREE YEARS LATER, worse than ever?
That's what this feels like.

Cash Money (that's Lil Wayne's posse, for those of you who don't follow the sizzurp crowd) has signed Paris Hilton to their label. Her new single "Last Night" is about to drop. There's a friggin video and everything. It's auto-tuned and photoshopped and produced within an inch of its life, it's basically just Paris Hilton in various stages of slut-walk, but you know what? It's infectious.
Sigh. This is me, making the sign of the cross and predicting this damn thing is gonna be a huge hit.

You can watch the video here. I'd join you but I'm terribly busy drowning myself in a bathtub full of cheap gin. No seriously. There's just no reason to go on.

LANCE ARMSTRONG ENJOYS A GOOD BUTT-LICKING

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Thu, 23 May 2013 02:19:00 +0000

AND HERE'S LANCE WORKING UP A WHOLE LOTTA BUTT SWEAT
Photo/Benutzer:Hase

I was on a conference call today with a guy from San Francisco and the first words out of his mouth were, "So how about that crack-smoking mayor of yours!" Geez Louise. Is this what it's going to be like every time I tell people I'm from Toronto?

Anyway, I needed something to take my mind off the scandal about which Torontonians simply cannot stop talking, and since I don't smoke crack (I'm not judging, I just don't need any more expensive hobbies), my options were limited to vodka and gossip.
And lo and behold, the very first website I clicked on had this explosive item about one Lance Armstrong. Whom, as I have said before, I fucking despised even before the doping scandal.

So anyway, comedienne April Macie was on Howard Stern and she told him about the time she walked in on Lance receiving an unspeakable sex act from a woman. Even more unspeakable than the one you're thinking.
This act is so disgusting I cannot even bear to repeat it, but I will say this: If it's true (and I'm sure it's true), that guy is even more of a douchebag than I or Charlie Sheen ever suspected. That guy needs to get him a dog, because dogs LOVE doing the kind of sick shit Lance asks random women whose name he doesn't even know to do to him. A beagle and Lance Armstrong? Whoa. That relationship would NEVER end.

Editor's note: Coming hot on the heels of yesterday's disturbing George Michael post, this post takes Whorrified in whole new lurid direction. I'm not sure I approve.
My note: Yeah well I just told Lance Armstrong you want in on the next taint round. Byeeeee.

Here's a link to the nastiness that is Lance Armstrong's creepy hobby. Warning: View on an empty stomach. With your eyes closed.

RIHANNA WENT TO A STRIP CLUB, OK CHRIS BROWN?

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Wed, 22 May 2013 02:30:00 +0000


ANYONE KNOW WTF IS GOING ON HERE? Well let's see, we have some stupid stripper cow making her father wish he was dead, we have Rihanna's thighs, we have a pearl necklace. And if you still don't get it, don't worry. You're not the target audience, Chris Brown is. Twitter

Goddam you, Rihanna. I really want to ignore you but you keep doing ridiculously scandalous things clearly intended to get Chris Brown's attention.

Of course that isn't working out for you at all because he's a piece of completely rancid dog turd, but man, you sure are getting the attention of the rest of us.

In her latest exploit, Rihanna visited a strip club and showered money and her own thighs all over some stupid broad I suspect we are supposed to admire. (I'm not sure when strippers went from being an object of pity and scorn to an object of "respect," but I think rappers had something do with it.)

And then, of course, she tweeted the whole thing.
Because on Planet Rihanna, if she didn't tweet it, it didn't happen.
Which leads me to this very important question: Did Rihanna ever tweet:

A) Her virginity
B) Her university degree
C) That conversation where she tells Chris Brown to kiss her multimillion-dollar ass and die

Oh! Quelle surprise. The answers here are, in no particular order: No. No! And HELL NO!

GEORGE MICHAEL TUMBLES OUT OF MOVING VEHICLE

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Wed, 22 May 2013 02:25:00 +0000

GEORGE MICHAEL FELL OUT OF AN SUV
doing 70 mph on a highway in Britain.
His people will have you know he was
"trying to close the door properly."
Epic door-closing fail, George. Epic.
Photo/Crestock

I don't know what the hell is going on with George Michael and his death wish, but vehicles seem to be playing an increasingly important role in it.

In his latest adventure, George tumbled out of an SUV going 70 mph on a highway. This probably had absolutely nothing to do with booze or weed, because sober people tumble out of moving vehicles all the time.

Although to be fair, this moving-vehicle thing is a new one for George. He’s used to parked cars, apparently. He gets some of his best naps in parked cars. He maybe even gets some of his best something else in parked cars, but that would be suggesting something entirely different. Something such as homosexual trysts. (Oh I’m not worried. My editor will edit that out later, if he’s not too busy with a homosexual tryst of his own.)

