June 30, 2005
When did Kimberly Caldwell** turn into Pink?
[Photo by Daily Celeb.]
** You might also ask, "When did Kimberly Caldwell turn into somebody about whom I should care?" The answer is actually never -- she is on the TV Guide Channel now, I believe, having squeezed a wee globule of a career from her stint on season two of American Idol as Husky-Voiced Squinty Blonde With Crimping Habit And Overplucked Meg Ryan Arches, a.k.a. Carrie Underwood Without The Talent, a.k.a. The Kimberl(e)y From That Season Who Didn't Have The Voice To Go Anywhere But To A Local Biker Bar.
I know Simon erroneously and unfairly needled Caldwell about her weight, but I feel like starving herself into a clone of a tranny-esque singer -- and dieting off half of her sleeves, apparently -- was a bit of an extreme response.
Posted by Heather at 11:02 AM | Permalink
June 29, 2005
Letter of Fug: The Scrolldown
It's been so long, y'all! But I've been so busy, you know, with, like, growing the baby, and making that TV show thingie that Kevin and I did about how I talked him into marrying me even though my parents really hated him and that was fun. I have to point out, first of all, y'all, that I look awfully happy, don't I? Isn't my skin nice? Wouldn't you saying I'm glowing or something?
And look at my belly -- I mean, my bump! Look at my bump! I have a bump and my bump has a BABY in it! A real little person with little nails and little toes and other little body part things. I want everyone to see my bump because my bump proves that Kevin loves me and not just my money even though he also thinks that my money is pretty fucking sweet, which is what he said to me this morning while he was rummaging through my purse looking for my checkbook. He's so cute. Did you see how he told me he loved me on the finale of our TV show thingie? I cried and cried, y'all. Do you think Cameron Diaz ever leaves special little notes to her boyfriend WHOSE NAME I HAVE FORGOTTEN at the end of her stupid show about traveling the world or whatever? Because I bet she doesn't and even if she does, I bet she has to write them herself while Kevin actually got my mom to write what he said to me. Isn't that romantic? They both really love me. My mom even told me that she's praying to God every night that this baby gets my looks which I think is really sweet since that must mean she thinks I'm pretty. She also told Jamie Lynn that she's trying to get Kevin deported, which totally surprised me because I never even told her how much Kevin likes boats. Although when I told Jamie Lynn that she just looked at me funny, but I don't really think Jamie Lynn knows anything that's going on anyway.
AND I just bought these great cowboy boots because nothing is more comfortable when you've got swollen ankles than cowboy boots. So basically things are totally great right now! And if someone maybe bought a billboard outside the bedroom window of a boy I'll call "Mustin Fimberlake" that saws "I WIN," then that someone wouldn't be totally wrong about the winning, don't you think? And I also think that if I were him I would probably want to call me to find out if I was the person who bought the billboard, though, and then maybe I would ask me if I wanted to go to lunch and then maybe I would adopt my baby and take me to Capri for the summer but YOU DIDN'T HEAR THAT FROM ME and shit, Kevin's home. Gotta go. Bye!
Oh my God, Duffgirl. HEM THEM. How has no one explained to you how that works? Do you want the phone number for Denim Doctors? They can take care of that for $18. I'm pretty sure you have $18, don't you? Or did you spend every last dime on your new veneers and some Slim Fast? But seriously, you have to get those looked at -- they are WRAPPED AROUND YOUR SHOE. They are footie jeans. That is wrong.
Posted by Heather at 12:48 PM | Permalink
BET Awards Fug Carpet: Blu Cantrell
Blu, Blu, Blu.
[Photo by Daily Celeb.]
Let's start at -- or near -- the top:
1) Brush your hair.
2) No, better: cut it, or take the ratty extensions out. Whatever you have to do. Beause I'm not sure a brush will get through that briar patch.
3) Your wrap looks like you hacked up a bathrobe.
4) Your skirt is a Crate & Barrel pattern for, like, lawn furniture, or patio umbrellas. Which might have been fine, if not for the bodysuit. And that brings me to...
5) ... The hat (THE HAT) and that dastardly crocheted top, both of which we've seen before. Why are you continuing to build outfits around these, Blu? And if you think that top is so flattering, couldn't you at least pair it with something that flatters it? Not that anything really flatters a piece of loosely formed cotton webbing, but you get the drift. Didn't you JUST teach us all how we can get revenge on our nasty-ass men by stealing their credit cards, taking our friends out, and blowing his financial wad all over Barney's and Fred Segal and Pottery Barn? Is this really the best you could do on that spending spree? You clearly don't have very good friends, if they let you come down from your revenge bender with nothing but a knit bodysuit and jockey's cap to show for it. That is a lame-ass piece of vengeance right there.
6) Your shoes are cute. But it's too late for that now, Blu. The hat -- THE HAT! -- and the bodysuit have kind of ruined your credibility.
