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July 21, 2005

Nona Fug

The other day, someone asked Jessica and me to list a couple really bad, terrible trends; immediately we both said, "Well, dresses over pants, obviously... but that one's kind of old now and I think we're past it."

This will teach us to be such unbridled optimists:


[Photo by Daily Celeb.]

Let's take stock. Color: Fantastic. Dress: Lovely. Cut: Flattering. Breasts: A little frightening, actually, now that you mention it, but the dress fits them and she's not flopping around like a dying fish, so that's a plus. And yet, it all falls apart, because under her outfit she's wearing spotted, shredded denim.

Why would Nona Gaye buy a perfectly lovely dress that could stand on its own, and then throw it on over the weekend jeans she was wearing while she painted her living room?  WHY, Nona? I feel like I'm banging my head against the wall here. Are people really still doing this? Are we going to have to sit through another season of frocks over pants? Must we keep fumbling for an explanation of why, for the love of GOD, why, somebody came up with the idea to throw on a pair of jeans under her Shelli Segal?  How many red carpets must a trouser-dress combo walk down before you can call it a dead fad?

Help me understand, because if we're staring down the barrel of photo after photo after photo of this trend, again, then I'm going to need some wisdom and strength. And a bottle of shiraz.

Posted by Heather at 01:38 PM | Permalink

Von Fug

Ever topical and timely, our pretty little Princess Peldon has reappeared on the scene:

:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

There's one of two things happening here. By wrapping herself solely in Von Dutch, La Peldon is either: (A) desperately trying to attract the attention of A-Kutch, in the hopes that she can convince him to leave Demi Moore for a younger, dimmer bulb, or (B) she is laboring under the delusion that it is still 2003. If it is the latter, I wonder what else she's doing that the rest of us have long since abandoned? Is she still trying to decide how she feels about John Kerry? Is she breathlessly wondering why Simon Cowell is so darn mean? Is she listening to a lot of  Chingy? Is she sadly showing up to the long-destroyed set of Boston Public, carrying a frayed script, and wandering around aimlessly for hours looking for David E. Kelley?  If so, can she thank him for sort of falling off the face of the earth for me? Thanks.

Posted by Jessica at 12:19 PM in Courtney Peldon | Permalink

July 20, 2005

Fug the Cover: Entertainment Weekly

Somebody must really hate Scarlett Johansson:

Don't get me wrong -- this person clearly isn't enamored of Ewan McGregor, either, because it's not his best showing. He looks like an orderly who is really not that thrilled about having to clean your bedpan, because he just had to give Old Woman McGillicuddy a sponge bath and it was nearly the putrid death of him, but he's going to breathe through his mouth the whole time and smile, by gum, because it's his job not to be disgusted by other people's waste matter.

But this photo of Scarlett Johansson makes her look like a stoned ogre. Her eyes seem to veer off in different directions. Her facial expression is stiff and forced. And it's the worst angle on her nose. Can this really have been the best frame of the lot? Or was someone with a ScarJo vendetta going through the proofs? Is this really the type of cover art that would make everyone at the magazine say, "Yes. We have done it. This is the one," if they didn't secretly hate ScarJo with every fiber of their beings?  Has EW hired Soon-Yi? Are the Scientologists getting revenge against her for turning down the Tom Cruise contract -- er, I mean, for not being alluring enough that he would fall in love with her on-sight?

I certainly hope, for The Island's sake, that the sexy side of sci-fi it purports to reveal is not properly illustrated by this cover. They have as much chemistry as hand soap and pudding. She looks like she is refusing to touch him; he looks like he just realized he forgot to Lysol her belly before putting his hand on it, but he's gritting his teeth and bearing it for the time being. Who at Entertainment Weekly is having such bad sex lately that this is their idea of erotic titillation? Soon-Yi, is it you again? Have you become a photo terrorist?

Adding insult to injury is the shot of Peeping Johnny on the top right corner, all Wonkafied and Wintour-esque.

I just don't understand. If I didn't subscribe, I wouldn't buy this issue -- as it was, it arrived unbidden, so I had to see it sitting on my coffee table without having been sufficiently prepped for the horror. The resulting yawp was one of terror and betrayal.

My only consolation comes in imagining that Ewan and Scarlett's twee rubber bracelets are actually stamped with a slogan that encourages people to stop buying twee rubber bracelets.

Posted by Heather at 12:01 PM in Fug The Cover, Scarlett Johansson | Permalink

Fugly Simpson

I think Jessica Simpson is getting gymorexic on us:

Lady J.Simp is sculpting herself a nice little masculine face and tree-trunk neck, topped by some shoulders that show the beginnings of some butch muscle striation. She looks like she's reinventing herself as a thug female Eminem. I'd hate to run into her in a dark alley -- although maybe that's because I would hate to run into her in general. She's exercising her features into stark, pointy, horsy relief, and it's beginning to alarm me.

I'm not even sure I want to talk about the cutoffs.

