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December 13, 2005

Electric Fug II

I think Debbieborah Gibson is moonlighting as a showgirl named Spangles.

Yesterday was Spangles' nighttime outfit -- the garb of a woman who, say, does her routines to  "Eternal Flame" because it ends in a showstopping move wherein her loins actually do catch fire. Yet I prefer Spangles the Bikini-Zone Arsonist to Spangles The White-Out Sniffer:

How extreme are your hallucinations if you can wear this without getting a migraine?

This is Spangles' daytime look, which she wears because she thinks it gives her soccer-mom respectability for when she drops the kids off at school, although all the other mothers totally know what her nighttime gig is and although they hide it, they hate her for thinking she can blend in by wearing a loudly printed caftan-like dress just because there is only a TINY and RESPECTABLE bit of fringe hanging from the bottom of it. The half-hearted sequins are an especially festive touch, almost like she started trying to spice up the dress but got bored midway through.

She's turned into a dress what a sexagenarian would wear as a shirt. Blanche Devereaux, for instance, would have (and probably did, once) paired this with billowing silver slacks, which -- while enjoying her dating exploits with "eligible men" sporting questionable mustaches -- would have made us wonder privately, as always, whether we are all doomed to this style of dress once we hit our sixties. Which is to say, this thing is ugly at any age, but Debbieborah and her alter ego are way too young to try and sneak a half-caftan -- a halftan? -- past us.

Posted by Heather at 11:01 AM | Permalink

Fug Kong

Naomi Watts, though talented and lovely, is not doing much to change my initial thought that she is basically Nicole Kidman II: Pale, Shy Aussie Boogaloo.

Observe -- Nicole Kidman at the Bewitched premiere, and Naomi Watts at the premiere of King Kong:

Watts looks better. The uber-blond hair and fair skin do not look as freaky and alien on her as they do on Kidman, and do at least I get more what she was going for with this choice -- the movie is the third iteration of this story, so a vintage-looking gown seems appropriate for the kind of wispy starlet who would get spirited away by a handsy ape.

But their basic similarities -- the floaty white dress that looks more like a nightgown than an actual outfit, the updo, the curls, the general shapelessness, current/former boyfriend with rhyming names (Keith/Heath) -- are a little eerie. And I'll be honest, as much as she wins the photographic showdown with the increasingly icky Kidman, I don't think that old costume-shop thing flatters Watts at all. It reminds me less of a romantic old dress than Princess Leia about to get dumped head-first into the Death Star trash compactor.

Posted by Heather at 09:30 AM | Permalink

December 12, 2005

Random Fug

I realize that the technical definition of a dress basically boils down to, "an outer garment," but...

... don't you think people are going a little crazy with the bare-bones interpretation of that? I'm not even sure this IS an "outer garment," in that I question her wearing it out 'er house. [Zing!] I know the dictionary doesn't explicitly say a dress should have more opacity than transparence, but I don't personally take that as an invitation to wear an "outer garment" that's little more than some sort of bizarre homage to bondage. And perhaps that is my personal mistake, but changing that will take much more than an outfit that looks like the seamstress didn't buy enough fabric and had to ration it as she sewed.

Posted by Heather at 07:07 PM in Random Fug | Permalink

Electric Fug

Oh, Debbie Gibson.

What the hell are you doing? Why are you so shiny? Why doesn't anything fit? What's with the bangles and the spangles and the beads? Is it because you suspect you might, at some point in the evening, get the urge to Shake Your Love, and, if so, you'd like Your Love to be sparkly? Because if that is your thought process, you are marching to a Foolish Beat INDEED.

Posted by Jessica at 12:39 PM | Permalink

The Fugly Mr. Ripley

Dear Jude and Sienna,

We don't care anymore.

Love, The World

PS: Jude, if any of us could be bothered -- which, as I mentioned, we can't be -- we'd probably mention that you have got to stop it with the skinny dingy scarfs layered over low-necked undershirts. You do this all the time, and it makes you look like a grimy prevert.

PPS: Sienna, if I wasn't totally bored of you and your stupid outfits and your on-again/off-again relationship with old Scrawny McMuffler, I might mention that your coat is totally cute. But see the body of my letter.

Posted by Jessica at 08:30 AM | Permalink

December 09, 2005


And what are YOU so proud of yourself for, Nick Cannon?

You look like a Black Eyed Pea, Andre Agassi from the 1990s, and an original print of The Legend of Bagger Vance all mixed up in a blender and served on ice at a country-club cafe.

