July 21, 2004
If Ben Affleck is the King of this year's Fug Prom -- the Enchantment Under the Fug Dance, if you will -- then Maggie Gyllenhaal is surely the queen. But while Ben wears his crown with regret -- bloated, slightly smelly regret, but regret nevertheless -- Ms. Gyllenhaal wears hers with pride. Which is why she bugs so much; she's turned us, the prom committee or the student body, or whomever it is that votes on Prom Court, into our mothers. "Maggie, get a decent haircut." "Maggie, put on a goddamned bra for once!" "Maggie, my God, wash your face! Denver Carrington is about six minutes away from erecting an oil rig on your forehead!" "Maggie, holy shit, you are not wearing a fucking scrunchie!"
Listen, people. Scrunchies are not ironic. Scrunchies are not attractive. Scrunchies are not, unless you are a Heather, cool. And you, Maggie Gyllenhaal, are no Heather Chandler, so take off that hideous contraption and get on the dance floor for your spotlight dance with Wigfleck. And be gentle; that kid's got nothing left to live for.
Now, Maggie's answer, of course, is that she's not wearing a scrunchie. What looks like a scrunchie in the photo above is really a red "Target" logo. But let's think about this, kids: how long do you think we have before La Gyllenhaal shows up somewhere really wearing a scrunchie? I give her six months. And after that, the deluge.
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