Posted by Heather at 10:49 AM | Permalink
June 28, 2005
I never really understood the point of Dominique Swain -- I mean, does the world really need a discount Kirsten Dunst? She's like a knock-off Kiki but with Maggie Gyllenhaal's juicy pores -- so it's only fitting that she would wear another thing whose purpose in life escapes me: Tops that are wrinkled on purpose.
[Photo by Daily Celeb.]
It doesn't help that Dunst-lite has paired her crinkle-cut sky-blue cami with two things that flatter it as little as possible: a dusty rose cropped blazer, and a skirt that looks like hot-dog condiments. (I am not fretting about the incongruous shoe choice, mostly because my retinas have imploded.) So while Ms. Swain deserves credit for not being all decked out for shuffleboard on the west lanai -- a fashion choice preferred by her better-known clone -- I do feel that maybe a little more coordination and a little less Crayola-chic would help her.
Posted by Heather at 06:11 PM | Permalink
June 27, 2005
In Fug Company
Oh, Scarlett, look what you've done. Are you okay? Did you know that you put on leggings under your skirt this morning? I suspect you didn't -- unless you are sad; I think you wouldn't have turned to the Dark Side without a good reason, which must mean something is wrong.
You should be okay. You're dating Josh Hartnett. I know he hasn't done anything interesting in a while, or possibly ever, but he's still rather cute, and he's got to be a step up from nailing Benicio Del Toro -- who looks as if he tastes like the business end of a charcoal grill -- in an elevator. And you're allegedly, according to IMDb, going to be in 24 next season, which means you can listen to Kiefer all day while his velvet throat conjures delicious new sounds.
What is it, then, Scar? Why drag your skirt into this? What could it be? Look, Jared Leto was hot when he was Jordan Catalano, but it's been a looooong time since he lit our national loins on fire. So I hope you're not too worried about that whole thing ending. Perhaps you're just really shaken over this Tom debacle, and how you apparently only narrowly escaped from being The Anointed Womb, and now you have to watch him slobber all over Kate Holmes-Cruise while knowing that if not for a keen stroke of luck and good sense, it might have been you in that frightening situation.
Or, maybe you're depressed about all this Woody Allen nonsense -- you know, about how you're his muse and Soon-Yi is not very happy about how much he would like to lick you silly. Is he drooling over you too much? Are you sad because you secretly like it, and you can't figure out why, and it makes you question everything you once believed to be good and true in this world?
Yeah, that would make me depressed enough to wear leggings, too, I suspect. Well, good luck to you. And if things don't get better, at least try not to take it out on your legs in this manner.
Sigh. And she was so close to looking fabulous...
I suppose it could have been even less classy -- she could have foregone underwear altogether. Thank God for small black-or-navy mercies.
Posted by Heather at 10:50 AM | Permalink
War Of The Fug
Little Dakota Fanning's parents need to stop playing dress-up with her.
Cute girl, good actress (if a bit ubiquitous) -- but by all accounts, neither a wind-up child, nor a ballerina, nor a misbehaving wench who deserves to wear knickers of punishment. The dress itself might've looked cute without the petticoat pants and those ballet shoes, but unfortunately for Dakota, her parents didn't leave those at home in the toy chest and she therefore resembles rather closely a Madame Alexander limited edition Exploited Child Star #32 With Collector's Box And Souvenir Contract Entitling Her Parents To Everything She Makes Until She Is 18, At Which Time, She Can Have Whatever They Haven't Spent To Renovate The Kitchen.
And looking like a doll is not cute. Dolls are creepy -- creepy -- with the crazy eyes, and the bloomers, and the porcelain skin -- and did I mention the insane orbs of covert malicious intent that stare at you from every which angle and will not leave you alone and for the love of all that is good and true in this world PLEASE STOP LOOKING AT ME...?
Ahem. Everything's fine. Except her wardrobe.
Posted by Heather at 07:46 AM | Permalink
June 24, 2005
Fergie orded the audience to be patient. The concert demanded a costume change, but even without the napkin rings on her arm, it would take at least an hour to undo the buttons on the six-mile-high waist of her shorts.
I Dream Of Fuggie
If it were Hallowe'en, I would wonder if Sienna Miller is dressed as the Bride of Aladdin, but as it is I just have to assume she's off her rocker again:
Her front-close shirt appears to be working its way open as best it can; I wish it the best of luck in freeing itself from those trousers. For they are not bell-bottoms: They appear to be elasticized around her ankle, creating that unfortunate billowing effect that one only ought wear if one hopes to be rubbed heartily, and immediately prior to some slobbering oaf making three slurry wishes that chiefly involve both invasive procedures and some Nachos Bell Grande.
The pervasiveness of boho-reek has me in a delicate enough state; if genie-wear is on its way in, I might plunge into a dark downward spiral the likes of which will make Kate Holmes-Cruise's recent antics look like nothing more than a gentle gust of wind on the outskirts of Crazytown.
I think her sash unfolds into a magic carpet. She really shouldn't operate that thing if she's tipsy; hopefully someone can fly it home for her.