Rose's Cantina

There we were, minding our own business, eating granola when this came on television. You see that right. It's the middle aged Kelly Rippa twerking an 80-year-old on national television. At 9 a.m. WTF? It was all part of the Hallowe'en show on Live with Kelly and Michael, a program that is watched mainly by geriatrics and shut-ins. Kelly was pretending to be 21-year-old Miley Cyrus and started the routine with a little kitty costume, then she took it all off, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. We saw clips from Miley wearing a similar suit, rubbing up against Robin Thicke. True, Kelly managed to keep her buttocks far away the gas pump of Art Moore, the creepy, undead  Live producer. But she had no shame in thrusting her pelvis toward the audience. Yuck. The difference between this performance and the one put on by Miley at a music award show was that Miley's panties were snug-fitting while Kelly offered up several angles of her own l...

Photo courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net (satit_sirihin) It's Hallowe'en in the Nation's Capital. I see all of your elected and non-elected representatives have already got their costumes out. That creepy castle on the Hill is chocked full of ghosts, goblins and monsters. The Prime Minister is going as a zombie. He's been practising his moves all week, a little hunched over, sliding from side to side, buttoning his coat by rote, murmuring the same few words: "Mr. Speaker, I have been clear." And the makeup! It almost looks like his eyes are bleeding for real. And Thomas Mulcair, Thomas Mulcair has chosen Atticus Finch for his character, getting all courtroomy, dramatic and droll. Too bad Justin Trudeau forgot his costume. Oh wait, it's James Franco! There are a few Snookies and J-Wows in the Commons, too. Plaids, skirts far too short, hair all teased into rat's nests. Sometimes I think MPs with ladyparts are stuck in the Sixties. Down the ha...

At exactly 2:45 a.m. last night, I sat bolt upright. I felt like I was delivering a baby out of my mouth; the pain was excruciating. Did you know that having natural childbirth is the equivalent on a pain scale to having your finger cut off with no anesthetic? I read that somewhere. That's how much pain I was in. No thanks to the little Asian junior kindergarten doctor I consulted yesterday morning, after waiting for three hours at a clinic after a droll receptionist had said chirpily, "forty-five minutes". Dr. No refused to give me any drugs, or antibiotics, for the wicked little ball which had formed on the side of my neck, a ball that was shooting arrows of acid up my neck and into my ear canal. "You have a virus," he said, slapping the laptop closed. "Wanna roll up your sleeve for the flu shot?" Which I did dutifully, for only the second time in my life. Why not? I thought. I'm here. The wicked pain was still there by the t...