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November 30, 2005

The Fugsen Twins


[Photo courtesy of Zap2It.com.]

In one terrifying moment of clarity, Ashley Olsen realized too late that she and her newly person-sized twin had been told a lie: They were not, in fact, so cute that they could make a Hanes XXL look like high fashion. And she had no idea where she'd left her trousers.

Posted by Heather at 07:20 PM in Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen | Permalink

Fug Young


[Photo by Daily Celeb.]

After the drive-in, Sean Young wrapped a scarf around her hickeys and headed to the soda shop for some chocolate malts.

Posted by Heather at 11:38 AM | Permalink

Goodbye Fug: Randy Quaid

It's tough to be Randy Quaid.

Well, okay, not really. He's a talented actor, he's funny, he grilled burgers made of Hamburger Helper in National Lampoon's Vacation, and he can probably afford a mortgage in this town, which is more than a lot of people can say. In that sense, being Randy Quaid isn't such a heinous thing.

But it's got to be hard when your brother is Delicious -- er, I mean, Dennis -- and you will always be considered the Quaid who, sure, is great at what he does, but maybe got stuck in the shallow end of the physical gene pool while Dennis was busy marinating in all that good DNA juice that buxom blonde hotties have spent his lifetime licking off of that manly, sculpted chest.

All that goes to show why we at Go Fug Yourself were so sad to see Randy apparently just giving up in this manner. It was a shame, because it's not that Randy is ugly; it's that his brother is, in some senses, Adonis Quaid (have you SEEN The Parent Trap? Lindsay Lohan is probably pissed she was only 12 back then, because Dennis would've been a way hotter grossly inappropriate bar fling than Bruce Willis). There's a reason Dennis is "Sinned" backwards, and it's because that's what he makes nice girls want to do. But that muumuu... it was an alarming sign of surrender from Randy. We thought we might never get him back.

Until today.

Randy looks healthy, happy, and as if he's raided Sinned's wardrobe. A white t-shirt and a leather jacket, paired with jeans, is a universal thumbs-up, especially when it does not appear to be accompanying any kind of mid-life crisis/trucker hat. In all, I'd say Randy is proving he did at least breast-stroke his way into a deeper part of the DNA reservoir. He looks fetching! Rock on with your Quaidness, Randy!

And most vitally, congratulations on pulling yourself out of smock doom. Those were terrible times. Don't ever hide your light under a muumuu again, okay?

Posted by Heather at 10:51 AM in Well Played | Permalink

Mission Imfuggable

Katie Holmes, finally realizing what, exactly, she's gotten herself into by agreeing to marry Crazy Tom Cruise and bear his ill-gotten spawn (namely, daily ultrasounds administered at home by Crazy Tom Cruise, a silent birth enforced by Crazy Tom Cruise, and the joy of attempting to raise a normal, healthy child whose father is Crazy Tom Cruise), really can't be bothered to dress herself anymore, so Crazy Tom Cruise just has to drag her out onto the streets of Shanghai in her bathrobe.

But can you blame her for not even trying any more? At best, she looks exhausted. At worst, little Joey Potter appears hopelessly resigned to her fate as Crazy Tom Cruise's Zombie Bride.  I never thought I'd say this, but she'd be so much better off with the Beek.

Posted by Jessica at 07:48 AM | Permalink

November 29, 2005

The Fuginator

Linda Hamilton is famous for a few things, but here are the two biggest: 1) dripping sweat, growling, and kicking ass in the first two Terminator movies, and 2) making off with half James Cameron's net worth -- the second-richest divorce settlement in Hollywood history -- when she caught him docking the ship at Suzy Amis Pier during the filming of Titanic.

So I was understandably alarmed to see her in this:

At first glance, I thought this was Kirstie Alley, from whom a batshit-crazy combo of cowboy boots, an enormous cardigan/coat/portable king-sized bed blanket, and a lingerie slip-dress is at least expected. But Linda Hamilton... okay, at the very least, she's got enough cash to buy an outfit that's seasonally appropriate, rather than such a thin satin shell that she has to Bill Cosby herself into retaining some body heat.

There's just something faintly "I just woke up -- where am I?" about the whole photo. Which, again, totally par for the course from Kirstie Alley, and quite honestly, I prefer my Rebecca Howe two-parts hyper-ventilating, three-parts zaftig, and ten-parts deranged. But if Linda Hamilton turns up on any Pier 1 Imports commercials, I think we should stage an interfugtion. The woman who stabbed a man in the knee with a pencil does not need to start hawking wicker furniture.