So anyway, George was a passenger in a Range Rover when he flung himself out of it because ... oh hang on, now that I’m halfway through this story I’m being told by my utterly useless editor that news reports say George was simply “trying to close the door properly.”

Well clearly he needs lots more practice at this “closing the door properly” thing. See, what you need to do, George, is you need to ensure that you keep your body is INSIDE the moving vehicle whilst practising this tricky manoeuvre. Also, ideally, you close the door properly before the vehicle begins to move.

But one thing at a time, I don’t want to confuse you. Nor do I want to interrupt one of your, er, "naps." Best wishes for a speedy recovery!

Editor's note: Good lord. This woman is going to hell and there is absolutely nothing, NOTHING, I can do to stop it.

CAREFUL, BEYONCE, YOUR PREGNANT EGO IS SHOWING

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Tue, 21 May 2013 02:52:00 +0000

THIS IS A BEYONCE-APPROVED IMAGE
DEPICTING HER FIRST PREGNANCY
Should you attempt to insinuate or speculate
that Beyonce is pregnant without express
written permission, on Illuminati letterhead,
you will find yourself ceasing to exist.
You'll be vapour. Gone. Bye-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!
Photo/CreStock

There comes a defining moment in a celebrity's life when they cross that line, that magical, intangible line that separates the revered from the reviled.

Beyonce has always been squarely on the revered side of that line, projecting a sweet demeanor, being a good mom, a loving wife, a respectful daughter. Oh, and she votes. She loves her some Obama!

But lately the queen of everything has been taking a few missteps. Like the time she tried to get her assistant to edit the Internet. I'm not sure even God can do that.
And then yesterday, Beyonce, no doubt feeling cranky on account of ~~not~~ being pregnant, sent out a huffy Instagram scolding media outlets for reporting that she's pregnant. With a petulance worthy of a Lindsay Lohan or a Kanye West, Beyonce alluded to the ongoing speculation in an icy post, which was later deleted:

"I can't stop the rumors from starting, and I can't really change people's minds who believe them, all I can do is sit back and laugh at these low life people who have nothing better to do than talk about me," Beyonce allegedly wrote.

Well girl, let me tell you. You should thank your goddam not-pregnant lucky stars that low life people talk about you. You should thank your goddam flat belly for the two shits anyone still gives about the state of your uterus, which I am told will someday be inducted as the 51st state of the U.S. of A., necessitating a new flag and a new anthem and new history books, none of which will be deemed excessive because you are goddam Beyonce, she about whom people talk. As opposed to Winona Ryder. Or Nick Lachey. Or Lisa Robin Kelly. Who? See? That's what I'm sayin,' Bey. Nobody's ever gonna name a state after those losers.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Remember that song Beyonce wrote: "I got a big ego, such a huge ego"? I used to like that song.
MY NOTE: Whereas I used to think it was a euphemism for her butt.

ONE MUST RESPECT ONE'S CO-WORKERS AT ALL TIMES

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Tue, 21 May 2013 02:52:00 +0000

I believe it is very important to maintain a professional, business-like relationship with co-workers. The ones you don't like and, even more importantly, the ones you do like, so much so that you socialize with them at bars, at restaurants, at their homes for sleepovers, on trips to Puerto Vallarta, on those weird speed-dating nights that make you feel like Brood Sow No. 9732:

"What's your name? How do you pronounce ... never mind, a prettier girl is waiting right behind you so your five minutes are up."
"But surely that was only two minutes?"
"Yeah, but you're ugly."

(Hah! Once again my goddam idiot editor has allowed me to slide disastrously off topic. If it weren't for the fact that he can make the best dry martini this side of Ivujivik, I swear I'd have him beheaded.)

Where was I? Ah yes. Martini. No wait, speed-dating. Er ... anyway, I have done all of the above things with co-workers and yet still I manage to maintain a professional distance whilst at work. I am not above being stern with even my best friends if they err on the job. I present to you as exhibit A an actual email I sent to a co-worker some months ago, politely commanding her to bring me a beverage because, technically, I was her boss that day.

Unfortunately, she totally dropped the ball because she did not check her work email from home nor did she check her phone to get the two text messages I sent as backup. Basically, she was begging me to fire her. So naturally when she arrived (with a Tims for herself), I took the professional high road, giving her the worst duties for the entirety of her shift and sighing gustily while staring at her full cup of coffee. All. Night. Long.

Editor's note: You see that part in the email where she says "I just won't ever speak to you again?" People think she's joking. She's not joking.

AND NOW, THE TRUTH ABOUT MY EDITOR: HE'S UGLY

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Mon, 20 May 2013 04:15:00 +0000

BECAUSE I RESPECT YOUR NEED TO KNOW WHAT MY EDITOR LOOKS LIKE,
I personally handpicked this sensitive and frankly very flattering portrait of him.

