Hooked On a Fug

Here at Go Fug Yourself HQ, we operate under very few rules.  But there is one rule we live, and, yes, die by. One rule that can not be broken. One rule we hold close to our hearts and cuddle and treasure like a tiny blind three-legged puppy that saved our mothers from a house fire.

And that rule is: don't hassle the Hoff.  Because once you've lived through his mind-blowingly masterful video of "Hooked on a Feeling," and, therefore, known true joy, you realize that this man?

Is pure goodness and truth. "But, Jessica," you say, "he's wearing a frock coat." SHUSH. "Um, did you not notice that the frock-coated is STRIPED SATIN?" you ask. HUSH. "It's a STRIPED SATIN FROCK COAT! A FROCK COAT!" you scream. And to that I reply, BITE YOUR TONGUE, CHILD. This man wore OVERALLS OF FUR with aplomb.  He rocked a GIRDLE UNDER SWIMMING TRUNKS. He was man enough to concede stardom to a CAR.  I say, he can take that shiny, shiny, ridiculous, Las Vegasean striped satin frock coat and wear it all over town! ALL OVER TOWN, I TELL YOU! I shall NOT hassle the Hoff! Not for you! NOT FOR ANYONE!

SAG Awards Fug Carpet: La Fanning

An open letter to the Fanning family:

Dear Fannings:

Congratulations! Nice job on the DNA -- you popped out one very talented young girl, and apparently her sister isn't awful either. You two are the Richard and Oracene Williams of child actors, although hopefully without the once-crippling sibling rivalry that would lead to speculation in 10 years that Dakota totally threw her performance in the remake of Armageddon because you both felt it was Elle's turn for Oscar recognition (which she would then choke and fall short of by failing to nail down the appropriate amount of grief during her starring turn in the remake of Pearl Harbor).

At any rate, well done. But you have got to stop dressing Dakota like one of those Madame Alexander dolls that were super popular back in the late 1970s and early 1980s. [They might well still be popular, but as dolls come in second only to clowns in unbearable creepyness, I have stopped keeping track.] I mean, look at her up there. She's a March sister on the verge of spinsterhood. I know she's eerily wise beyond her years, which will either come in handy when she's an adult and has to make her own life decisions, or come back to bite you in the ass when she marries a backup dancer with unsinkable seed and uncleansable seediness. But I do think she needs to have a bit more fun. Luckily we can't see any bloomers here, but I don't trust that they're not there. Unless she just walked off the set of a Bugsy Malone-style remake of The King And I, then that sort of garb is a wee bit old for your still-young child. She only has the eyes of a 30-year old, people. Let her look her age.

Sincerely, and also, props for keeping her from getting really messed up after her little-seen first-ever movie role in the Jerry O'Connell-Jake Busey-Shannon Elizabeth instant classic Tomcats,

The Fug Girls

SAG Awards Fug Carpet: Rachel Griffiths

Oh, Brenda.

I think I've seen this outfit before. Where was it? Where was it? It's right on the tip of my tongue. Oh, yes! On the cover of the bodice-ripping novel Love, Remember Me, wherein the beautiful English heroine is kidnapped and sold into a harem in some unnamed but beautiful and exotic Middle Eastern country, where she's forced to have threesomes with other girls in the harem and she's very against the threesome in theory, but when she does it, she sort of secretly likes it, but not as much as she likes the English lord she was engaged to before she was kidnapped, even though he's not as kinky as the guy who owns the harem. At one point in that book, she wore this outfit. And then the harem housemother made her take it off because the color washed her out. 

SAG Awards Fug Carpet: Bahar Soomekh

I can't get on board with this trend of busy cropped overlays on dress bodices. From a distance, Bahar Soomekh looks like she's had a rather unfortunately timed explosion of chest hair.

SAG Awards Fug Carpet: Reese Witherspoon

After that flap at the Globes about her ugly "vintage" dress and how Kirsten Dunst wore it first in 2003, Reese Witherspoon clearly decided to play it safe at the SAG Awards, opting for an extremely ill-fitting modified apron that nobody -- BUT NOBODY -- would have been caught dead in before. "Take THAT, y'all!" the saggy, unflattering bodice is drawling at us. To which we say, yes indeed, she certainly showed us.

I Didn't Fug Your Boyfriend

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

Ashlee Simpson Named DERELICTE Spokeswoman.

Los Angeles -- January 27, 2006.  Ashlee Simpson is officially the new face of the DERELICTE line, DERELICTE spokesman Harve Montalban announced at a press conference held today at  DERELICTE headquarters in downtown Tarzana.

"Ashlee has really impressed us with her grasp of the DERELICTE lifestyle," Montalban told reporters. "For the last several months, she has lived, slept, breathed, ate and walked DERELICTE. When we thought she could not get more DERELICTE, she proved us wrong, as you can see from the photo to my right [attached to this press release].  Ashlee IS DERELICTE."

Montalban rejected reports that DERELICTE was looking to replace its former spokeswoman, Mary Kate Olsen, because she had shown up at several events looking clean and happy. "Mary Kate decided it was time to focus on her acting," he said. "We're sure she's still DERELICTE on the inside, and we wish her the best."

Speaking through her agent, Simpson said that she was thrilled to be the face of DERELICTE. "I've been a fan of DERELICTE for a long time," she said. "Finally, someone's noticed me."

About DERELICTE.
DERELICTE Inc. is a leading international fashion line offering clothing, accessories and personal care products for men, women, children and babies under the DERELICTE brand name. Worn almost exclusively by desperate starlets and lazy rich people, DERELICTE takes its name from the word "derelict" and embraces the idea that it's cool to look homeless when you're actually a millionaire.  Fiscal 2004 sales were $204,562.39. DERELICTE Inc. operates about 7 stores in the United States, the United Kingdom, Canada, France and Japan, and is considered one of haute couture's hautest lines.  For more information, please read US Weekly.

Fugamund Pike

It's a Brit frenzy today on GFY. May I present to you Rosamund Pike, actress and latest perpetrator of what we affectionately call The Scrolldown:

Right when you think we've gone off our respective rockers, you get to her feet, and it all becomes clear. Bobbysocks and cheap wedding shoes? Wedding shoes that, from some angles, might possibly have a thong between the toes that is -- I can't believe I'm writing this sentence -- interrupting the flow of her sock? It's... man. I tend to assume that some rules just aren't going to get broken because nobody actually wants to look like the Norwegian entry in the Eurovision Song Contest in, like, 1986. But, Ms. Pike proves that's not true. That'll teach me to be complacent. Constant vigilence is required now.

Tara Palmer-Fugkinson

Tara Palmer-Tomkinson is one of those British equivalents to New York socialites: upper-crust, hungry to be a celebrity, yet tragically devoid of any talent by which she has been able to earn honest fame (one bio claims she fought allegations of her stupidity by trumpeting her number of A-levels in the paper, and then promptly became a low-grade bra model).

