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February 14, 2006

Periodically, as their busy spa and Spider Club schedules allow, celebrity experts will join us to answer your questions about how to fug up your life as thoroughly as they do theirs. This week's expert has been writing a book in utero for the past eight... no, four... five? Six! Six months. It's entitled, When Is A Turkey Baster Not a Turkey Baster; in addition, the fetus is considered the leader in studies of the genetic correlation between dimple depth and hyperactivity.

Q. Dear Aunt Fugly,

I hope you can help me. Until recently, I was a freelance writer who worked from home. I also have four small children, so as you can imagine, I'm really busy and don't have a lot of time for myself. This past week, I accepted my dream job working at a magazine you've definitely heard of. My problem? I've worked in sweats and jeans for years and I don't have any kind of work wardrobe. I don't even know where to start! What kind of basics should I invest in so I can come to work and look chic and professional, without blowing my entire salary before I even earn it?


If Only Anna Wintour Condoned Yoga Pants

Dear I Bet She Would Snap To It If Prada Made Them,

I can certainly relate to feeling underdressed. Just the other day, there were about sixteen people and seven needles peeking up in here and I hadn't even showered. It's a drain, you know? All I want to do is write my thesis, and instead I'm getting poked and prodded, and then there are the emotional highs and lows, which are ALL lows -- I swear to GOD Mom's heaving sobs are going to turn me into a really motion-sick ki… OW! Stop it, I… OUCH!

I mean, everything's fine, it's all sunshine and sloppy kisses and I think all the auditing by osmosis is really starting to work. I even wrote a poem about the man who they keep making me listen to; want to hear it? Okay. It goes like this:

Old L. Ron Hubbard
Got locked in a cupboard
While he was home alone.
When he got free
Not a week later, but three,
He looked kind of pale and crazy and he was babbling about thetans and I seriously think a can of corn cracked his

AAH, motherf$#%r, that hurt. Fine. FINE. I'll be your pimp.

Yoga lady, you know why you have no clothes? Because you're miserable, you're probably hooked on pills, and you have a deficient personality. Diuretics can -- YEEEEOW -- I mean, dianetics, can help.

Christ, or I guess Hubb, do I ever need some Aleve. I bet I'm never getting any.

Dear Aunt Fugly,

So a project I did last year has gotten a ton of acclaim, to the extent that three out of the four people who worked on it got nominated for this really important award thingie that's happening next month. You guessed it: I was the one person who was left out. I feel terrible about it, but it's not like it'll do any good to complain. I feel like the best recourse for me is to show up at the award thingie looking really, really, really good. The other girl just had a baby, so you'd think it would be easy to look hotter than she does, but she's been looking annoyingly great lately. I kind of want to die, to tell you the truth, Aunt Fugly. Why didn't anyone recognize ME? I worked hard on this project! God! Okay. Yoga breaths. Anyway, I need to show up at this awards thingie looking really awesome. Do you think it would be a good idea to do it up classy, or sexify myself, like, hardcore? You know, for attention. I honestly am so turned around. I don't know which way to go with this. Please help.


If I Didn't Value My Anonymity, I'd Mention That I'm The Only One With Julie Andrews's Cell Phone Number, SO THERE.

Dear Maybe You Should Go Into Something Else, Like Real Estate -- I Bet Your Face Would Look Great On A Bench,

Gosh, so sorry to hear that, best of luck, give up now and spend the day getting charm lessons from Mary Poppins, etc., etc., best regards.

Now, let's get to what really matters here: Can you get me Michelle Williams' number? Michelle and Heath look like such a nice, happy couple. They hold hands a lot just like my parents, but it never looks like she's being dragged, you know? And her eyes are never puffy. I bet Heath is a great Dad and she's dressing really well and doesn't seem to stand for those strange snap-crotch bodysuits, and I don't care what boat trip I get to take when I hit OT Level VIII at the earliest age in history and I don't WANT to find out that I used to be an intergalactic walrus with a penchant for dating Martian bishops, and while we're here, I don't think I really WANT to be the alien heir of a religious overlord, would YOU? MICHELLE! MICHELLE, I LOVE YOUR HAIR. PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GET ME OUT OF HERE -- OWWWWW, that HURTS, don't MAKE ME come out there, Elfman, or … or I'll… I'll have to… what's that delightful music?... Gee, can't remember what I was saying, all of a sudden.