Except, I do. I get wearing your husband's (or Knoxville's? Or... her father's? No... no, I don't want to think about that) sweater. Or his boxers. Or his t-shirts. But, making cutoffs out of his jeans? No. Sorry, J.Simp -- no. I know no one who does that. Not even if they're missing the pant-wearer, yearning to relive the glories of illicit Louisiana nights. If she wants ratty culottes that badly, she should just hop on eBay and make it happen. Or, hell, call up Old Navy -- I'm sure someone from the braintrust over there is eager to follow up the Boho Reek craze by reintroducing the Bermuda short's billowy cousin.

However, I'd prefer that she can it altogether; if she doesn't, then Ashlee will start up with this, because she does everything Jessica does, and then we'll hit a fugly slippery slope.

Posted by Heather at 11:05 AM in Ashlee & Jessica Simpson | Permalink

Jennifer Finnifug

At first, I thought these were bike shorts, and was concerned that Jennifer Finnegan had -- in a fit of Tour de Lance inspired moxie -- cycled to this CBS party:


[Photo by Daily Celeb.]

Then I realized that, no, they are not bike shorts -- they're just ugly shorts, and Ms. Finnigan has simply been gripped by the Formal Short Fever whose sweaty delirium has so relentlessly imprisoned the celebrity world.

I do covet her shoes. But the rest of it... I mean, she looks utterly silly. From a distance it's as if her evening gown got all tucked up into her Spanx.

Posted by Heather at 09:39 AM | Permalink

July 19, 2005

Kelly Fugbourne

Aw, cheer up, Kelly:

Somebody can fix that overgrown Franciscan bowl cut you're sporting.

Unless it's a wig, in which case, it's your own fault you look like the Goth embodiment of a circumcized penis.

Posted by Heather at 12:36 PM | Permalink

Hit Em Up, Fug Style.

Well.

I'm out. Blu Cantrell broke me.

Posted by Jessica at 11:28 AM | Permalink

July 18, 2005

Clashing Fug

I thought this was Mena Suvari at first:

But no, it's just Stephanie Seymour, ostensibly trying to make up for showing her assets to the world by wearing a full-coverage outfit -- which I appreciate, truly, except that she's chosen a billowing skirt and shirt that are both clashing and shapeless. Paisley is a very bold, compassionless thing that should not be taken lightly -- and certainly not with a skirt of competing busyness that sort of looks like a domestic accident. It's like my mother never used to say: You can have your child spill his or her watercolors all over a tablecloth and call it couture, but really, it's still a tablecloth.

Posted by Heather at 12:33 PM | Permalink

Keen Fuggie

Here's the thing. I just don't get Sienna Miller. I don't. I know she's supposed to be this Charming Boho Princess, and we're all supposed to admire her and love her and want to emulate her and dress in similarly sloppy boho-ian outfits, complete with, like boots stolen from a sherpa or something, and sure, I know she's boning Jude Law, and good for her, because he's hot, despite the fact that he's been dressing like a shipwrecked maitre d' lately.

But come on:

Are you kidding me? Even the woman behind her is all, "I'm wearing culottes, and I look better than she does." This outfit is not okay.  This outfit is, like, living in a yurt on the outskirts of the Siberia of okay.

Why is everything she's wearing all chopped up? Is this -- perish the thought -- Federline-chic making its way across the pond? Was she watching Chaotic one night and suddenly thought to herself, "damn, those manpris are HOT. I suddenly feel the need to saw the hems off everything I own!"  Is there no end to the horror that El Federlino hath wrought? Can't we stop the madness?

Posted by Jessica at 08:51 AM in Sienna Miller | Permalink

July 15, 2005

Behind These Hazel Fugs

K Cla, K Cla, K Cla.

I don't know how many times I have to say it.

I love you and all. But this has GOT TO STOP. A shirt that you thread through your belt loops? No. Just no. First of all, I can't imagine how difficult it is to get in and out of the bathroom in this get-up, but I suspect it puts the old Overalls and Body Suit [Winner of both the Toughest Bathroom Outfit Award of 1993 AND the Toughest Bathroom Outfit of All Time] to shame.

But let's just say that, since it's your concert, you can take as much time to pee as you like.  Do you not care that, with the gloves and the jacket, you look like Stevie Nicks from the breastbone up, and with the....other stuff.....you look like Xina from the breastbone down? Those, unlike peanut butter and chocolate, are not two great tastes that go great together. Your outfit is more like gefilte fish and caramel: two tastes that need to be kept as far away from each other as possible. Possibly with judicious use of a restraining order.

Seriously. I mean it when I say that I love you. But there are some things that our love can not endure, and your crazy-ass concert ensembles are on that list, right after "allegedly slept with Justin Guarini." Please fire your stylist, and then I can go back to thinking about how much fun we'd have trying on jeans at the mall and talking about stupid boys and then going out to the local pub and getting really trashed on Pabst and stumbling home to watch selected scenes from Annie and then waking up in a dried pool of our own spittle the next morning, worried about the Guarini-related drunk dials we may or may not have made at some point in the Pabst-drinking. Because it generally seems like you're adorably normal and thus should not be cavorting about in anything that smells of Dominatrix. Okay?

Good.

Posted by Jessica at 02:04 PM | Permalink

 

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