May 31, 2005
I love this time of year -- the sky is clear, the sun is hot, and everything's in full bloom.
[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]
Posted by Heather at 05:52 PM | Permalink
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
May 30, 2005
Jessica Simpson woke up this morning and took a long hard look at her wardrobe.
"I don't like any of this," she said. "I hate all my designer clothing. I hate all my jeans. I hate everything that fits. I loathe anything in here that looks even vaguely clean." She was silent for a long, long, long, long, long, long moment. Thinking.
At last! "I know what I need to do," she announced to the small, yappy, fluffy dog at her feet.
"I need to go Federline."
May 27, 2005
From the waist down, Nikka Costa looks like your average young lady out and about and on the town:
[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]
From the waist up? Dorothy Zbornak.
Posted by Jessica at 01:56 PM | Permalink
May 26, 2005
I kind of get the feeling that Courtney Love has no idea how to control her new, larger body, and that parts of it are sort of sloshing around, uncontained, like a Big Gulp spilling all over your gear shift when you take a turn too fast.
[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb]
Courtney, babe, you just don't look comfortable. I feel like you're going to be tugging that shirt down all night. Invest in something that fits you a bit better. Or something. Man. Yeah. Honestly? I don't know how to help you. Nothing there fits right. Your proportions are all off. In fact, I'm just going to throw up my hands, and congratulate you on how cute Francis Bean is. She looks just like her Dad, doesn't she? In fact, -- oh, hell. I can't keep up the charade: YOUR BOOBS ARE HUGE NOW. I CAN'T STOP LOOKING AT THEM. I'M WORRIED ONE OR BOTH MIGHT JUST POP OUT OF THAT TOP AND NOT IN A SEXY WAY, IN A "GOD DAMN I KNEW THESE BUTTONS WERE SUSPECT AND THAT'S WHY I TIED THE FRONT OF THIS SHIRT WITH A WEIRD LACEY THINGIE, PLEASE HAND ME A DING DONG BECAUSE NOTHING FITS AND THEY TOOK AWAY MY HEROIN" KIND OF WAY.
Seriously. A little more tailoring from you, a lot less caps lock from me. Is all I'm saying.
Lord of the Fug
Continuing our recent run of Man Fug, I give you the Smoking Hot in Lord of the Rings, Problematic in the Real World Viggo Mortensen:
This looks like something he'd wear if he gave up acting and took up ice-dancing. Badly. To "Bolero."
Posted by Jessica at 11:08 AM | Permalink
May 25, 2005
Mr Fug, Part II: Still Fugly
It's SUCH A RELIEF to see how nicely Michael Madsen has cleaned up his act, since his last appearance on Go Fug Yourself:
Posted by Jessica at 10:27 AM | Permalink
May 24, 2005
Those are some INCREDIBLY large, clown-like shirt buttons.
I feel like there was something else... no, it's gone. Oh well. The buttons! So big.
Posted by Heather at 10:30 AM | Permalink
Postcards From The Fug
"Dear Ben and Girl:
I am writing a note from my very important tour of venues that don't make me sing more than three songs, which Marc says is my limit, because I am filled with glee. Because, aha, lookit here! You will be shocked to learn that, even if you have the Bennifer II, it is I who has the Electric Boogaloo! The flatness of my abs makes fireworks ejaculate! Good luck getting your stretch marks to have that effect on Ben, girlie!
Oh, and have fun wearing caftans, while I am in daring gold lame harness-looking-thingies that I had George Lucas make me so that I would look like a lounge singer in that alien bar from Episode IV: Jedi From The Block, or whatever that thing was that the kids love. Hip! I am hip. I tried to sew cinnamon rolls onto my head for the costume, but they made Marc cry and go binge on peas. Sometimes I don't understand him, but then I realize that's because he is choking on something and I have to Heimlich some embalming fluid out of his chest. I don't know how that keeps getting in there! But that has nothing to do with you and your stupid bloated uterus, nor my super hot capri pants with a big X that marks exactly where you can BITE me, Special Agent Sydney Crisco! Ha ha ha!
Now shut up and let me stop writing. It's time for me to stop doing my Nutcracker ballet -- wait, why does that always make Marc giggle? Ben Assfleck, why does Marc always say how appropriate that is? Ben?
Bah. Anyway, twirly time is over. It's time for the robot:
Or as my Marc calls it, "Foreplay."
Piss and Vinegar,
The One Whose Ring Was Bigger And Don't You Forget It, Ass Ape!"
May 23, 2005
Fug York Minute
Okay, Mary-Kate. We get it. We know you're into swaddling your skeleton in as many large layers as possible to compensate for your lack of body fat. But it's not fooling anyone:
The cowgirl-doily look wouldn't be flattering on anyone, with or without the giant picnic blanket knotted around her neck. But honey, my stick figures that I drew in elementary school had more meat on their bones. Very scary. What happened with you and Ashley? You were so cute together in New York Minute. Um, not that I saw it. But if I had, I probably would have secretly thought you and your sister were sort of sweet -- I mean, I assume, although of course I have no idea what my reaction to that movie would have been. right? Yes.
What about your counselors? What about the rest of your wardrobe? Did it ever occur to you that you wouldn't need seventeen baggy layers and a wad of plaid if you just had some of nature's insulation?
The thing that's most wrong about this picture is that her "boyfriend" is leading her down the street and not toward another rehab center. Please get her some help, Scruffy Boyfriend. Otherwise, it's going to end tragically, either from the disorder or from you having sex with her and accidentally snapping her in half. Then we'll get some kind of badly written television event in which Ashley makes her first solo acting debut playing Mary-Kate, and... well, that's quite a rabbit hole.
So somebody, please give Lohan and Richie and their ilk a good example to follow, and GET THE GIRL SOME HELP so that she stops losing weight in places where there is no weight to lose.
Also: Please make her stop wearing tents.