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May 31, 2005

Fug Operas

I try to judge the clothes. Really, I do. But sometimes, when you stare long enough at a photograph, you can't help but realize that the problem isn't the clothes -- it's the people wearing them.


These, it may surprise you to hear, are not mannequins. They are (ostensibly) living and breathing, and alarmingly chiseled, soap stars -- one is probably 90 percent fake at best (Hunter Tylo, on the left up there) and the other (the superfluously lettered Ronn Moss) has mysteriously always been touted as "hunky" despite his hollow cheeks, Ginsu-grade cheekbones, perma-stoned face, and penchant for choking himself with flowing scarves.

And yet, as freaky and unsettling as I find the Ronnequin, nothing -- but NOTHING -- frightens me as much as Hunter Tylo's breasts. It looks like her plastic surgeon was playing some sort of infantile stacking game while she was under the knife. Breasts shouldn't come out of a woman's chest at a 90-degree angle; cleavage isn't intended to be a geometry teaching tool. I would suggest that Hunter tell her surgeon this herself, but I'm not sure she can move her face or her lips any more. That thing is stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey -- I've never seen so much collagen, Botox, and bad work.

I need my eye drops.

Posted by Heather at 10:59 AM | Permalink


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