Ergo, Tara P-T's shtick is basically finding a way to get invited to things, playing along with OK! and Hello! and Now and Heat, perhaps dropping by a rehab clinic, getting alarmingly skinny, and wearing whatever actual working famous people are wearing so that she'll look like one of them.

Hence:

Yes: formal shorts. And tights, too. Maggie Gyllenhaal would be proud. She is one part Sporting English Lass Who Fancies Herself Heir-Bait, one part Sienna Miller, one part Fuggie and her shiny tights of doom, and about a quarter-part Olsen twin.

Fuggie, Fuggie, Fuggie...

Maggie Gyllenhaal fascinates me.

No matter what she's wearing -- gown, jumpsuit, fur-trimmed bathrobe with unnecessarily complicated belting system and dowdy tights -- she always looks from the neck up like she's just come from the gym. What exactly is she trying to achieve with that hair?

Fugvasion

It's sort of a no-brainer that this outfit is weird. Fishnets, pixie boots, the whole Santa's-On-Vacation-So-Let's-Throw-A-Cocktail-Party-Before-He-Gets-Back-And-We-Have-To-Start-Making-Toys-Again aura that the ensemble projects, the fact that Lisa Sheridan really ought to stand up straight... it's all sort of right there in your face, along with all the Invasion jokes about what manner of aliens appear to have begun inhabiting the part of her brain that manages her wardrobe.

But what really makes me sad about this photo is how pre-crazy Katie Holmes it is. Look at her -- she's got that vibe, that sort of weird awkwarness to her expression, like she's still sort of nervous about having to smile at these things; there's the shiny hair, the bangs, the unprepossessing manner, that slouch... all those things are hallmarks, to me, of what Ms. Holmes used to do when she'd go out in public. And, ergo, all those things make me sad that Katie Holmes herself isn't getting to do this stuff. She should be going out to things at TCAs and promoting her work -- real work that she got herself, and which hasn't been selectively edited -- and she should be making cringe-worthy fashion choices and buying ill-advised pixie boots while she and Michelle Williams talk about gay cowboys, instead of shopping for pumps at Barney's with Posh Spice. We should be getting to make horrible puns like, "Wow -- Dawson's Reek!" And, "Poor little Joey Potter -- they always said she had 'It,' but we didn't realize 'It' meant 'sartorial dementia.'"

As it is, we have to settle for "Kate Cruise," leech on a man-alien, incubator to the Rambaldi baby (or whatever that thing is in there), and altogether pitiable pregnant lady who just makes us all hurt a bit for how miserable she's going to be soon, if she isn't already. And while she tries to convince herself that selling her soul so she could be famous for who she's with rather than what she's done at work was actually a really stellar idea, her rightful place in the annals of Ugly But Youthful Fashion Errors is being usurped by other pretty girl-next-door brunettes like Ms. Sheridan, who are clever enough to shack up with tiny men who are at least hilarious and awesome, like her alleged fiance Ron Livingston.

So: Bad outfit, Lisa, but good on you for not going all the way toward being Katie Holmes.

Random Fug: Jemima Rooper

British actress Jemima Rooper really out did herself at a recent premiere, don't you think?

Leggings and leg warmers? Over sneakers? With a messenger bag? And what looks like a shiny spandex figure-skating skirt? Seriously, the only possible and acceptable explanation for this is that she's just come from three hours at the rink, where she's training to do her own stunts in a remake of Ice Castles, and it was a really, really rough day because today they were practicing the scene where she goes careening into a bunch of folding chairs and sits up all blind and shit, and things went horribly wrong and now she IS blind and this is the first outfit she picked out after she lost the ability to see.

Fug, Is It Me You're Looking For?

There are several things about this picture of Nicole Richie that make me sad:

[Via Oh No They Didn't]

1) Nicole,  say what you will about her alarming lack of body fat, is probably the only person in the western world who can pull off the boho thing and still look elegant, which she does 96% of the time.  But I think the lack of protein in her diet has gone to her brain, because this outfit just ain't right. And if her clothes go south, I don't know what we've got left with her.

2) Look how fly Lionel looks. For real. I can't help but think that he's looking at his little -- and I mean that in all senses of the word -- girl and saying to himself, "I am really upset about how thin she is. Also, what is that vest? Damn." So in addition to hurting our eyes, Nicole is also hurting a man who by rights should be dancing on the ceiling, all night long (all night), over how great he himself looks.

3) No, really. What is up with the string vest? God, people, if anything is a cry for help and attention, it's a string vest. Let's get this girl straightened out.

Fug to the Future

Crispin Glover and Courtney Peldon and the wedding of the year?

No snark, but merely a heads up that the Queen of GFY, Ms Courtney Peldon, does appear to be wearing an engagement ring on her left hand, and she and Crispin "McFly" Glover sure do look cozy here, don't they? Let's be honest: despite our rampant bitchery on the subject of her wardrobe, we secretly love La Peldon, and want her to be happy in all her tacky, mismatched, trashy glory. If McFly makes her happy, well...that does make some crazy kind of sense, doesn't it?

Frankly, we're a sucker for the man who told Lea Thompson that she was his density.  And when it comes right down to it, who's denser than Courtney Peldon?

We just hope we're invited to the wedding.

Fugerly Fugert

Maybe I'm going soft in my old age, but I am starting to feel bad for poor little Kimberly Stewart. I mean, look at her:

That sad little Alice band, the pathetic little rabbit-fur collar, the so-summer-2005 white motorcycle bag, the nipples, the knee-length leggings? This outfit is a louder cry for attention than even her "engagement" to Talan ever was. If she REALLY wants attention, of course, she needs to get hospitalized for exhaustion -- actually, no one would notice that, would they?  I take it back. The only way for her to get us to really notice her in a way above and beyond the level of "ew" is obviously to marry a low-level Scientologist and have his baby. Or, you know, quit partying, go to college, get a job and turn out to be ultimately well-adjusted, but that seems terribly unlikely, don't you think?

You Fug Us! You Really Fug Us!

What a delight to wake up this morning -- bleary-eyed, hair on end, and desperately, desperately needing sweet coffee, the elixir of life -- only to find that  Go Fug Yourself has been nominated for three Bloggies! We haven't been this pleased since the day we learned that Britney and K-Fed served chicken fingers at their wedding reception.

So many thanks indeed to the kind readers who put us up for nomination. And if we win, the next round of chicken fingers is on us.

Fugdance: Bai Ling

At this point, it's hard to be surprised by the wacky antics of Miss Bai Ling, don't you agree?