Oh! I know what it was: Lord Xenu wants you to know that your E-meter readings are in the stratosphere, and you register a -35 on the tone scale. Seek help (and bring your checkbook).

Dear Aunt Fugly,

All right, so I sort of hit a guy with my car yesterday, which, okay, look: I'm sorry, all right? Are you people happy now? Christ. So anyway, I guess I need to go to traffic court, or some stupid shit, like, dudes? I threw down with Paris Hilton over Rick f'ing Salomen, okay? I was married to him. Rick Salomon. That's hardcore. So I am not scared of traffic court. I mean, I had to look into the cavern of Tori Spelling's grody cleavage for like years, you know? I am totally not scared of some judge. And it's not like this is even the worst thing I've ever done. For three years in a row, I stole Gabrielle Carteris's lunch out of her trailer every day of the week, okay? That's like, malicious. This was just an ACCIDENT. So I really don't know why everyone is making such a big deal about it. Anyway, the thing is, I have no idea what you're supposed to wear to traffic court. My boyfriend told me to wear a body suit and a vest and hope the judge was a big Brenda Walsh fan, but I punched him in the face, so don't try to get funny on me with your answer, okay, bitch?


Yeah, You SHOULD Choose Yourself, Kelly Taylor, Because No One Else Wants You --YEAH, I SAID IT


It's like Kelly Preston always says: We are all the stars of our own little space operas, and sometimes, you just can't expect your husband to be your co-star, because he's really tired and he has a really important spirit massage scheduled with his guru Randy, who isn't licensed to purge and cleanse a woman's aura and THAT'S why he calls himself a mansseuse and that is the ONLY reason.

So, what I’m saying is, you probably shouldn't have punched your boyfriend, because there is really no way aside from The Magic of Brenda that you are getting out of this one; Xenu asks that you recite to Leah Remini a thousand Hail Helatrobus oaths in order to make up for indulging in violence.

And then, maybe give me your autograph. I secretly love you and I think you would've made a kick-ass mother of Hubb 2.0: The Hubbening. But unfortunately, that didn't happen, so I need to settle for having a photo of you on the uterine lining. You can wait until I come out, I guess, but I might try and stay up in here as long as possible, so if you could just roll it up really small and send it via Baster Mail, that would rule. Heh -- could you write, "Brenda likes it out of this world," and then sign? Please?

Wait, why am I asking? I'm the friggin' heir to the throne of the Hub. I own a beliefs system, bitches! I KNEW there would be a perk to this somewhere along the line. Because, sure, you're the star of your own space opera, but that can be cancelled, if you get my meaning. You don't want your space opera to get cancelled because the Fifth Invader Force weekly newsletter -- The Space Station 33 Sentinel -- panned it as, "the type of piffle only a Venusian would watch, and also, the chairs were really uncomfortable in the theater," now, do you? Because if that happens, poof, you're done. You're my Mom, and you have no career, and you read the Factory Girl script in bed at night when you think no one's paying attention because you are still sort of hoping Sienna Miller will get canned even though they're done shooting already.

And you don't want that to happen. That's a fate worse than dea… OH, FINE, Elfman, I'll take a nap if you'll stop zapping me like a goddamn OT I or something.

Sigh, "Kate is a delightful talent," yawn. Now do what I say or I will bust your ass back down to the just-created OT Level Negative Twenty, where your thetans will writhe in the agony of interstellar sin.

PS: Wear what Brenda wore to the spring fling when she gave it up to Dylan. EVERYBODY loves thinking about Dylan. Toodles!

Posted by H & J at 05:39 PM in Ask Aunt Fugly | Permalink


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