Everybody's been asking and asking and asking ... haranguing, really, if you want to be technical about it ... about my editor. The dude who writes those cheeky notes at the end of most of my posts.
"Oh, he's so funny!" they say. "He's funnier than you! Who is he? What does he look like? How come we never see pictures of your editor?"

I always thought it was best to keep him anonymous. No one needs to see what my editor looks like. He's not the top dog here, I am.
But then he started adding his illiterate ramblings at the end of my posts and now he's become something of a celebrity. Famewhoring bastard. I will not encourage Tits-for-Brains (my pet name for him; the printable one) by posting a photograph of him, because next thing you know his head will need a room of its own and he'll be braying that he's the reason people read my blog. He'll be badgering me for yet another raise, the proceeds of which he will spend on rum. The man drinks even more than I do! I don't need that kind of aggravation, people. And neither do you.

Editor's note: Oh, nice. Today was supposed to be my day off, and I log on and see this horse crap. Let me just tell you, Whorrified would not even exist were it not for me and my "illiterate ramblings." Let me also just tell you, this broad can't spell her way out of a paper bag. Do you know how many times I have saved her? Yeah, SEVEN DAYS A WEEK would not be an exaggeration! Like the time she wrote that The Fonz starred in Welcome Back Kotter. HELLOOOOO! Happy Days! Listen, if it weren't for the fact that I secretly have a crush on her (did I mention that she is stunningly beautiful? That her natural body odour is jasmine? Seriously. I could stand next to her and just inhale her all day. She smells that good), I would quit tomorrow.

My note: Well you don't have to quit. Because I'm firing you. You're fired, you asshole.

Editor's note: Good luck getting through one week without me, you staggering, drunken disaster, you.

My note: See? He's perfect for me. xoxoxo

THE BILLBOARD NOMINEES REALLY OUTDID THEMSELVES

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Mon, 20 May 2013 04:14:00 +0000

TO BEGIN, we have the lovely
and always tasteful Ke$ha,
sporting a whore-nurse costume
and apparently missing a tooth.
But wait, it gets better ...
CLICK HERE to see more

Every time I miss an awards show on purpose because I would rather endure two solid weeks of painful constipation followed by one liquid week of amoebic dysentery, I have this tiny little moment of panic.

It goes like this: "Shit. What if I missed something important? Like maybe this time Chris Brown's brain actually burst free of its feeble confines and he kicked Rihanna down the steps of the stage on live television?
And she lay there at the bottom of the steps in a heap, her trembling fingers reaching for her cellphone so she could tweet: 'Oh you gonna disrespect me like that b*tch? You are Dead to Me! LOL! Love you baby!'
It would totally suck if I missed that."

And then I start scanning through the photographic afterbirth that all the other more professional gossip websites deliver and I realize: "Nope. You're good."

So if you, like me, fretted even a tiny bit after missing last night's 2013 Billboard Awards, relax. I've done the dirty work for you and come up with the only moments worth watching. (Please enjoy on an empty stomach. Because I warn you: the Wiz Khalifa bride-licking is the most revolting thing I've seen since the getup Ke$ha wore to the last boring awards show I missed.)

KELLY ROWLAND HAD NO IDEA BEYONCE WAS PREGNANT

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Sat, 18 May 2013 15:42:00 +0000

BUSTED! This video proves that not only does Kelly Rowland not brush her hair on her days off, but also she has not been reading her Internet. Otherwise she would have been in on this planet-shattering news.

I am titling this TMZ video "I Am Only Willing to Talk If You Ask Me About ME." There is no particular value to this video of singer Kelly Rowland, former member of Destiny's Child, other than that I find it comforting because it confirms so many of my arbitrarily formed convictions, including, in no particular order:

That Kelly Rowland is a bit of a bitch

That Kelly Rowland is secretly jealous of Beyonce

That Beyonce's Illuminati people have sworn everyone in her circle to secrecy about the pregnancy the Internet made happen

Note how Kelly is all smiles until she realizes the reporter doesn't give a shat about her, he just wants to talk about Beyonce. Although secretly I feel bad for her, because I'm sure this is how all of my friends feel when reporters swarm them and ask them about me. (Don't hate the player, my friends. Hate the game.)

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Kelly Rowland -- Beyonce's Pregnant Again?! WHAT?!?!
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AIN'T NO PARTY LIKE A SPONTANEOUS GARAGE PARTY

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Sat, 18 May 2013 15:00:00 +0000

You know how sometimes you're having so much fun you don't realize that you're actually somewhere kinda nasty? Liquor is usually involved on those occasions. And good friends. That's a key ingredient.

