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September 30, 2004

The Fugly In Red

To the inventor of what is apparently industrial-strength boob tape:

Lil' Kim has taught the world a lot of important lessons. For example, as long as there is a swatch of fabric somewhere on your person, then technically you are considered clothed and fit for public consumption. Or, as demonstrated above, that as long as something encircles part of your arm and is somehow connected to the rest of the outfit, then that thing can be considered a sleeve. My life will not be the same.

But I owe you a debt of gratitude, because without your marvelous double-sided invention, the world could not safely learn these lessons. We wouldn't be able to study at her School of Skank, because we'd be forced to behold Lil' Kims nipples while she's teaching, and that is considered the leading potential cause of blindness and/or insanity. So thank you, kind sir or madam. You are the real hero. You are the reason she can wear her wrist on a red fabric leash without also letting the dogs out; your tape is the Breast Police, and it is blessedly unafraid of making arrests.

God bless you and keep you.


Posted by Heather at 03:03 PM in Lil' Kim | Permalink | Comments (5)

Mother, May I Sleep With Fug?

Looks like Donna Martin didn't graduate from the school of good taste:

Tori Spelling mistakenly equates "mismatched 80s fug wear" with "cute top." A pink and black rugby-striped blouse? Okay, fine. If you want to do that 80s thing that was so big nine months ago. But over an aqua tee? Oh, honey. Honey. No. Pink and black and aqua? Not even Kelly Taylor could pull off that unholy, Miami Vice-ian horror.

And the necklaces? Why? Why all the necklaces? Don't draw any more attention to your horsey neck than you need to, Tori. Especially not when you're wearing a top that's wrestling with itself for attention.

I guess we should give thanks, however, that at least we're not being treated to yet another viewing of the man-made crater between your breasts. Small favors, right?

Posted by Jessica at 11:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

September 29, 2004

Young Fug

Hey, almost-unrecognizable-and-surprisingly-mannish Amy Davidson, listen up: One simple rule of fugging oneself is matching one's hat with one's eye shadow:

Guys, consider yourself warned: If you persist in voting this year, we cannot be held responsible for the fate of your genitals.

And finally, because it's always worth noting, somebody still needs attention:

Is that shirt really made to make it look like she's wearing a bra outside her clothes? Or... is she actually wearing a bra outside her clothes?

At least her mother finally put a collar on Courtney, so that if she gets lost people will know who she is so that they can return her. Of course, knowing this family, the collar probably says, "Please return to: Ashley Peldon," which would render any good samaritan stumped.

Posted by Heather at 05:12 PM in Courtney Peldon | Permalink | Comments (4)

My Prerogifug

Britney Spears is so right. I am sorry that I don't have what she has. To wit:

What girl doesn't dream of a marrying a David Silver lookalike who actually purchases -- and wears! In public! -- a trucker cap that reads "Rock Out With Your Cock Out"?

I think I speak for all of humanity when I beg you, Kevin, to put the cock away.

Posted by Jessica at 11:05 AM in Britney Spears | Permalink | Comments (5)

September 28, 2004

The Fug Pimp

This man's name is Archbishop Don Magic Juan. Which makes perfect sense, especially if that actually is a blinged-out chalice in his left hand:

His Holiness looks like the Von Trapp Family pimp. His poor mother will sure miss those pale blue curtains, but it was well worth it for the matching sombrero. Ol√ɬ(c), homeslice!

I'm guessing the theory is: The more uncannily he resembles a couch, the more chicks will splay themselves all over his lap. Llife must look better through those aqua-blinged sunglasses.

Posted by Heather at 09:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Top Fug

Thanks for dressing up for the premiere of Shark Tales, Goose.

What's with the backpack? Is the erstwhile Dr. Greene living, per chance, in his car? Has he sold every pair of jeans he bought after he joined the cast of ER, thus leaving him with this one pair of reverse-cut, pale washed women's jeans he scavenged out of the dumpster behind the Gap on 22nd and Wilshire? Or is he just "keeping it real?" All I know is, I never see George Clooney looking like this. And I never see Anthony Edwards in anything approximating Ocean's 11. Hmmm. Wonder if there's a connection. Memo to Edwards's agent: get your man in a suit, stat.

Posted by Jessica at 05:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The Fug and the Restless

It's like a little mesh tumor. Or a sartorial head-wound.

Maybe somebody bought it for her dog and Victoria Rowell misunderstood.

Posted by Heather at 09:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Mimi Fuggers

Is Mimi Rogers reliving her high-school prom?

I'm happy to see that she's so fond of her knit poppy-adorned doormat; not as ecstatic that she turned it into a poncho. But, judging by her expression, her date got them a hotel room for after the prom-queen coronation, so at least she'll get laid despite looking like she bled out on the operating table all over her white dress.

Posted by Heather at 09:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

September 27, 2004

Fugson's Creek

"Sorry I'm late, you guys! My tap class ran late and I didn't have time to change!"

Posted by Jessica at 05:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The Fug Sense

Judging by her sulky facial expression, Mischa Barton didn't think to look in the mirror until after she arrived at the party:

This is sort of a melange of fug. The frumpy purse competes with the frumpy cardigan, which is bedecked with the kind of cursory glitter you see on the sweaters of octagenarians. Vying with those two elements for attention: the see-through black undershirt with pink bra.

It's like she's a 90-year old stripper who's trying to prove she's Still Got It. Come on, Mischa, don't age before your time. Go back to being who you are: a young starlet who hilariously think she's Got It, but who actually has nothing but the VDs she probably caught from her oily boyfriend.

Posted by Heather at 01:56 PM in Mischa Barton | Permalink | Comments (0)


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