My baby girl is sexier than yours.

I just have one question. Why can’t you find a shirt with a dinosaur on it in the girl’s section of the clothing store? Is it because dinosaurs were all male? EUREKA! So that’s why they all died out. Because they were all penisauruses and couldn’t reproduce. Now it all makes sense.

Nothing makes sense.

This week at, I answer this question from a viewer: Why does the world insist I dress my baby girl like a whore?

Okay so that’s not how she worded it, but whatever. Have a look at my answer.

And then have a look at this sexy baby bikini. Because you can be too old for a two-piece, but you can never be too young.


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She ain’t heavy, she’s your kid’s mother, bitch.

My audience is comprised of mostly humans, and the vast majority of those are female. That’s just who my milkshake brings to the yard: women, moms, and grandmothers — with comments, questions, LOLs, OMGs and WTFs. But on occasion, I get words from dudes. I don’t mean those misogynist gentlemen who I want to fight with my pointy elbows. I do get those, but I’m talkin’ ’bout legit, logical, law-abiding, non-creepy men. Hearing from guys brings me great joy, to know they are following along, having a laugh, supporting the vaginas in their lives, and hopefully even understanding their partners a little better.

And then there’s “Dave.” A few weeks back, Dave asked me for advice on how he could gently encourage his wife to lose weight, now that their son was nearly a year old. He already knew certain tactics would be a bust: leaving a thigh-master on the doorstep, calling her and pretending to be Trevor from the gym with a free membership, giving her a gift certificate from LuluLemon, installing a chin-up bar in the bedroom doorway, giving her broccoli instead of flowers. So, what’s a Dave to do? Oh Dave. Dave, Dave, Dave, Dave. DAVE DAVE DAVE DAVE. DAVE DAVE DAVE DAVE…ETC. FOREVER TO INFINITY

See, this kind of question, for me, is a gift from the gods. He wasn’t being insensitive on purpose. His wife’s body is different now, and his brain and his penis are still trying to make sense of it all. I get it. But that does’t mean he didn’t deserve a good tongue-banging. Truth is, the answer was very simple. It’s the four-letter word that makes the world go round, and it is NOT kale.

Click on this ridiculously long link (there must be a better way, CBC) to watch me give Dave a two-minute piece of my mind, while swinging around a pickle.

Amazing screen grab:

Screen Shot 2015-10-03 at 2.02.54 PM





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Hello, My Vagina’s Name Is…

If you grew up calling your vagina a vagina, your parents deserve a medal. A vadge badge of honour even.

If you grew up calling it a vulva, your parents are fucking geniuses and deserve a trophy shaped like a giant penis — NO DUMMY, A BIG FAT VULVA.

It seems the vast majority of moms and dads just can’t stomach the correct anatomical term for “down there.” So they make shit up. Like cookie, or butterfly, or magic unicorn cave. Or something completely nonsensical like “hoo-hoo.” Or something super gross like “front bum.”

When my video on the subject was posted yesterday, people commented with their own tales of twat terminology. Someone said she grew up calling it her “mussentouchit.” She must have cleaned the thing with a water gun. Another lady said her vagina was called her “under face.” I’ve been staring at my twat upside-down in the mirror ever since, trying to see a face. No go. I guess the beard is in the way or something.

Anyway, here’s my take on the muff matter.

And here’s a t-shirt I’ll be selling like twat cakes.



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Mommy Wars

In this week’s video commentary for CBC, I answer a question from a gal named Lori. She asked: Why are moms so competitive?

I had some thoughts on the matter. Way better thoughts than the thoughts you stoopid bitches be havin’. 

Check out my video right here.

And here’s a little something for your kid’s facebook page:


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Gutsy Mommy

My husband thinks I pulled the ol’ bait and switch on him. Maybe I did, but it wasn’t on purpose, so I think better terms than bait ‘n switch would be “growing up” and “evolving.”

I admit, I used to be way more fun: scuba diving, riding rollercoasters, public boinking, etc. Now my idea of a good time is farting in the bathtub. THE KIDS CHANGED ME, OKAY. There’s at least a slight chance I might die when I do something ballsy, and frankly, now that I have two rad childers I’d really rather not take that chance, however small.

But I’m not a total snoozefest, dog gone it. I still live on the edge in lots of way. I make funny videos for CBC, for example. And according to the comments at, I’m a foul-mouthed dirt woman. That sounds like fun, right? Check out my sixth video commentary to discover even more ways that this baby-maker is a risk-taker.

The question this week: Can you live on the edge after you have kids?

The answer: Helllllllllllll yes. Why, I’m on the edge right now.

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How to Pack a Diaper Bag

From the moment you hold that baby in your arms, she holds you hostage. That’s not a metaphor for her stealing your heart. She actually holds you captive inside your home. There’s just so much shit to do and pack and prep and feed with your boobs, it’s impossible to get out the door. To improve your chances of getting further than the driveway before sundown, buy a kickass diaper bag and pack that bad boy like a boss. Here’s a video I made about it for CBC.

This week’s question: Any advice for getting out the door with the kids faster?

Click HERE for my answer. (Warning: It may involve a pipe wrench.)


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X-Box Detox

Herein lies my debut video on just as I always imagined — with my spectacular oak cabinets in the background. When I die of carpel tunnel from too much typing and chronic masturbating, I want someone to take these cupboards and make a casket out of them for me. And then I want you to burn it. And then burn it again.

This video was inspired by my junkie son, Max. I love him deeply, but if he doesn’t stop nagging to play the X-Box I’m sending him back to my uterus.

Click here to watch my first of many (sorry, sumabitch trolls) video commentaries on parenting. Because hey, parenting ain’t easy. Which is why my advice is always truly horrific.

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