Although I do enjoy that she's wearing two belts. We all know she'd be SO EMBARRASSED if her skirt fell down and people could see any of her lady parts! No! Not her lady parts! She's so private and discreet, that Bai! She is SO CAREFUL to keep things covered! Two belts, see? Two!

What I really enjoy most about this picture though, is that the man over her right shoulder is paying NO ATTENTION to the attention whore in front of him. He's all like, "No, I have to go to the Gersh party tonight and make the rounds and then I have a screening of something at like ten -- NO, I COULDN'T GET INTO ANYTHING EARLIER, I ALREADY TOLD YOU THAT -- and then I'm going to try to meet up with this girl I met on the shuttle from the airport. I think her name is Jennifer. Shit! There's some moron in front of me getting her picture taken and I almost totally wiped out trying to avoid her. I don't know who she is. Whatever, dude."

And the woman over her left shoulder is, of course, Lizzie Grubman, and Lizzie Grubman's expression says it all. It says, "wow, I can't believe I'm actually seeing this. And when I, Lizzie Grubman, who ran over a bunch of people with her car sort of kind of on purpose, although not really, but maybe a little, am mildly grossed out and alarmed by the actions of a starlet, that really sort of says something, don't you think? God, I'm kind of having a good time, though, in spite of myself. Wow, is she wearing two belts? Amazing."

Milla Fugovich

Well. I wouldn't buy a newspaper from this woman, that's for sure:

I think I'd be afraid that the ink was tinged with whatever hallucinogens compelled her to a) wear the hat in the first place, and b) pair it with a figure-swallowing scarf-dress. I don't even know what to say about the fact that she's allegedly getting her own design line, except that I'd love to put Milla, this badly bastardized wrap dress of her own creation, and genre mastermind Diane von Furstenberg in a room together for two days with nothing but a pair of pinking shears, a copy of Martha Stewart Living, and one Diet Coke. Let's see who comes out alive, Milla. I don't think it will be you. And I really don't think it will be that thing.

The Prairie Home Fugpanion

Prithee, Mistress Lohan,  whither art thou tights?

Dost thou not agree that when a maiden taketh on doublet -- howsoever bare -- and breeches and disguiseth herself as a lad, in the manner of such good works by Sir William Shakespeare as As You Like It or Twelfth Night, the maiden needth likewise spare a thought to the hairlessness of her legs which will surely give away her disguise, revealing her to be a lady fair and not a brutish hairy man, and puteth on some hose? And indeed, Mistress Lohan, while thy lack of tights will surely destroy the historical accuracy of thine perplexing disguise of Shakespearean pantaloons, thou shouldst be aware as well that in this, the first month of the year, the month of the pagan lord Janus, thy lack of hose shall surely also lead thee downst the path to that most dreaded of afflictions, "hypothermia," and surely thereafter to thy most vile enemy, "exhaustion." Thou are indeed aware that when thou last fought "exhaustion," thou emergest from Ceders Sinai in a form both skeletal and creepy. I pray, Mistress Lohan, if thou insist on wrapping thyself in the robes of thine Shakespearean ancestors, prithee, give a precious thought to thine health! None of us art equipped, either in heart, brain, or humours, to deal with yet another of thy stints in the infirmary. Not again.  No, not e'er again.

Fuget Fugster

Adorable showkiller and Go Fug Yourself regular Paget Brewster strikes again:

What does it say about her fashion sense when my thought on seeing this dress-cum-beach towel is, "at least she's not carrying a fish purse?"

Golden Globes Fug Carpet: Anne Hathaway

I had to sit with this photo for a while before deciding to post it. Because, see, there are some celebrities to whom I just can't warm, at all, and Anne Hathaway is one of them. I put her in the category of people who, much like Miss Emmy Rossum, exude a certain aura of insufferability -- whether that is true to who they are or not -- that makes me instantly dislike them despite knowing almost nothing about them (except, in the case of the former, that I have yet to like her in any role, and in the case of the latter, that she was shockingly bad in Phantom of the Opera and needed to close her mouth, find an expression for her eyes, and stop sliding off key).

My point: I didn't want to fug the dress because of my arguably irrational lack of appreciation for the person wearing it. But then I realized: a) it's well-documented that neither Jessica nor I has a soul, and b) I really legimately don't like what she's wearing.

Can't a major designer (I think this one is from Marc Jacobs) do better than a one-strap, off-the-shoulder mid-calf prom gown speckled with sequins as if meant to embody a "Some Enchanted Evening" theme? I swear I saw this on the rack at Macy's. And while I have nothing against Macy's, I feel like a starlet's night out at the Golden Globes -- indeed, a starlet who is in a nominated film and who finagled herself a seat next to the director so that she could be as closely visually associated with the film's success as possible -- deserves, nay demands, something a bit better. This is nothing special, and does nothing special for her. You know how people say that TV and movie sets will have to get more lush once everything is broadcast in high-definition, because you'll be able to tell that the backdrop of New York City outside the window is actually just a bad painting on canvas? That's my analogy for this dress. It's not a real Globes-worthy gown; it's a cheap setpiece.

She also needs a new color of lipstick. I saw her lips half an hour before I could make out the rest of her face.

Fug Loeb

Pretty, classic black cashmere crewneck sweater: $300

Adorable flirty purple frock: $450

Wearing them together:  expensive separates,  ruined.

Celebrity Terror Watch: GFY Breast Police

By now, we're all aware of the unspeakable crime against mammaries that Drew Barrymore committed when she grabbed her emerald sheath off the rack and said, "Oh, to hell with it, my girls have always been able to support themselves." [Except she's kind of dippy, so it probably came out more like, "Womanhood is a bulging blossom, and those lady flowers have to grow and breathe on their own -- just like the wind, you know?"]

And, just like all of you, we watched with a wince as her breasts began a tortoise-and-the-other-tortoise race to hit the ground first. With one move, the left one would drop a notch lower than the right. Then, as she shifted position, Leftie ground to a halt and let Rightie snag the lead. By the time she had finished her spiel, an audience member allegedly muttered confusedly, "Huh. She's not very busty... but her knee caps sure look awfully swollen."

Drew -- who unlike Dr. Sunkentits does not have a name that anagrams to anything more exciting than, "Bra worry? Merde!" -- may have been the most visible shunner of undergarments, but it would be remiss to think she is the only person who disrespected her golden globes.

Consider, for instance, Heidi Klum:

Props to Heidi for her happy marriage, her cute kids, and for walking in a Victoria's Secret show not long after giving birth; however, I am disappointed that this post-pregnancy outing is of the "Incredible Sinking Breasts" variety. The collar-and-leash setup is violent enough, but the waistline of the dress coupled with how low the bodice sits makes her chest look like decrepit dunes that are slowly leaking sand. Indeed, that neck harness actually makes it look like she's trying to keep her feuding rack and nape separated so that they can just please get through the night without them starting an awkward catfight.