So last night, I strolled past a neighbour's home and heard laughter coming from the garage. That alone might not have caught my attention, but it was followed by the unmistakable sound of wine glasses clinking merrily. So I employed the secret, elaborate neighbourhood code ... a good thump to the garage door ... and it opened magically to reveal my neighbour and a friend I haven't seen in a year because she's been working in Jamaica. She had just returned and, true to form, launched immediately into making the reunion rounds. (Turns out I was wrong about the wine glasses. They were drinking overproof vodka. What, you think I'd have teetotalling friends? You have obviously not been reading this blog long enough!)

After hugs and "omigods!" were exchanged all around, I pulled up a chair and a glass and joined the reunion. Within minutes, there was another tap on the garage door, and then another, and this visitor had had the sense to bring a fresh bottle, so things soon got very festive. Then the host turned on the stereo and it turned into the next best thing to a nightclub ... if they had nightclubs with cement floors, concrete block walls, unfinished ceilings, a freezer in one corner and lawn maintenance items everywhere else. And a dog sleeping in the corner, periodically getting up and sniffing everyone's crotch.
By George, I think I've just come up with a brilliant idea for a nightclub!

What's that? You'd like to come in and join the party? Well your crotch will have to pass our strict security check first . . .

I CAN'T IMAGINE WHY NAOMI CAMPELL GOT DUMPED

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Fri, 17 May 2013 03:06:00 +0000

NAOMI CAMPBELL WALKS THE ... OOPS
The brazen lookalike hussy who scooped
Naomi's billionaire beau right out from
under her crotch struts the catwalk. (Enjoy
your strut while you can, girlfriend, cuz
Naomi is so gonna break both your legs.)
Facebook

And from our "Mind-Numbing Mysteries of the Universe" files, we have Naomi 'Bam Bam' Campbell's billionaire geezer boyfriend dumping her for a younger model. Literally.

Why it seems like just months ago a kinder, gentler Naomi was tweeting ganja-infused homilies about how good it is to be humble and throwing Vladimir Doronin, her Russian tycoon beau, a lavish birthday party in India in a thinly veiled bid to get him to marry her.

And of course I, like you and everyone else, totally thought Naomi was a changed woman. Because terminal bullies with gunpowder tempers can be tamed (just ask Rihanna, whose bid to tame Chris Brown has been going extremely well).

And now suddenly we are hearing that the creepy model-schtupper is "taking a break" from Bam Bam and cavorting with another hot leggy black supermodel, Jazzma Kendrick. U.K's Daily Mail guilelessly gushes that Jazzma is a "dead ringer" for Bam Bam.

And she is.
Except that she is 23 and Bam Bam is 42, and it is almost unheard of in the world of billionaire horndogs to dump a woman in her 40s for a woman in her 20s.

Dead Ringer, meanwhile, is foolishly tweeting up a storm of photos of her nubile young body sprawled all over Doronin's yacht.

Well you know what this means. Dead Ringer is going to get the ever-loving shit kicked out of her by Bam Bam.

Editor's note: Does it make me a bad person that I am looking forward to that battle of the bitches with every fibre of my being? It does? Excellent.

MILEY CYRUS DEMONSTRATES HOW TO BE WHITE HOT

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Fri, 17 May 2013 01:00:00 +0000

NEWS OUTLETS ARE PAINTING
MILEY'S MAKEUP MALFUNCTION
as "shine minimizer" gone awry.
Because I don't know about you
but the skin around my lips
is always just so dang shiny!

Everbody's dang ol' faverrit hillbilly suffered a makeup malfunction at, of all places, a party to celebrate the fact that she was inexplicably named Maxim's "hottest woman" of the year. (The hell? Was Billy Ray Cyrus on the judging panel?) Miley Cyrus showed up with a bizarre patch of white powder around her mouth that in no way makes me think she was bobbing for cocaine all afternoon. Either that or her makeup artist has just been WAITING for this chance.
Click here for more photos of what the hell, Miley?

Editor's note: Gol-dangit! *throws possum at computer* I don't even have to try to come up with ways to mock this daftling anymore. She does the work for me! It's f*cking boring, is what it is.
My note: Well then I'm sure you and the possum won't be interested in this very Rihanna pic of Miley wearing nuthin' but undies, boots and a smile . . .

RIHANNA OBSERVES TRADITIONAL MOURNING RITUAL

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Thu, 16 May 2013 03:01:00 +0000

SAD RIHANNA POSTED THIS DEMURE PIC
to "promote her fashion line." Which is obviously
going to give Kylie Bisutti's Christian women's
clothing line a run for its money.
Twitter

Rihanna is clearly in deep, deep mourning over being dumped by Chris Brown. There can be no mistaking the signs: Last night she reportedly resorted to the time-honoured mourning ceremony of partying her ass and her clothes off at a swanky nightclub and, of course, tweeting near-naked photos of herself and her sideboob whilst simultaneously carrying on a Twitter fight with Chris.

