July 30, 2004
Can I Get A Fug Fug?
The thing I like best about Lil' Kim is her delicate grasp of decorum and modesty.
Hi! I'm David Gallagher, the boy child on Seventh Heaven who isn't Barry Watson! I'm all grown up now! And I didn't turn out so well! Check out my misguided facial hair -- a common, yet unfortunate, choice of awkwardly aging child stars since time began -- and my poorly styled bangs! My hairdresser calls this look The Van Der Beek! Do you like it? How about my unenthusiastic smile? Don't I look like I've probably got really bad breath? I'm worried that I do, and that's why no one loves me! How about my monster mega-brows? Aren't they manly? My make-up artist told me they were manly! But Jessica Biel said they were "cro-magnon manly!" I don't know what that means! I'm not sure it's a compliment because she's really mean to me! Last year she made me carry her purse for her every where she went on set and then she slapped me for dropping it that once! But it's okay because she's so pretty! Please love me! Please, please love me!
I had never heard of the rich "playboy" Steven Bing until he knocked up Elizabeth Hurley, and since then I've seen his name linked to other pretty young things whose names escape me right now (lucky for them) but I have strong memories of seeing their photos with Bing and going, "WHAT?!?!?" How does this man get laid? I would think it was the money, except in the celebrity cases, he's banging women who are pretty well able to support themselves (unless he shows up with Winona Ryder on his jock one day, in which case, he should clamp his Rolex to his wrist).
So disappointing. Look at him. Judging this book by its cover, which is this site's specialty, I conclude that Steven Bing doesn't look like he'd be a tomcat in the sack. And there's also the suspicious matter of him deciding to contest paternity of Elizabeth Hurley's baby and claim they never really dated, because -- aside from it possibly leading to palimony you can amply afford and which she doesn't need -- God knows it's torturous having to confirm that you both dated and slept with a beautiful, internationally known model.
FRIEND: Hey, man, what did you do last night?
BING: Uh, nothing. I... hit on that cross-eyed video-store clerk and then tried to have sex with her and her hermaphrodite cousin, but, uh, they turned me down. Yeah.
FRIEND: Steve... I don't think you're being completely honest with me. For one thing, that's the same line you tried to use two days ago.
BING: Well, patterns, you know...
FRIEND: Steve. Talk to me. Are you... I hate to even say it... are you sleeping with Elizabeth Hurley?
BING (buries his face in his hands, weeping softly): I don't know what's wrong with me! I can't seem to stop! Why, oh, why, am I cursed with this freakish fetish? Why?
FRIEND: It's okay, Steve. I'm here for you. We'll get you some therapy and you'll get through this.
BING (sobbing): It's so GROTESQUE ... just... want the madness... to stop...
What a damper on your reputation, right? Especially when you yourself are completely plain-looking, dipped in liquid fug and topped off with a crispy doofus coating. I can just imagine him getting home, scrubbing himself raw in the shower with a loofa to get off any lingering cooties from the body of a famous hottie. God forbid they should infect him and somehow make him good-looking, too.
July 29, 2004
Fug Eye for the Queer Guy
All the Queer Eye guys have their quirks: Kyan's the hot one who handles makeovers, Ted's the wry one who works the kitchen, Carson's the quippy one who rules the closet from well outside of it, and Thom is... the Pier 1 dude who is funny and also decorates. The point is, there's a reason baseball only has four bases; the Fab Five seems one person heavy on its roster.
But that was forgiven, because that extra body belonged to Jai Rodriguez, the wee one who's just so cute and cheerful you wish you could take him with you to drink giant martinis during a liquid lunch and gossip about all the celebrity bitches he's met.
Kyan, whip out your tube -- of hair product, that is, because Jai seems to have forgotten that his place is not, in fact, in The Monkees. It has slipped his mind that he is not Joan Jett.
We need Jai back the way we knew him, the way he was most useful to the show: as the totally pointless one who is along for the ride because he is wee and cute. [I mean, he's certainly not the important part of the show. "Go to the theater." "Don't chew with your mouth open." "Walk one foot in front of the other." "Don't be repulsive." "Learn to read." We get it. That stuff's not rocket science.]
Fix this, Fab Five-Minus-One! To thine own Queer Eyes be true; turn them inward and help your own before it's too late.
"My gift is my fuuuuuug, and... this one's for you."
Once upon a time, I killed Hugh Grant in favor of marrying Ewan MacGregor and fucking the daylights out of George Clooney. I was proud of this decision. I didn't enjoy killing Hugh, but to borrow an idea from the squirrelly geek hotel magnate in Dirty Dancing, sometimes you have to do things that you don't want to do. It can't be helped. So with apologies, I measured Mr. Grant for his burial shroud.
And then, today came. Mr. Grant may have a reprieve on his hands. And we're not just talking a second chance at life; no, he's got himself a new bride-to-be. Because, my friends, in the photograph below, my former husband Ewan MacGregor is the one on the left:
Granted, this was taken after a three-month motorcycle ride across the nation, shot for a TV show on Bravo. But... Ewan, come ON, you were bright-eyed, clean-shaven, dreamy PERFECTION in Moulin Rouge. You were going to move into my house and rub my feet and bring me Diet Coke and serenade me, while also telling me I look pretty in that. You were NOT going to grow the Abominable Snowman's beard and take to chewing hay, spitting out bugs that got caught up in your teeth, and applying salve to your crotch to ease the bruises and pressure marks. Your eyes are supposed to sparkle with youthful, naive joy, not be dulled by the effects of funneling whiskey though an old exhaust pipe.