Posted by Heather at 03:24 PM in Misc. Awards Shows | Permalink

Fug Point

It baffles me still that so many people in this town do not understand what to do with their breasts.

A chest of any size is a lovely thing to have. But it can't just do all the work by itself, unless you are blessed with anti-gravity mammary glands; no, generally speaking, breasts need to be propped up a little in order to be displayed to their best advantage. They should probably not, a la Dunst/Gyllenhaal, be allowed to drip so freely and flatly that, when you can't find your ironing board, you simply instruct one of them to lie on her back so you can use her torso for that purpose. Breasts deserve better; they deserve a little bounce.

But, the deployment of breast support can be taken to an extreme, as displayed in the following painful photograph of Scarlett Johanssen:


Those are pinched, propped, and pushed to within an inch of their lives (and, it seems, within an inch of her chin). That is not sexy, provocative cleavage; that is what happens when a stray ostrich wanders over and gives birth to twins in your bodice. Now, it's possible she only did this so she could carry around some appetizers and a drink without having to fill up her hands with cumbersome receptacles, but even being your own end table isn't worth trotting around all night looking like the victim of some unfortunate breasticular mutation. In this photo, she is Anna Nicole Smith's younger sister.

I fear Scarlett is lashing out at herself. In September, she abused herself by wearing Mom Jeans supplied to her by Imitation of Christ's imitation of design talent, Tara Subkoff; she was also once caught in a Sienna Miller-esque leggings fiasco that can only have been interpreted as a cry for help. And now this? Scarlett, why do you hate yourself? You have nice skin. Pretty coloring. And some people seem to want to watch you act. So why are you lashing out at your figure? Are you passive-aggressively blaming them for The Island being a terrible movie? Did your boyfriend decide he only likes women who can blow lines off their own hoisted cleavage? Are you embarrassed by your strange choice of shoe and thus trying to block your downward view of them? 

Help us understand so that we can stage the right intervention.

Posted by Heather at 02:39 PM in Celebrity Terror Watch, Scarlett Johansson | Permalink

Fug Girl

Aw, that little girl who fell in love with Macauley Culkin and then cried and cried when the bees ate him is all grows up!

I'm surprised I didn't hear about the tragic accident that reduced the length of her legs by two-thirds, but I guess that's what happens when a girl decides to leave the business.

One more thing, Culkin-Lover: Although I'm not a Nazi about accessories matching exactly, a red hat + brown boots + a white bag [dear God] + black tights = sweet God, get a grip.

Posted by Jessica at 02:31 PM | Permalink

Fugstin Davis

The Family Stone premiere was like a Festival of Fug. Amanda Peet? First, this sack-cloth, next I expect to see her in ashes. Sarah Jessica Parker?  Saggy and misshapen. And now SJP's erstwhile co-star, the gorgeous-no-matter-what-she's-wearing Kristin Davis shows up looking like a World War I widow:

I have to just say that I don't care what she's wearing: her hair is to die for.  She's lovely. But....seriously, is that a hobble skirt? Did she just take off her Votes For Women suffrage ribbon? I certainly hope she doesn't get that ribbon caught in the manual crank of her horseless carriage. That would be a shame.

Posted by Jessica at 07:00 AM | Permalink

December 08, 2005

Billboard Music Awards Fug Carpet: Gwen

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you a supposed style icon:

Who would wear this anywhere? Why, Gwen Stefani, of course. I feel more and more like her benchmark is, "Would sane people consider this utterly ridiculous? Will it make people wonder why anyone pays me to design clothing? THEN I SHALL WEAR IT."

I'll give you that it's definitely brave to sport a crown of flowers over unflatteringly slicked and parted hair, all with a flimsy wrap that makes it look like she's a synchronized swimmer just out of the pool and ready for a night on the town in shoes for which her toes are too long. But is it attractive? I don't think so. For sure, the dress -- which isn't terrible on its own -- never had a chance once she went all Rose Parade on her head. It should sue for irreconcilable differences.

Perhaps she's just trying to distract people from her belly. Certainly a woman as notoriously enamored of her own abs as Gwen is would be wearing something that flaunts them -- unless they are doughy these days. Doughy like, say, a bun. An oven-bun, if you get what I'm saying, and I think you do.

Posted by Heather at 01:45 PM in Gwen Stefani, Misc. Awards Shows | Permalink


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