Page Six reports that Rihanna showed up at New York's Pink Elephant nightclub at the perfectly respectable hour of 2 a.m. in a black jacket. But she might as well not have bothered with the jacket. Because she hadn't been there five minutes before ~~the liquor kicked in~~ she "jumped on a banquette and started peeling off her jacket . . . then her shirt . . . to ultimately reveal a little red tube top.” (Whew. I wasn't sure where that sentence was going to end!)

The club's regular crowd left at the perfectly respectable hour of 4 a.m., but the club owners know money when they see it so they kept the music playing for another full hour so that Rihanna could get this burning urge to strip out of her system.

And it was totally worth it because she tipped them $500 on her $2,000 tab. (And I must admit that I myself might start stripping in public if I drank that much booze.)
No word of any further shenanigans today, but I think one can safely assume that's because she's sleeping off a $2,000 hangover.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Why doesn't stuff like that ever happen at the nightclubs I go to?
MY NOTE: Because you go to Chick 'N' Deli. Nobody's gonna strip for anybody at Chick 'N' Deli, and if they did you would beg them to stop.

Urgent mourning update: Rihanna has changed her hair. She's now "rocking long blonde hair," serious news outlets report. Click here to see this life-altering image.

BECAUSE I SPLIT MY PANTS, MISSED MY BUS AND CRIED

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Thu, 16 May 2013 02:00:00 +0000

NEXT TIME I SLEEP IN AND MISS MY BUS
and split my pants, I'm not even going to bother
trying to salvage the day. I'm going to dive
right into the large glass of wine that
ultimately saved my sanity yesterday.

Hundreds of loyal Whorrified readers (well, one for sure; love you, Mom!) noticed that I did not post yesterday. Allow me to bore you with the mind-numbing reasons for this fairly unimportant occurrence, will you?
Yesterday, my friends, was a horranus day from the moment I woke up. Late. As in "Holy shat I missed the bus! You call yourself an alarm?" late.

Starting your day off in stark, ice-cube-shitting panic is not pleasant. It doesn't make the day go as well as, say, a cup of Bailey's laced with coffee. There was no time for that yesterday.
Instead I pelted through the house in a naked, sweating rage, trying to find something comfortable yet work-appropriate to wear. My favourite pants beckoned, and then laughed uproariously as my ass burst out of them.

So, barely out of bed 15 minutes, already losing will to live.
Then I get to work. Hair ruined by pissing rain. Sweet, gentlemanly boss waiting for me, wearing peculiar, rictus grin that looked more like rigor mortis than an actual manifestation of mirth.
"Er ... there's been a problem," he said, blushing red as a beetroot. "
To make a long story short, I had made a big work-related booboo. Like, big. Like, ALL CAPS BIG.
And it just kept sliding from there.

So I felt like arse from the get-go and I just kept feeling arsier and arsier as the day wore on, and the only thing that kept me from going right over the edge of it was a text from my friend. You may remember her? The one I betrayed by tattling on her during a tiff with a boy?

She must have sensed my distress in that way that friends do, because she out-of-the-blue announced that she felt like driving the 90 minutes to visit me and go out for dinner.
If she had turned herself into a bottle of Grey Goose and shown up, uncapped, on my doorstep, she couldn't have pleased me more.

We went out, we had Indian food, we had a few drinks, we talked ... and before you know it, it was bedtime.
Hmm, I thought. Sleep? Or blog? Sleep? Or ... sleep?
So I slept.
And I think I made the right choice, because when I woke up today, my pants fit, I caught my train and I didn't break the Internet with stupid mistakes. And then suddenly, I felt like blogging again. Two new posts for everyone!
You're welcome, Mom.

INTERNET SAYS BEYONCE IS PREGNANT, SO SHE MUST BE

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Tue, 14 May 2013 04:07:00 +0000

JEN, ON THE OTHER HAND, IS NOT PREGNANT
Yawn. Although I would like to know
'the shocking reason Justin won't
marry her.' I bet it has something to do
with nonstop jabbering about ovulating.

For some reason that might have something to do with Illuminati, the Internet is suddenly ablaze with speculation that Beyonce is pregnant with baby No. 2. Which would hardly be shocking, I mean she's already gone on record as saying she wants a sibling for Blue Ivy and that's what women her age do, they have kids, for God's sake. Any cat can do it with less fuss.

But because this is Beyonce, she who hath powers to cast the entire Super Bowl into darkness simply by making the diamond sign, the blood has to drain out of the collective face of the entire world at the mere sight of what looks like a baby bump but which may, in fact, just be too much bread. (Speaking as a woman who loves bread. Give me a good Portuguese pao redondo and a glass of water and just watch what friggin happens down there. You'd swear I was carrying Kim Kardashian's 22-pound baby for her.)