Posted by Heather at 02:51 PM | Permalink

America's Next Fug Model, Part II

Now, here at Go Fug Yourself, we rarely feature the same poor wretched soul twice in one day. It seems cruel [-er than usual]. And yet it appears that ANTM's Poor Wretched Michelle is severely in need of an intervention.

Her jeans are fine -- although I'm pretty sure she has a huge grease stain on her left leg -- but a matching sweatband/choker? For reals? And a knit cap? And a pink belt? And sneakers? The poor kid basically looks like she came straight from her job at Hot Topic. In 1996.  Which is fine. If you work at Hot Topic. In 1996.

Janice Dickinson would NOT approve. In fact, I kind of suspect she might slap poor Michelle's face and then rip the knit cap right off her head, the better to set it on fire.

Posted by Jessica at 11:40 AM | Permalink

America's Next Fug Model

In the cycle of America's Next Top Model prior to the current one, there was a contestant who had troubles,  we soon learned, looking her best. It was hard to hate her because she was just such a mess. She was awkward, she was gawky, she had a really unfortunate period where it was rumored that she had the skin-eating bacteria devouring her face. 

Her name is Michelle:

[Picture courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

And she's wearing a gold sequined bandeau top. Under a vest. With a girly lederhosen-inspired belt.

At least she kicked the the skin-eating bacteria.

Posted by Jessica at 07:22 AM | Permalink

November 28, 2005

CMA Fug Carpet: Lee Ann Womack

"Look, guys. I've about had it. All I came here to do was smile and talk about how proud I am to be at the Country Music Awards, and how I love singing, and country, and music, in addition to singing country music, and all you keep asking is whether I miss being on Baywatch and how Tommy is doing and whether Kid Rock has any free kegs he needs to get rid of, and one of you keeps asking if my last name is spelled with a silent DD, and I don't know WHY that is so damn funny -- STOP IT. You, in the back, stop asking if I'm from Manila and that's why I've made my skin the same color as the envelopes. I don't know when you people turned from paparazzi into comedians, but it's really, really not working for me and if you don't cut it out right now I am going to call ALL of your mothers."

Posted by Heather at 03:08 PM in Misc. Awards Shows | Permalink

David Fuggelhoff

I fear that something terrible has befallen America's Germany's Sweetheart.

I know, I know, even heroes have to age. But those aren't just the hollow cheeks of the chronologically damned; no, there's something around the eyes. Something tweaked. Something... Redford.

I curse the eye job that turned him from "Craggy But Still Hot" to "Craggy With Eyelids That Look Propped Open By The Power of Surgery." And I have a nagging suspicion that The Hoff has wandered down this same path -- this dangerous road of premature nips and tucks that somehow manage to expose your age rather than defy it.

Not long ago, Herr Hoffbrau looked like the Mitch Buchannon we fondly remember, albeit ever so gently kissed by Father Time and a fraction less likely to trot around in orange shorts.

He could still furrow his brow back then. He was... well,  himself, and not the wax-figure version of himself that looks sort of soulless and plastic.

We miss your natural manscape, Hasselhoff. We certainly hope whatever happened is magically reversible.

Posted by Heather at 02:45 PM | Permalink

Fuguna Beach

EXT. RANDOM HOLLYWOOD STREET. NIGHT:

TALAN:

Listen, Kim, we need to talk.

KIMBERLY:

Huh?

TALAN:

I think we rushed into this engagement thing.

KIMBERLY:

For reals?

TALAN:

We've only known each other for a week. Also, I'm only nineteen. And this is your third engagement. I think maybe we aren't using very good judgement.

KIMBERLY:

Really?

TALAN:

Um. Yeah.  Also, that dress thing? Is kinda unseasonal. Especially with those boots. I'm pretty sure that what appears to be resort wear -- even an ostensibly cute psuedo-tennis dress slash cover-up like this one -- isn't meant to be paired with a heavy brown knee-high boot, especially when you're also carrying a spring bag. I really don't believe in matching ones bag to ones shoes anymore, but they need to be complementary, and these are not.  Sure, maybe some cute flats would work, but this is definitely a day dress and your attempt to transform it into evening wear frankly embarasses me as a man. Also, you really, really need a haircut.

KIMBERLY:

So, what are you saying?

TALAN:

The engagement is off.

Posted by Jessica at 11:41 AM | Permalink

 

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