Along those lines: Emma Thompson, who is darling and delightful and whose shtick hasn't grown weary yet (although hereafter I am ignoring the existence of the nightmarishly named Nanny McPhee, just in case), didn't exactly flatter her assets either:

She looks like she's having fun, so I almost feel bad pointing out how pancaked her chest looks because the bodice is down around her ribcage. Those aren't breasts, they're a short stack -- and with how far down that platter they're placed, there's plenty of room for the rest of the Grand Slam breakfast.

So, chin -- and chest -- up, Drew. You're not the only one who seems confused about what to do with your friends.

Fuggie Marsh

In a break from our breakneck Globes coverage, I'd like to take a moment and talk about why we here at GFY HQ love the British. We love them for many reasons, and not just because of, you know, history, or ancestry, or, like, brilliant historical personages like Shakespeare and Colin Firth. We also love their delicious chocolate candies, many of which are not readily available here in the United States. We love their tabloids, especially Heat. We really love Footballers Wives. And of course,  we really, really love their D-List celebrities, many of whom are famous for having big boobs and being on crappy reality shows [that we would totally watch if we got them here in the States, let's not kid ourselves]. Like Jodie Marsh:

A too-long sweater as a too-short dress,  a handbag apparently made solely of the underbelly of the Queen's swans, and leg warmers. Brilliant!

Golden Globe Fug Parties: Chloe Sevigny

We didn't like Reese's dress. Melanie Griffith didn't look, or even really appear, off her rocker. Mary-Louise Parker the Monotonous Mumbler is suddenly a decorated actor. Yes, readers, it's true: These are scary, ever-changing times.

That's why it's so comforting when we see somebody who looks exactly as you want them to -- somebody for whom you have expectations, and who has risen to meet them. That somebody, at the Golden Globes, was Chloe Sevigny.

It's well-documented that we here at GFY HQ find it perplexing that so many people and publications laud Sevigny as blessed with unerring and fascinating taste. We think she's brutal. Exhibit ZZ, or thereabouts, is this dress. Aside from appearing as though she simply twirled around slowly while somebody wrapped her in purple cellophane, this outfit also harkens memories of a 13-year old girl attending her very first middle-school formal, hoping to sway side-to-side with her arms draped over the shoulders of her big crush while "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" played pseudo-romantically on the loudspeakers.

And that's exactly what we anticipated Sevigny would look like when her image popped up on our computer screens this morning. Hideous dress? Check. Hair pulled back into a severe bun? Check. Smug, chinny expression on her face? Check, check. All is right in the world.

Golden Globes Fub Carpet: Dayna Devon

Extra anchor Dayna Devon looks great, considering the fact that she had a baby like four months ago:

Sadly, the willpower that allowed her to get back into such great shape has a downside:  her powerful, long-denied desire for ice cream MUST find a way out! And thus, she turns to the harmful spectre of the  Salute To Neapolitan dress. Thank God her stylist distracted her long enough to pluck the oversized maraschino cherry hat from her head before she hit the red carpet.

Golden Globes Fug Carpet: Rosario Dawson

Do you think anyone predicted that Rosario Dawson would be the one to come out of Josie and the Pussycats with the closest thing to a real career?

Did you see Rachael Leigh Cook anywhere at the Golden Globes? Nope. Tara Reid? Ha! Parker Posey and/or Alan Cumming? Nowhere, although Cumming can be forgiven for his absence, as he's off being insane and doing insane things and then figuring out how to bottle Eau d'Insanity for his fragrance line.

And certainly, a while ago, I never would have figured that Rosario Dawson would be the more famous and upwardly mobile, career-wise, of this duo:

Jason Lewis is hot, and after playing Smith on Sex and the City, he seemed like he was going to be unstoppable. And then... he stopped. But even if he's not the more successful of the two, he is better-dressed. On the whole I don't love the all-black approach to wearing a suit, but I'll take it over Rosario's frumpy mono-sleeved sheath, which does nothing for her many assets -- one of which is her lovely, clear skin tone, which doesn't pop next to this muted peach shade, and another of which is her figure. She belongs on the lanai of her sensible South Florida split-level house, not on the red carpet. It's less Rosario Dawson than Rosario on the [awful] Will & Grace.

Celebrity Emaciation Watch: Paradis and Pompeo

We here at GFY believe in health.

Okay, fine, maybe not the peanut-butter-forsaking kind of health, or the Diet Coke-kicking kind of health, or even the vegetable-eating kind of health. Primarily, it is the non-skeletal brand of health we choose to support, and so as usual, we've spotted some people who deserve to be monitored as they waste away into Richiedom.

First up: Mrs. Johnny Depp, a.k.a. French singer/actress Vanessa Paradis.

I can sort of understand wanting to disappear when your hot husband resolutely refuses to appear in public looking sane. This is an improvement for him, generally speaking, but that doesn't mean he looks any less like a lounge lizard who's getting all warmed up for "Lady of Spain" with the accordion accompaniment before he brings down the house, and hopefully the pants of that slinky dollface down the bar, with a moving and monologue-riddled rendition of "My Way."

However, Vanessa is a lovely lady and seems to make Johnny Depp very happy. And she has children who need her, which is why it's especially alarming to see her up there looking so... well, narrow. Now, I know they have food in France. The country is brimming with rich sauces, meats, cheeses, and crusty loaves of bread, not to mention vats and vats of wine. I know that's supposed to be some sort of heart-seizing fad diet -- "Eat all fat all the time, and look like the French women who are all skinny!" -- but something tells me she has not recently known the pleasure of shoveling baked Brie into her face. Do it for the children, V. Do it so that we can bump you off of High Alert.

Next up is a lady who has actually come to be the definition of High Alert on our terror chart*: Ellen Pompeo.

She's even less wide than Vanessa Paradis. She's wearing a hideous nightie that covers her arms, but not her telltale collarbone and neck cords. [The wind is also doing her curls a favor here -- when the air was still, her hair looked awkwardly permed and stringy on the ends, and not in that "I've just been windblown" kind of way -- rather, in a "Please, for the love of God, eat some nutrients" kind of way.] The whole ensemble manages to be unflattering and bland, while cementing her appearance on this page along with sentence likes, "Meatballs are your friend!" and "Embrace lard!"

One final note: She is even sort of starting to look like Renee Zellweger, she of the dieting-and-running addiction and the squinty non-eyes who too often purses her lips when she smiles, probably because she is thinking so hard about whether the indulgent bran flake she allowed herself the other day has altered the fit of her gown. Renee doesn't own a category on the Terror Watch chart yet because, well, we're sort of over her, to be honest, and she at least has muscle mass, and gets gossip-interest points for marrying a gay alien. Ellen Pompeo just looks like she's trying to be as long and drawn as she possibly can -- a slip of a woman in a slip of a dress.