I just... I want "Your Song," not "Bad to the Bone." Something's got to give, Ewan, and please, for the love of GOD, let it be the fug.
July 28, 2004
Granted, Tom Sizemore's thuggish, overconfident brand of charisma never really turned my personal crank, but it's still intriguing to note that, just three years ago, he was this:
And now, many moons, rage issues, -[alleged] drug problems, and one girlfriend-beating trial later, he's this:
I guess that's what being an [alleged] complete fist-pounding assrag does for your complexion. He went from being chipper and cocksure and not-that-attractive-but-getting-laid-because-of-his-acting-skills-and-other-intangibles to looking, paraphrasing my friend Carrie, like a hundred miles of bad road replete with widening potholes and some colorful roadkill.
And do you see the crazy? There's [allegedly] crazy in those eyes. He looks a bit like he wants to eat your baby, possibly after he's scalped a few of his fellow inmates and hung their skin-shavings in his cell as a message to the rest of them that he's nobody's bitch now, fuckmothers, so don't you come over here with your soap and your lit cigarettes.
So, I suppose the moral is this: If you're fugly on the inside, you'll be fugly on the outside (also known as, "Don't [allegedly] get mad and [allegedly] beat up your significant other, folks, because you'll wind up on the business end of a skinhead's prison fantasy in no time).
Are You Gonna Fug My Way?
I wish I had a better picture of this event, but I think the one below will suffice.
Le's talk about this. Prince Charles? Look fine. Dignified. Prince Charles-y. Nice suit. Good haircut. No problem. Geri Halliwell? Well, her hair's a little poufy, but otherwise, nicely played, Ginger Spice, especially considering that you could have dragged your Union Jack mini-dress out of storage. Lionel Richie? I thought you were dead, so well done there.
Which brings us to Lenny Kravitz.
Lenny, Lenny, Lenny. Lenny. I know we don't have a monarchy in the United States or anything, but Prince Charles is a dignitary of some sort, so could really have hurt you to dress appropriately? I do see that you've put on your most formal BeDazzled demin jacket for the event, but do you think you could have taken off your gigantic bug's-eye sunglasses for like five minutes? Could you have possibly foregone your usual macramé wear for the event? And, I hate to ask it, but -- the hat? What've you got in there? Blunts? A teapot? A very small, very quiet baby? How on earth did you get past security in that thing? Trust me when I tell you that, if you persist in wearing such ridiculous get-ups, no one is going to go your way.
Sometimes The Fug Needs No Explanation
A picture is worth a thousand words. In this case, those words include; "Why isn't this guy a checker at your local Best Buy instead of banging sorority girls all over the country?" and, "Seriously, I've read that this guy gets laid all the time and I don't understand it. What is the cred in sleeping with Carrot Top? Do girls actually sweep into brunch and announce to their posse, 'Oh my God, you guys, I had sex with Carrot Top last night,' followed by a round of high-fives? WHAT IS WRONG WITH THOSE GIRLS WHO ARE SLEEPING WITH THIS MAN? You can't need self-affirmation that badly, ladies." Other words include; "ew," "gross," "what's wrong with his face?", "oh God, make it stop," and, my favorite, "grody."
Fug On Earth
In part because of her striking resemblance to master fugstress Helen Hunt, and in part because she speaks like she has marbles in her cheeks and couldn't act her way out of a paper bag even if it already had a giant hole in it, we here at Go Fug Yourself have a special place in our cold, dead hearts for Leelee Sobieski. And we had vowed that her next new photograph would be her debut on this page.
Sadly, it doesn't emphasize the facial fug, but it's a fashion disaster, so I think we've scored:
There's something delicious about the fact that Fuglee went from being considered an acting prodigy after Eyes Wide Shut to dying of Frightening Travelling Knee Cancer (and being outacted by the Keanu-esque walking ode to cardboard, Chris Klein) in Here On Earth, to showing up at premieres for movies like Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle in the hope that someone will remember she exists.
And we do, but in the sense of, "Wow, Sobieski is back, and dressing fuglier than ever." Not only is Fuglee's dress evidently equipped with an enormous matching handkerchief that hangs from her chest (the better to wipe away the tears over her career decline), but she's chosen to pair it with a dark-green leather bag and orange... are they flats? I can't tell, but they're awful. Finally, the stripes, which thanks to the hanky appear to be going in every possible direction, are a melee of fug.
So, sure, welcome back to the world, Madam Fug. Welcome back indeed.
July 27, 2004
The Brothers McFuggin
In my haste to make fun of Ben Affleck's appearance at the premiere of The Bourne Supremacy last week, I somehow missed this little gem:
That's CASEY AFFLECK with him, people! Doesn't it look the Topher Grace of 2017 come back to the future [or whatever] to warn his younger self against getting into Scientology, no matter what that Masterson punk tells him? ["Also, kid, the Kabbalah stuff that Kutcher's always yakking about? Avoid that, too. Do you want to end up like Esther? Have you -- oh, wait, that hasn't happened yet. Just keep an eye open, Toph!"] Men! The mustaches! No! Not on the young! Mustaches are for people's fathers, and, sometimes, ugly porn stars, and also Tom Selleck, but that is it! Enough!
Please note that Ben Affleck continues to sport his bloated, Hey Brother [Literally], Can You Spare a Dime homeless man chic look and also appears to need to hang on to Casey in order not to do a face plant into the red carpet. Seriously, Ben, I do remember when you were cute. Go back to Promises. And stop by Fred Segal on the way and see if they'll give you a facial in the new salon there.