Anyway, the Internet really has its heart set on this pregnancy so Beyonce might as well just get on with it. Internet: Yes! You get it! Next, I'm going to make her name the kid Purple Mugwort. It's much more thug than Blue Ivy.

And speaking of the most tepid and unsurprising news ever, earlier reports that Jennifer Aniston's wedding is"on hold" have now been upgraded to "is cancelled." Which of course I called months ago, whilst simultaneously calling that her uterus was emphatically NOT carrying twins, or singletons, or even the shadow of the memory of the ghost of a fetus, human or otherwise. This sad news ramps sad, clingy Jen's sad clingy luge ride to Spinsterville up to warp speed. I wish I could feel bad about that. No, wait. No. No I don't.

Related: In a shocking development, JayZ's mom says her grand-daughter is cute and smart and that JayZ "melts" when she calls him "Papa." This is unheard of in the history of parenting and is so powerful it could very well break the Internet. Full story here.

FORGIVE ME FATHER, FOR I BETRAYED THE SISTERHOOD

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Mon, 13 May 2013 02:23:00 +0000

ME (centre, in case you can't tell the two white girls apart) AND MY GIRLS

I'm sure you all know by now that I am virulently opposed to sharing personal information on this blog unless it is the personal information of other people, but today I am making an exception. (Yes, another one. Thank you for keeping score, Mr. Anal Retentive. You will be handsomely rewarded with a poke in the eye in the next life.)

So I had a little tiff with a boy creature over the weekend. And what I did was, in the heat of the moment I blabbed to him that one of my dearest friends had said she agreed with me that he is inferior to me in every regard and that I should never let him think otherwise. Which, by the way, is what women do. We blindly support each other. If one of our female friends is having problems with one of her male friends, we are on HER side. No questions asked, no information required.
My mistake was to let him know this.
His mistake was to let HER know that I let him know this. Yeah, that's right. He told her, via text, what I said she said about him.
And then she got upset with me.

So naturally I went at him like a rabid dog, asking him how he could do such a thing and just barking and barking and barking until the poor bastard convinced himself that he was the one who was wrong here.
And then I had to call her and apologize for breaking the code and telling a stupid boy what one of our sisters had said about him in confidence.
I tell you, I was dreading that call. Because she means more to me than any man ever will, and I don't mean that in a lesbianic way, but rather in a "friends like this are hard to come by" kind of way.

I am not exaggerating when I say my hands were trembling when I dialled her number. (And I am not a trembler. I've told men twice my size to go hang themselves, I've told bosses they were f*cking idiots, I've helped cats deliver kittens, I've gone toe-to-toe with a mugger ... although that was stupid and I wouldn't advise it, my only point being that I didn't tremble.)
But here is the beautiful thing. When I started to explain to my sister, she said this: "Hey. Let me stop you right there, girlfriend. Don't worry about it. I get it. You do what you have to do with these guys. How about I come over during the week and we talk about it over dinner?"

I am dead frickin serious. This girl is the reason women say cheesy things like "GIRLS RULE!" Ladies (and men), if you have a friend like this in your life, get down on your knees and thank Jesus Christ Our Lord. It may or may not having anything to do with him but it's a nice gesture. Not as nice as dinner, mind you, but a nice gesture just the same.
Girl power. Never forget it.

HAPPY DAY AFTER MOTHER'S DAY! ONE FOR EVERYBODY!

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Mon, 13 May 2013 02:23:00 +0000

WHAT THE ... I REALLY MUST PROTEST!
This calendar is totally sexist and degrading and just plain wrong. Where can I buy it?

Happy Day After Mother's Day, ladies! There actually isn't such a thing, but there should be. And if there were, you know what would make a great present? Man candy! That's right, a big ol' beautifully wrapped box of it. The man candy shown here was pimped out for the Toronto Firefighters 2013 calendar. I heartily approve, although I will just say I once dated a firefighter and he was as hot as cayenne but also the biggest douchebag, the biggest blowhard and the biggest man-whore I ever had the displeasure of having to disinfect myself from afterwards. Totally turned me off hot firefighters. Although I suppose one should never say never again. Er, so, please enjoy your Day After Mother's Day, ladies. I'll shut the hell up now ...

EDITOR'S NOTE: This reminds me of Oprah's car giveaway: "YOU get a firefighter! And YOU get a firefighter! And YOU get a firefighter!"
MY NOTE: I know, right? Exactly! Except that nobody's actually getting a firefighter.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY! (THIS CALLS FOR COCKTAILS)

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Sat, 11 May 2013 23:51:00 +0000

A MOTHER'S DAY GIFT FROM MY BABY
This makes up for the time she told
a random stranger in McDonald's:
"Guess what? My mom's havin' puppies!"