* Appendix: EMACIATION WATCH TERROR LEVEL CHART

SEVERE: Nicole Richie [Draw a stick figure. Then try and draw it again, half as wide. Instant Nicole.]

HIGH: Ellen Pompeo [McDreamy is the closest thing to McDonald's that's touched her lips]

ELEVATED: Ashlee Simpson [By our math, "Exhaustion" + preemptive stories about how she's not anorexic any more + hozpitalization + beginnings of a slimdown = headed for doctor-supervised loss of 20 lbs., of which we do not approve.]

GUARDED: Lindsay Lohan [Has backslid off her initial dramatic loss but we don't trust her yet]

LOW: Tyra Banks [Not sure if you've heard, but apparently, she likes her ribs. Go get 'em, Miss Tyra.]

Golden Globe Fug Carpet: Hilary Swank

"Hi guys. So. Yeah.  This is the first time I've gotten out of bed since Chad and I broke up.

I could barely work up the energy to put on my black, unadorned Don't Talk To Me dress. I definitely couldn't stand sitting there for like nine hours while someone did my hair for some stupid event that I have to go to by myself, so I just blew it out and crawled into the back of the limo and tried to nap on the way over.

Man.

I'm just so sad, you guys. I don't have any energy at all. I can barely even stand here. I just want to go into the ladies room and cry. I mean, obviously. If I had any energy I would have punched that Shaun Robinson right in the mouth after she asked me how I was DEALING with my DIVORCE. HOW DO YOU THINK I'M DEALING, SHAUN? HOW DO I LOOK? DO I LOOK HAPPY TO YOU? BECAUSE I'M TOTALLY DISTRAUGHT. And while we're talking about you and your SOCIAL INTERACTION PROBLEMS, I can't BELIEVE you TOUCHED Gwyneth Paltrow's BELLY. She doesn't even KNOW YOU.  WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM? I really did consider punching you. I KNOW HOW TO DO IT.

Man. Now I'm tired again. God.  I wish I were home on the sofa. In sweats. Watching Bridget Jones's Diary. And crying.  Hey, maybe I should go find Renee Zellweger. She just broke up with that little singer man. Maybe we can go can go get cheeseburgers after the show, like Chad and I used to. [long sigh]."

Golden Globe Fug Parties: Anne Heche

Oh my God,  you guys. Celestia is back:

This outfit is about one ginormous pastel satin bow away from jumping in the Jeep and heading up to Fresno to wait for the space ship to take it to heaven.

I'm sorry, Anne. I know we all decided to forget about your break with reality, but you've got to do your part.

Golden Globes Fug Carpet: Reese & Ryan

People often ask us, "Hey, fug bitches, name someone you think dresses well!" And after we try and close off the hate valves that are so often jammed open in our little tar-ugly hearts, the answer we spit out usually involves the words "Reese" and "Witherspoon."

Alas:

She's a very pretty girl, if pointy is your thing (personally, I add her to my list of women -- Heidi Klum and Catherine Zeta-Jones among them -- who should be pregnant all the time), and she is one of the few women last night who wore lipstick that wasn't a) nude, or b) the exact color translation of the itching and burning sensations experienced by the streetwalker who last wore that shade.

However, I really, really don't care for the dress. It looks worse than homemade, like a cheap old-school slip she tried to convert into a wearable garment. Whatever that swatch of silver material is, it certainly shouldn't be hitting her mid-breast, and the sequins she bought at Michael's -- and let little Ava sew onto her dress as practice for the Girl Scouts of America merit badges she will inevitably win in a few years -- were a horrific idea.

As for the accessory on her arm, it needs to stop veering between "pretentious, sneering, miserable asshat" and "hyperactive wife-pawing 'family man'." Perhaps a shower would be a nice place to try and start his stabilization.

Golden Globes Fug Parties: Kristen Bell

Stumpy is the watchword:

For real, Bell.  You're as cute as a sassy little pixie, but when you're five foot nothing , it does you no good to bury yourself in smog-colored gauze, kinda maybe belt it, throw on a lairet and call it a day. You're all lost under all that stuff.

Or wait. Maybe you're undercover. Maybe someone at the Globes killed your stylist and you're in disguise and on the case. That explains a lot.

Golden Globes Fug Parties: Melissa George

Scenes from an IM conversation at GFY HQ:

Jessica: MELISSA GEORGE IS WEARING WHITE SATIN FORMAL SHORTS.

Heather: Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

Really, what else is there to say? I guess I could note that it looks like she did her hair with an immersion blender.  Or that this sort of Lolita-look is kind of tiresome coming from a grown-ass woman in the twenty-first century. But I think I'll just stick with "ewwwwwwwwwwwwww."

Golden Globes Fug Carpet: Alanis Morissette

I don't know what the deal is Alanis Morissette.

Are she and Dreamy Ryan Reynolds into kinky role playing sex games? Because the last time we saw her, she looked, as Heather put it, "like Demi Moore circa 1987, if she'd been cast as Billie Jean King in a CBS Miniseries Event." Now, she's more like the oldest daughter in Eight is Enough, starring in a community theatre production of The Sound of Music, and this is her costume for the scene in which Captain Von Trapp throws the ball, and she's only supposed to be watching the children until they sing their little song and scamper up the stairs, and then the Baroness talks him into letting her stay for dinner -- mostly, of course, to vaguely humilate her and her convent-learned manners -- and she claims she has nothing to wear, and indeed puts on a this homespun looking little frock which pales next to the Baroness's shiny gold outfit, and of course, it doesn't matter, because Maria's spunky goodness is more than enough for the Captain to decide that there isn't going to be any Baroness, but in this instance, I think this is a little too All Natural Fibers Woven By Blind Carmelites, topped off with a haphazard salute to toplessness.

Fug Up Your Life

Oh, Posh Spice.  There are so many things I love about you! I love that you said you'd never read a book, even though you ostensibly wrote one. I love how you were arguably the worst singer in the Spice Girls, which was just packed full of girls who couldn't sing.  I love your marriage to that adorable high-talker, David Beckham, and I wish the two of you would do a reality show, even though if you did, I don't know if I could bear to watch it due to the aforementioned high-talking.

But do I love you enough to overlook the fact that you're going out with Geri "Ginger Spice" Halliwell wearing em-effing chaps?

I don't know. I think I kind of do. There are few people in the world who can get away with wearing actual chaps -- cowboys being primary among them -- but just look at you. You're fierce, even in full-on, ridiculous, leather chaps. CHAPS.  I don't know who you're looking at, but I'm pretty sure the evening is going to end with you having washed down his brains with a nice glass of champers. So, chaps on, Posh. Chaps on. I'm too scared to say anything about them.

