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July 27, 2004

I'm Running Out of Puns For Courtney Fug, Here

This woman needs rehab? No way! Doesn't she look petulant? "Your hoooooooneeeeer, I don't waaaaaaaana go to rehaaaaaab." At least she managed to spackle enough Dermablend onto her rapidly disintegrating facial structure to look primarily human.

Posted by Jessica at 04:27 PM in Courtney Love | Permalink | Comments (1)

Fug. James Fug.

Let's get one thing straight. Pierce Brosnan is not fugly. Not in the least. Not at all. Not anywhere near it.

But the caterpiller living on his upper lip?

It's got to go. It makes him look old, it makes him look sleazy, it makes his capped teeth look way more capped than I'd ever noticed before. It makes him look like he just escaped from a touring company of a stage version of Dirty Rotten Scoundrals. Please, Pierce, shave it off. Please shave it off. Please don't fug yourself into a younger, less man-tanned version of Burt Reynolds.

Posted by Jessica at 11:24 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

July 26, 2004

Fug and the City

Sarah Jessica Parker has just shot an ad for The Gap:

Ms. Fugker has always been one that must be photographed carefully, as her face walks the fine line -- the line of her nose, I believe -- between strikingly cute and shockingly scary. This photograph carelessly shoves her features into The Fug Zone, and it's really not helping, because we need something to distract us from the general fugocity of her clothing.

SJP designed the jeans and customized the shirt. She erred. She has no right to look whimsical in this photo, because it is hard proof that the influence of Sex stylist Patricia Field is toxic tonic indeed.

Jessica: I say knever to knickers.
Heather: So gross. Big fat kno.
Jessica: She also looks like she is missing a kneck there.

The whole ensemble, as displayed, is a cross between the costume in a gay chorus and the uniform of a Revolutionary War soldier. Maybe our troops back then were beating back the Brits with the heels of their pumps in some kind of choreographed battlefield cabaret. Who knew the American Revolution was so damn kicky?

Posted by Heather at 05:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Dude Looks Like A Fugly

Living on the edge, indeed. Ladies and gents, Joe Perry.

[Steven Tyler looks more and more like an aging socialite with a Botox-addiction, too, but that's hardly surprising. I'd be more horrified if he didn't look like he was wearing women's clothing from the Macy's juniors department.]

Joe, Joe, Joe. What's with the headdress? Look, headdresses in general are very difficult to pull off, and truly remain the domain of Vegas showgirls, actual Native Americans in tribal gear, and Cher [who really embodies the first two groups in one fabulous, Bedazzled wax figurine-like person]. For another thing, I hate to break it to you, but you're like a million years old. That get-up would look ridiculous on a young man, but when it comes to man of your advanced age, people just begin to suspect that you're wearing a headband-y item not because it looks cool [it doesn't], but because all of your hair is attached to it [could be]. Need I mention that the open shirt is a little gross? And the multiple necklaces a little likely to cause your ancient and dessicated body to tip over? And the pattern on your shirt a little responsible for seizures suffered by people who look at it too long? I didn't think so.

Posted by Jessica at 02:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

My So-Called Fug

Jared Leto decided to drop by the Ten by Tanqueray Pool Party Benefitting Telkdgn948yhn -- sorry, I fell asleep -- The Collage Foundation on his way back from the gym. I'm sorry, did I say "from the gym"? I meant "from his day job as a roadie on the Van Halen tour."

Jared? The Unwashed, Grunge-y look was fine when you were Jordan Catalano. Back in 1992? When everyone was unwashed? Welcome to the new millenium, slacker. Invest in some product. And lose the towel.

Posted by Jessica at 12:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

July 23, 2004

I'm The Fug That I Want

Dear Margaret Cho,

You are not required to contort you face into "funny" expressions in order to be taken seriously as a comedian. Instead, we suggest you merely attempt to be funny.

We know you've got all these rants about how ABC made you get an eating disorder and why are women judged by their looks and yadda yadda yadda and good for you, but there's no reason for you to actually swing so far over to the other side that you actually start making yourself look fugly on purpose. Just look like yourself. This is, of course, presuming that you do have a normal, non-wacky, schtick-free facial expression.

Thank you.

CC: Jeanane Garafolo

PS: Look into a straight part. That crooked part is so Leslie Bibb circa 1999.
PPS: Mascara is your friend.

Posted by Jessica at 03:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

July 22, 2004

Songs In The Key of Fug, Part II: The Fuggening

After I wondered briefly what Paul Rubens was doing in his life to make him so cheerful [and then paused to think, "Does David Gest have a son? No, no, I think I'd remember something that impossible"], I took a closer look at the above photograph and with a gasp recognized the visage of the throaty-voiced capitalization-repellant that is k.d. lang. (Honey? You're grown. So unless you are e.e. cummings, there is no excuse for insisting upon skipping the shift key.)

Ms. Lang -- Lang, I shall heretofore insist upon typing with defiance -- has always had a touch of the butch, but if this close-up shot is any indication, her exit from Lake Estrogen is now both complete and permanent. She always had sort of an endearingly hopeless fugocity, but there was at least some longer pieces of hair, some clumsy, careless makeup, funky jewelry... Now it's gone, and she's shot past androgyny straight to masculinity.

She's so dull and plain. Look at her. She doesn't want to sing about craving; she wants to do your taxes, or scour Consumer Reports for news of the new Chevy Malibu. She doesn't want to push the envelope -- she wants to put the cheque for her Readers' Digest subscription inside it and then lick it, stamp it, send it.

I think I miss the feminine side of her fug.

Posted by Heather at 03:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Pieces of Fug

Such are the component parts of this Ashlee Simpson outfit from the MTV Movie Awards last month:

How do you take a boring blonde and differentiate her from her heinous fair-haired sister? Go through the bargain bin of bedsheets at a Cost Plus/World Market, fashion a "dress" out of one that's the color of cow's vomit, and cinch it with a giant leather yoke once used to rein in some oxen. Dye her hair, caution her not to wash it, and the throw in scraggly extensions that only go halfway around her head, serving to underline the natural lankness of her hair rather than thickening it.

Then give her those shoes: not a flat, not yet a wee kitten heel. An unholy way-station between two undesirable styles.

This is not the way to become the endearing Simpson sister.

Posted by Heather at 11:01 AM in Ashlee & Jessica Simpson | Permalink | Comments (18)

July 21, 2004

Fuglie Fugko

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.

Posted by Jessica at 07:55 PM in Maggie Gyllenhaal | Permalink | Comments (0)


Ladies and gentleman, the Ben Affleck's Delightful Downward Spiral of 2004 Photograph of the Day. Bon Appetit!

He's bloated! He's sunburned! He's disoriented! He's got a cigarette tucked behind his ear! The only thing that differentiates him from the homeless guy who asked me for a quarter and blow job this morning while I was waiting for the light to turn on the corner of Pico and Sawtelle is...no, not the mildly retarded gleam in his eye, nor the ratty shirt, but rather the Oscar on his mantle! Applause! Applause!

Posted by Jessica at 06:29 PM in Celebrity Terror Watch | Permalink | Comments (0)


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