I won't be writing on Mother's Day because I'll be drunk as a lemur. Haha, I wish. No, I'll be being feted by the delightful creatures who turned my birth canal into the Suez, who taught me why God invented epidurals and why He really might want to take another stab at those because dammit, they are no match for the pain they are up against (that's the Devil's work, right there), who gave me months of sleepless nights and who literally shat on me on more than one occasion. And who were worth every second of it.

Happy Mother's Day to all of you moms out there, even the ones who don't have children, because we're all mothers to someone, somehow. (Why are you looking at me like that, Jennifer Lopez? It's not my fault your boyfriend doesn't even have pubes yet.)

And most of all, happy Mother's Day to my own mother. We'll be having lunch and probably knocking back a couple of glasses because what the hell, we've earned it. Isn't that right, Mom? Clink!

EDITOR'S NOTE: What about Tanning Mom? Do you wish her a Happy Mother's Day?
MY NOTE: Sure, why not? Send her a dozen long-stemmed melanomas in my name.

EDITOR'S NOTE: And Octomom?
MY NOTE: A dozen long-stemmed brownies.

EDITOR'S NOTE: And my mom?
MY NOTE: Oh. Do you even have one of those? I just assumed ...

WINTOUR USED HER SHARPEST SCISSORS ON THIS ONE

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Sat, 11 May 2013 14:23:00 +0000

After four years of being banned from the Met Ball because host Anna Wintour hates her famewhoring guts, Kim Kardashian managed to bulldoze in this year because she signed her uterus over to Kanye West for awhile and man, was it worth it.

Because although Anna detests Kim, who she once compared to a pair of socks, she for some unfathomable reason loves Kanye. Which makes no sense at all because he's a self-centred, charmless, cold-hearted bitch who . . . wait a minute, I lost my train of thought, was that Anna or Kanye I was just describing ...*slaps forehead* Oh! I get it now!

Kanye reported begged Wintour to let Kim attend the classy event, and Kim showed her gratitude by showing up in a shockingly off-theme frock. But in the end, Anna had the last ~~feral gurgle~~ laugh because look what she did to Kim in this picture. Basically, she "edited" her out of the best-dressed list, no doubt making screaming sounds in Kim's voice whilst snipping.

This, folks, is how you say "Fuck you" without actually uttering a single word. Anna Wintour, you self-centred, charmless, cold-hearted, hilarious old bitch, you.

EDITOR'S NOTE: If only you could edit people out of real life.

URGENT CORRECTION TO HELLO'S 'MOST BEAUTIFUL' LIST

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Fri, 10 May 2013 04:07:00 +0000

AVRIL LAVIGNE is Canada's Most Beautiful Star
and it's probably because she's so good with the eyeliner...

Hello, Hello Canada. I see you have released your list of the 50 Most Beautiful Canadians. I also see that you've given top honours to the future Mrs. Chad Kroeger, which is fine, I mean I think my stand on Avril's legendary beauty is pretty well established and God knows it's better than People pronouncing Saint Gwyneth THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMAN IN THE WORLD. But I do have a bone to pick with your judging panel. Aside from the fact that, WTF, did they go out of their way to find the most unattractive photo ever taken of Ryan Gosling, I notice that once again, I have somehow inexplicably been passed over on this list. I am sending a thoroughly airbrushed and photoshopped pic of myself (taken about 14 years ago) for your reconsideration. Plus a large amount of cash. It's not a bribe, just ... a gift. Because you're pretty. And smart.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Tut, tut, I'm sure you were No. 51 on the list. Click here for Hello Canada's odd assortment of hits and misses.

THE MEANING OF LIFE ACCORDING TO KENDRICK LAMAR

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Thu, 09 May 2013 02:46:00 +0000

ULTRA-HOT RAPPER KENDRICK LAMAR, stuffed to the gills on Fruity Pebbles, scans the crowd suspiciously for groupies. He's good but he's a little weird, I'm afraid.
Photo/Merlijn Hoek

Sometimes it's better not to know too much about the celebrities you think you love. If you agree with that statement, you probably shouldn't be reading this blog at all. In fact this blog probably shouldn't even exist, so I'm going to carry on now as if I hadn't even written that first sentence. *memo to self: tequila before writing, NOT a good idea*

So anyway, let's talk about super-hot new rapper Kendrick Lamar. I don't know diddly about him other than the fact that he's shatting out some of the best songs of the year, and every one of them has the word "bitches" in the title. That would be what's known as a clue.