Globes Fever: Classic Fug

Aw. She looks so happy. I don't have the heart to tell her that, although the punch IS spiked, the Golden Globes aren't the same thing as prom night at the honky-tonk bar.

The Braless Fug

There is something totally delightful about the fact that Brenda Strong -- who, Desperate Housewives be damned, will always be Sue Ellen Mischke the Braless Wonder from Seinfeld to me -- is out and about in what looks like a long-line bra. 

Maybe this is the beginning of a trend! Maybe Teri Hatcher will start wearing a tee shirt that reads, "They're real and they're SPECTACULAR!"  What the hell, maybe even Julia Louis Dreyfus should start go around town wearing a sandwich board reading, "GET OUT!" and shoving people enthusiastically! This is great idea! It's like taping your resume to your forehead!

Random Fug: Laura Ramsey

Do you think there's a PR school of thought that believes a starlet should wear a series of insane, unflattering, kooky outfits out of the house until Star Magazine or US Weekly take notice and feature them in a What Not To Wear section, thinking that any exposure is good exposure?

Because that explains the dress Laura Ramsey wore to the premiere of Underworld II: Who Knew Underworld I Made Enough Money To Warrant a Sequel?.

She's very pretty,  but let's be reasonable, here: her hair is a reasonable facsimile of mine when I'm scrubbing the kitchen floor, and I think my grandma wore this dress to her Assisted Living Homeowner's Association Cinco de Mayo Fiesta.

Globe Fever: Classic Fug

The day Sharon Stone stops thinking she's every man's dominatrix fantasy is the day Courtney Peldon wins a Golden Globe. Look at this woman -- she's a nutjob, and proud of it. Are those her nipples I can see through that shiny armor? Are those hot pants she's wearing under those strips of filmy fabric?

You know what? It doesn't matter. They are what she says they are, because she makes the rules, you weak little maggot, so get down on your knees and beg mommy for a cookie before she rips out a hunk of your hair and spanks you with a slice of Honeybaked Ham.

Nicole Fugman

Okay, Kidman, I appreciate what you're doing with the lipstick, since you have so fervently favored the wan, washed-out, death's-door look lately. Adding some color to the brows? Better, I think. It's But... why so prim? You're dressed as if you are poised to give the palm of my hand twenty lashings with a ruler. I almost detect a trace of an attempt to smile, which might help a little, but you're so paralyzed by Botox or just generally kind of Zenned or zoned out that it doesn't appear to be working. Perhaps you're just hungry?

But my biggest concern is with your hair. We need to discuss this. Whither the red, Nicole? You had such lovely red hair. You made redheads prouder to be red. And then you went on, like, a three-year bleached-blonde bender and are staunchly not coming down from it. Why not? Look how hot you were:

Look how it gives a rosier hue to your fair skin, as opposed to making you look sallow. You've walked back a bit from the complete ice-blond effect, but not enough. See again the above photo and how healthy your hair looks, and how healthy you look -- and it's so nice to see it around your face, hanging softly, instead of yanked back tightly enough to give you a face-lift without the knife and surgeon's fees. You even had more fun with fashion back then, for the most part.

What happened? Did Lars Von Trier break you during Dogville? Or was it dating Lenny Kravitz? Or Steve Bing? Please don't tell me that it was divorcing Crazy Tom Cruise that made you go blonde and slightly emaciated and quite often humorless. Because that's going to make me wish you were still together -- and although that would have spared us the disaster known as TomKat, I really, really don't want to be nostalgic for the days that anybody was with Crazy Tom Cruise. That's just not right. Don't make me go there, Nicole. Don't do it.

You know, I think Keith Urban is a little creepy and sexually ambiguous, but he is an absolute beacon of normalcy compared to those dudes. So use that. Wash the weirdos right out of your hair, along with the peroxide, and go back to the hue that makes you look flush with life rather than like the walking dead.

[If embracing the comparative sanity of Urban doesn't work, then I implore her sister Antonia to strap her down Clockwork Orange-style on the couch and force her to watch Moulin Rouge, because she looked fantastic in that entire movie and maybe, just maybe, it will entice her to rejoin the world of flattering dye jobs. Get on it, Antonia.]

Project Fugway

Nicky Hilton's appearance on last week's episode of the delicious and delightful Project Runway proved that she was way less annoying than I thought she was, and also that she's kind of low energy, which I guess isn't that surprising since sharing a family with Paris Hilton would probably make a girl retreat deeply into herself, to a place of great silence and psychic pain.

This outfit, though, causes me psychic pain:

Leggings. Are never. Okay. But especially not when your shirt is short enough to show the whole world your girl-package.  There is such a thing as too much sharply-defined crotch.

In her defense, however, Hilton The Lesser does look as though it just occured to her that she forgot to put on some other pants.

The Whole Fug Yards

The Amanda Peet waistwatch continues.

Is she pregnant? Again, hard to tell, but she is certainly favoring clothes that make her look pear-shaped. I mean, there's a whole pear tree under there.

Of course, she's also favoring clothes that make her look like she walked out of Express in 1991 -- except even then, we knew not to wear thick black tights and loafers -- so maybe she's not pregnant, and simply stuck in a scary wayback-machine style rut.

People's Choice Awards Fug Carpet: Kirsten Vangsness

Criminal Minds actress Kirsten Vangsness made a criminal fashion mistake yesterday (see what I did there?).

This look is Deadwood by way of the Ice Capades as designed by Courtney Love.  (Which would be a killer -- if adults-only -- show, with dirty language and heads in boxes and primative medical techniques  all topped off with a Biellmann spin.)

The dress is a stylistic mess, of course, but the real issue is that it's far too short. There's no way Vangsness can even sit down in it, which seems like it would be a real problem when you're heading to an awards show where you're going to have to sit down for six hours while people you vaguely know cry and thank their agents. Or, since this is the People's Choice Awards, where people you vaguely know look bored and thank their publicists before wandering off to see how long they're supposed to stay before they can leave and go somewhere more interesting.

It's a shame, really -- she's cute, and she looks so happy to be there that I feel bad pointing out that it looks like she fell head first into Hot Topic's Stars On Ice display.  On the other hand,  maybe she's just happy she didn't flash the photogs when she was getting out of the car.

People's Choice Awards Fug Carpet: Jennifer Landon

Oh, honey, it's actually written in The Code -- right underneath "Don't date your friend's ex" and "Don't whine about football" -- that you never take a convertible to an awards show; there's even an addendum that says, "Especially if you could fit four of Tyra Banks' foreheads onto yours." I bet you even her father, Michael Landon o' the Feathered Tresses, knew and lived by that. Somebody please take this girl's hand and teach her the ways of the woman.

Fugamerica

I really like Felicity Huffman.

Sure, I hate her character on Desperate Housewives, and indeed think that entire show is pretty bad (we need a Dynasty, and you, DH, are no Dynasty), but I think she's an excellent actress and by all accounts a great person behind the scenes too -- and of course I admit I am a bit enamored of her and William H. Macy and want those crazy kids to make it.

However:

I mean... I think she's got a slammin' body, and I don't understand why she has said in print that she finds herself unattractive, because I think she's great looking. But I find it very hard for most women to wear a dress with strange lines like that, because they cut you off in seven competing ways, and end up doing nothing but offering up your stomach to the public. The stress is draped weirdly and cut weirdly and she looks flat as a board... great color, but the rest is falling short of doing her any favors.

The larger problem is that she's looking a little more Transamerica in this photo than I'm guessing she'd like. The effect of the hair and the makeup and the old-time screen-siren nightie is all a bit old, and kind of draggy in a way that even a drag queen would look in the mirror and think about retiring. I wonder if she's Swanking herself a little -- trying to wear really slinky things after doing an on-screen gender-bend. But what she really should do is stop going to the gym, put the mayo back on her bread, and enjoy this time.

Globe Fever: Classic Fug

It's true that including Bjork on a Web site devoted to fugly fashion is a bit like including Michael Jackson in a game of Death Is Not An Option -- which is to say, unfair, because in the case of the latter, MJ will always lose, because nobody on Earth would actually want to sleep with him [and indeed if posed with something like, "Michael Jackson or John Madden?" would find a way, any way, to make death a very viable option].

My point is, when it comes to all things fugly, Bjork is an island -- The Island of Misfit Clothes. But it's such a fun island sometimes (I hear the hallucinogens are top-notch) that it's impossible to avoid visiting it completely.

This ensemble is from the 2001 Golden Globes. The red and pink shoes are a little frightening, and that bejewelled owl purse might give me nightmares, and the shawl looks more like somebody in the retouching department made a small error with the square brush tool. But what really puts this ensemble in the Bjork Hall of Fug is the glittering homage to Michael Jackson on her skirt. That little detail, that mysterious shrine to a plastic man (assuming that's who it is -- looks like Thriller-era MJ), pushes her beyond the woman on the left who is dressed in aluminum foil. What sort of statement is she making, exactly? What motivates a woman to decide that a wearable portrait of a half-man, half-alien pop star is the perfect complement to an award nomination? Does she find her outfit thrilling? Does she think awards shows are bad, bad, really really bad? Is it some sort of homing beacon for the mothership to pick up Bjork when the ceremony is over?

Whatever it is, one thing is certain: It's time for her to act again. We need her back on the nation's red carpets.

Laura Fugging

I do believe Laura Harring has hit upon the most oxymoronic of fashion styles with this offering: prim-slutty.

The cut of the sleeves, the aggressive neck, the empire waist and ensuing sheath, and even the ring on her finger...  all those things are very Royal Family Charity Gala; the heaving bosom and sheerness make it lean toward Royal Family Wedding Night. The net effect is a dress that is as icky as I imagine most of those wedding nighs have been, at least until Wills or Harry hitches up to somebody; indeed, I can imagine Camilla Parker-Bowles slinking out of the bathroom in exactly this, swinging Chuck's polo mallet in her hand while cooing, "Time for a knock-in, Your Highness."

So you see, being associated fashion-wise with many royal clans is not a terribly flattering thing. Ergo, while I'm pleased for Laura Harring that she is proud of her chest, and rightly, I do think perhaps this cocktail-dress-negligee was a ridiculous way to show it off.

Ashley Fugger Angel

Remember that spiky-haired blond kid from O-Town? You know, the boy band from the Lou Pearlman reality show Making The Band? ... No, not the one with P. Diddy -- the ORIGINAL one, with the cryin' Hawaiian and big-lipped Erik and whiny brat Jacob... ringing any bells?

Okay. Well, you might have been blinking at the time, which would explain how it escaped you. But there was a show, and a boy band was made, and it was not good and our ears bled, so shortly thereafter it died. But for a while there, the cherubic heartthrob lead Ashley Parker Angel -- he of the dreamy eyes and shrill hometown honey-- was the sensitive soul of the show, and everyone had to admit that he was kind of cute and that footage of him in the shower was a welcome respite from footage of them all actually singing.

So imagine my sadness when I saw that "Ashley Angel," recently on TRL for reasons I am too lazy to look up (although a raft of emails now informs me that he has an MTV reality show documenting his "comeback" from the gaping Satanic vortex that was O-Town), was:

a) wearing a shirt (can't win 'em all, I guess);

b) has adopted the Official Rained-On Quasi-Mullet Hairdo of Pensive, Gentle Rocker Boys Who Want To Be Taken Very, Very Seriously, Despite The Fact That They Write Pop-Radio Songs, Although They Would Prefer It If You Called Them Emo-Rock Ballads Because "Pop" Isn't Badass:

You know what I thought when I first saw this photo? I thought, "Eek, that looks like Wayne from The Wonder Years but with a professional blowout."

Don't be greasy, Ashley maybe-Parker Angel. It's not going to make anyone respect you more. You were in O-Town. And you are not Justin Timberlake, so the odds of you coming out of boy-band hell and turning into a well-regarded singer-songwriter are about as favorable as the odds of Lance Bass winning an Oscar.

He is still cute, though. But no -- I have to stay strong. I have to stand up against Overlong Sensitive Rocker Hair. Fight it. FIGHT IT.

Fug Country

Proving that anything can happen, here we have an uncharacteristic misstep from the usually beautifully-dressed, and always generally beautiful Charlize Theron:

Unless she's pregnant, which, judging from photos of her just two days ago, she isn't, or en route to a toga party, the shape of this gown is a huge mistake.  It's simply not flattering, although I will give her that it looks comfortable.  But so is my bathrobe, and I certainly don't wear that out in public. You know, usually.

And in addition to the fact that the cut is an Homage To Potato Sack Races, the color is pretty disasterous. I always say, if you're going to wear a toga, at least go Roman in a jazzy hue.  But poor Charlize decided to get all Salute to Cement up in that dress's grill, and who can sign off on that?

Twenty-Fug

She's been kidnapped, chased by a mountain lion, held in a basement by a psychotic Dillon brother, been arrested, been a nanny, survived flaming car wreckage, had a dead body in the trunk of a car she stole, been a hostage in a robbery gone wrong, and been elevated to a terrifyingly intimidating desk job at CTU for which she was roundly, thoroughly unqualified.

And now, Elisha Cuthbert of 24 is facing the biggest threat to her yet: taffeta.