Lamar told the fabulous Page Six that when he tells people what his tour rider includes ... Fruity Pebbles, baked chicken, Hennessy and some Polo socks ... they think he's "crazy." And so do I. Because, dude! Aside from the Henny, what the hell is the point of being famous if you're going to ask for the exact same shite food you had to buy when you was broke?

Even more shameful is his explanation of why he's not into groupies.
"I’m probably the most scared person when it comes to that because ... of something going crazy," he said. “I’ve seen a situation where it got totally out of hand.”
Ah. So it's not about the cooties, the skeeziness, the misogyny or the complete and utter moral bankruptcy of it all, then. Fine. I guess that explains the song titles.

EDITOR'S NOTE: I hear he's working on one right now, tentatively titled "I Don't Play With No Groupie B*tches Cuz They Crazy, Yo."

LEO BITES THE HAND THAT FEEDS HIM SUPERMODELS

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Thu, 09 May 2013 02:41:00 +0000

HERE'S BORED LEO DiCAPRIO,
looking so bored with his pointless fame he can
hardly keep his supermodel-hunting eyes open.
Photo/David Shankbone

My favourite quote of the day comes from a jaded Leonardo DiCaprio, who tells the U.K. edition of Grazia magazine that "fame is pointless," apparently forgetting that were it not for that pointless fame that bores him so he would never ever EVER have bedded any of the ten supermodels he has practically made a second career of bedding. Be careful what you wish you didn't have, Leo.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Ten? That's just greedy. Click on this link to see who, besides Israeli supermodel Bar Rafaeli and Brazilian supermodel Gisele Bundchen, Leo's fame has enabled him to snuggle with.

CHARLIE SHEEN'S KIDS ARE SO GOING TO HAVE ISSUES

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Wed, 08 May 2013 02:20:00 +0000

CHARLIE SHEEN'S EX, BROOKE MUELLER
looks pretty much exactly like you'd expect,
complete with crazy-eye and some kind of
weird fuckery going on with her hair feathers.
Photo/CreStock

Charlie Sheen and one of the many exes he bred with, I think this one's name is Brooke Mueller or Hooker Mule or something like that, were in court today to further mess up their children's minds.

Apparently Brooke is some sort of out-of-control coke-snorting lunatic (obviously; how else would anyone be able to endure sex and childbearing with Charlie Sheen?) and it's so bad her boys have been taken away from her and given to Denise Richards (another ex-Mrs. Sheen).

TMZ reports that Brooke's 4-year-old twins Max and Bob were taken from her Thursday night because her home was deemed an "unsafe environment."

And when your kids get taken away from you in Hollywood, land of the "Yes I did hit Whitney and we both banged rocks until the Bibles lit themselves on fire but you can leave our kid right here, thank you very crack" entitlements, you know things are bad. Or you're just not a big enough star to get away with it.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Those poor boys. Hey, kids, do you want to live with your tiger-blooded warlock dad or your meth-addicted mom? Kids: Can we just go panhandle on the streets of Bangkok instead? We like those chances better ...

HOW MANY MEN DOES IT TAKE TO DO ANYTHING?

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Sutherland, Blogger) — Wed, 08 May 2013 02:20:00 +0000

Three guys who would make outstanding city workers look on as one guy struggles to make sense of the gazebo bones. Pig Face, meanwhile, looks for a good place to take a crap.

I got a lovely gazebo for my backyard yesterday. And because I happen to speak fluent beer, I was able to coax a few "helpers" to come and put it up for me. (Helpers, definition of: Someone who does everything while I watch from the kitchen window, pretending to cook something and calling out encouragement.)

Within minutes, a neighbour had wandered over to help the helpers.
"I see ya got some cold ones!" he said, feigning surprise. The aroma of beer wafts, apparently.
And then another neighbour wandered over. Feck me, I thought, I'm going to need more beer.
Within half an hour, there were six men heatedly discussing the best way to put up the damn thing. Then one left, then two more came ... it went on like this for hours. Hours. I'm not kidding you.
As I watched (well to be honest, I dozed off after awhile. Watching other people work is surprisingly enervating) a question occurred to me:

Q: How many men does it take to put up a gazebo?
A: As many as there happen to be standing around.

Q: No, seriously, how many?
A: At least three, unless there's a dog. Then you need one strictly devoted to watching the dog ... who will eat the instructions the second your back is turned.

Q: OK, but if there's no dog?
A: If there are more than two men, one of them will have a dog.

Q: So let's say there are four men and a dog. And a set of intact instructions. Just give me a ballpark figure, because it's closing in on darkness now and I want to know: will I have a gazebo by nightfall?
A: Well take a look out your window. It's been four hours. Are you even close to having a gazebo yet? No you are not. So the answer to your question would be "Tomorrow. Maybe."

Q: Feck me.