See how it chokes her! See how it massacres her figure into a wrinkled, misshapen hunk! See how it aggressively washes her out! See how she pairs it with deadly white pumps -- a la the ones I snuck from my sister's closet 1988 and wore with my Laura Ashley dress, stuffing Kleenex in the toe so they would fit -- and a seafoam-green bag that matches the Jell-o salad my mom used to make at Christmas!

And we thought things couldn't get worse.

Random Fug: Ashley Tisdale

One of the faux-Peldon sisters is at it again:

Oh, toxic little Tisdale starlet, were you even cognizant during the '80s? For half of it you were but a gleam in the milkman's eye; only come 1985 were you even out of utero, and still you were bawling, bald, and blissfully ignorant of your surroundings. From there on up to 1990 you were pretty much stuck on learning to walk, talk, read, and use the bathroom. So maybe you don't know any better.

That's why we're here. Let us help you. Okay: Remember when you get together with your friends and rented Can't Buy Me Love, just to try and wrap your brains around how that hottie Patrick Dempsey could possibly be so old that he's been famous your entire life, and you get tripped up by those crazy "costumes"? And you watched Better Off Dead because you really liked John Cusack in Serendipity and that dog movie with Diane Lane, and yeah, you laughed, but mostly you spent the whole movie trying to figure out what the French girl was wearing because you know it's not terribly flattering and that she needs a new haircut? And remember the month you had mono and you got sucked into Full House reruns on TBS, and learned that the Olsen Twins really have been acting since they were embryos -- and, seriously, could somebody please tell that Kimmy kid that she's way too skinny for those leggings?

That is you in this photo. All of that is you.

Except for the hair -- that is pure Hilary Duff. And although she is Of Today, it really doesn't make that outfit au courant.

Fug Humps

So, there are some men in my life who have admitted to me -- shamefaced -- that they think Fergie is kinda hot. But even they DON'T KNOW WHY.

I certainly can't explain it:

Here, she's about to say, "Why, yes, I DID think it would be a good idea to pair a shiny, capri-panted tracksuit with a pair of boots I stole from the wardrobe department of Battlestar Galactica. Now, who wants to talk about bladder control?"

The Fug Home Companion

Lindsay Morgan Lohan! What are you wearing?

The pants are too long, yes, but those are the least of my concerns.  What is going on with that jumper thingie? It's so, "Hello, my name is Lindsay, welcome to Acapulco! I'll be your waitress tonight! Our drink specials are the Mega Mango Margarita and two tequila shooters for two dollars! Can I interest you ladies in some mini chimichanga appetizers?"

What I'm saying is, professionally speaking, unless you actively want to try out the age-old stereotype of waiting tables while waiting on your next acting gig, maybe you should eighty-six the apron.

Well Played: Michael Madsen

The last time we saw Michael Madsen, he wasn't looking so good.  But I daresay he's actually cleaned up nice for the premiere of the atrociously-named Bloodrayne:

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Well cut suit, nice blue shirt, no oversized shiny weirdly-patterned shirt, and the greasy Nolte-hair is under control. Well played, Madsen, well played. According to  good old IMDb, he's got a ton of stuff coming out this year and next, so maybe he got back in tip-top for work. But whatever or whomever prompted his transformation away from the Greasy Failed Card Shark look, we salute you.

Monica Fugna

Monica Keena bought this for her Skating With Celebrities audition, but that didn't pan out, so she repurposed it. And, sure, her chest looks very perky-if-pancaked, but the rest is just so very Laura Ingalls Wilder in Little Salchow On The Prairie.

Fugways

Virginia Madsen made the rounds last awards season looking lovely and well-turned-out almost all the time.

But here, she just looks... bumpkinesque.

That tiny black sweater cuts her off in all the wrong places, in addition to giving her the dreaded White Rack Effect. But what puts it over the edge for me is the unevenly, unattractively, and unrestrainedly cuffed pants.

The trend of rolling one's jeans up that far never made any sense to me. It sets her back twenty years, but worse, because pulling the cuffs up six inches is like pegging gone wild. In combination with the boots, which the jeans now skim just a notch too high, the whole thing feels very much like she went into seclusion up in deepest, darkest Montana, and came out forgetting which decade it is. Now, if I'd had to see Sideways as many times as she ostensibly has, I'd run away and close out the world as well. But I like to think I'd come back having a) remembered how pants should look, and b) learned how to hem them myself so that the whole "too lazy to go to Denim Doctors" problem is eradicated.

Laguna Beach: The Real Fug.C

Talan, Talan, Talan, Talan, Talan. You really do seem like a nice kid. And I am very glad you realized that marrying Kimberly Stewart after knowing her for two weeks was probably not the smartest decision you ever made in your young life.

Unfortunately, neither was this jacket:

I get where you're going with it, I do. But it's a little...Allegedly Sexually Threatening European Tennis Pro In An 80s Teen Movie, don't you think? I feel like it calls for some very short, tight white shorts, copiuous chest hair, and a mustache. None of which you have. And thank God, really.  And since you don't appear to be planning on getting a job at the club in order to leer at nubile yet surprisingly-flabby-in-retrospect teens sporting crimped hair, terry cloth headbands and high-waisted pants, let's leave this jacket out of the equation, too, shall we?

Fuglivia Williams

This looks less like an actual viable shirt and more like homemade lingerie -- like she read some sort of Good Housekeeping-type "Ten Ways To Look Sexy On A Budget" article that said if you wrap yourself in sheer fabric and affix it there by strapping on anything from the J.C. Penney's bra department, you get a quick and easy camisole. Sadly, that advice didn't take into account the need to tailor the thing, or perhaps iron it, or most importantly of all, make it cute.

Fug OC

You know, I should have known. We go on a little vacay, and everyone gets lazy. Mischa Barton, for example, decided to just start going out in her Garanimals:

Honestly, this would have been cute if she'd taken the five minutes required to swap the leggings for jeans. As it is, she looks like she just threw on the boots she'd left by her front door and tossed on a jacket to race from her cozy living room and down the driveway to grab the paper before racing back inside the house for coffee and scones, with her head down in the hopes that if she doesn't make eye contact with any of her neighbors, it'll be like she hasn't just been spotted in her front yard in her jammies.  We've all done that.

Except she's doing it in broad daylight, in public, and Cisco officially looks more put together than she does.  All I know is, it must be cold in hell right now.

Fuggy Monaco

Poor Kelly Monaco. Now that everyone's forgotten who won that whole Dancing With The Quasi-Stars thing, nobody is around to worry that she has been -- like so many unfortunate red-carpet walkers before her -- mauled by something:

Whatever it was got a good mouthful of her blazer before settling on just ripping off her feet.

Or, maybe this is just the work of a really overenthusiastic bikini waxer, who capped off her evidently top-notch work by mistaking that coat for a raggedy piece of waxing cloth, and giving it a righteous yank.