Fuganova

Cathy Rigby, watch out. There's a new Pan in town.

The boots are fine. I just wish she weren't dressed like she's on her way to jazzercize in Neverland. Maybe she left her pants in Hayden Christensen's motel room during one of her revenge trysts. But since this is Sienna Miller, I'm pretty sure she just thinks spankies and opaque tights count as trousers. BUY SOME PANTS, lady, or join the Renaissance Faire in the role of a dashing pageboy and take your lycra and hot pants way from here. I don't want to start thinking involuntarily about all the camels in Lawrence of Arabia while I'm looking at your photo, because that will remind me how much of that film I have to slog through, and yes, it's good and all, but oh my GOD does it get dull watching people go back and forth through the desert -- and I'm only just through Intermission, which leaves a LOT of time still ahead in which I will keep half an eye on the movie and use the rest of my brain thinking about how bad my allergies would be if I were Peter O'Toole, and how many vats of Visine they probably had to use on-set.

Ahem. So, put it away.

And have you ever noticed that from some angles, like this one, Sienna Miller and Jessica Simpson kind of resemble each other? God, she's flirting even MORE closely with evil.

Fugly of the Month

People. I thought we had an AGREEMENT. I thought we were going to pretend that Jessica Simpson DIDN'T EXIST.  I feel like we TALKED about this, and I CRIED, and you all AGREED that she was OVER and I wasn't going to have to LOOK AT THIS ANYMORE:

OH MY GOD STOP TAKING PICTURES OF HER! Please, for the love of GOD STOP IT. I do not want to look at her big fake huge fake stupid fake lips -- which look ABSURD in this photo, which was taken SEVERAL FEET AWAY, can you IMAGINE what they look like if you were trying to KISS HER?  -- and her stupid 2001-era newsboy cap and her dumb 2002-era Uggs and her lazy, albeit timeless sweatpants. That whole outfit is, head-to-toe, a trip through Clothing Fad Memory Line of the last five minutes of all of our lifes. And, girl, while I get that you just want to run to the market to pick up a 40, how hard is it to throw on a pair of jeans? For real. THE REST OF US HUMANS MANAGE TO DO IT. WHY DO YOU THINK YOU'RE NOBoy u3 HB609ut noegn;Gn;lg;NGng;'Heoi9yo4hyunyne;w25i8585kskjwrttjjwjwflkg3w59i85qwqa..f74

[Editor's note:  We apologize for the above. Jessica will be back posting regularly when she recovers from what the doctors are calling "a mild case of rage-induced psychosis." They seem to think that as soon as she stops clawing at her face in anger and smashing her skull against her keyboard, she will be able to type again. They would like us to warn you all, however, that this kind of Ragaholism is highly contagious, and that if you have any of the following symptoms, you should put down your US Weekly and consult a physician immediately:  bursting into hives and/or tears at the sight of Joe Simpson, Dina Lohan or Kathy Hilton;  uncontrollable shaking when Jessica Simpson's "Pizza Bites" commercial comes on the television; gutteral, primal screaming when faced with yet another article about that random girl Nick Lachey may or may not be sleeping with; gutteral, primal screaming when no one listens to your theory that Nick Lachey is probably sleeping with Matt Leinart; and/or falling into a comatose state when you realize that you recognize Jessica Simpson's fucking hairdresser and, what's worse, also know -- off the top of your head -- his full name.]

Random Fug

This outfit feels like an incredibly poorly executed homage to the one Halle Berry wore when she won her Oscar.

That is a lot of extra material up there flapping in the breeze -- material that might have been better used, say, covering up the black lace bra, whose attendance at this event was so aggressive that it actually required a plus-one on the guest list. Was this dress made by an absent-minded former seamstress to Aretha Franklin, who forgot that not everyone's cups runneth over quite as much as hers?

At least she's wearing a bra, though, which I suppose puts her ahead of three-quarters of Hollywood.

Hello Again, Fug: Bai Ling

Well, Bai Ling is now on record as having the World's Shortest Unfugging.

She's like, "so, you think I let Personality Number 9 -- Miss Prim and Proper -- control everything now, is that what you're saying? Well, I'll show you. I'll show you all. Tonight is Punk Ballerina Tiger Killer Princess Bootsy Night! Number 12? YOU'RE UP!"

Freaky Fug Friday: Well Played, Bai Ling (No, Really)

So, something is going on with Bai Ling. My suspicion is that the actual Bai Ling has been abducted by aliens and replaced with a clone. Either that, or one of her 19 personalities decided that February is the month that she keeps her lady bits delicately under wraps, because otherwise, there's just no explanation for what's been happening with the usually trashtastic Ms Ling's wardrobe.

Allow me to illustrate. This is the last thing Ms. Ling wore in January:

Business as usual right? And when I say "business," you know the business I mean. I believe it's the oldest one in the book.

But look at her February outfits!

My best friend Jennifer wore this to prom in 1993, except in green. That's not a joke. She really did. But that said, it's still pretty. And, hell, we can't see her bra, right?  So who am I to make a Kurt Cobain Is Dead And So Is Taffeta joke?

February Outfit Number 2:

Holy moley. I can't believe this one. It's actually cute. I would actually wear it.  And it's on BAI LING! BAI LING! You know, she's wearing the same shoes. I wonder if she had to escape from a housefire that destroyed all her belongings, except for those shoes, and has now been living with a friend who doesn't dress like a whore, and borrowing her clothes.

And finally, February Outfit Number 3:

The neon "Hooters" sign behind her is ironic, seeing as we haven't seen hers in a month. This is classy, sophisticated, interesting, sort of Faye Dunaway in Chinatown of her. (I can't believe I just wrote that about Bai Ling) I actually take issue with her shoes because they're too staid. What is HAPPENING in the world? Is this one of the seven signs of the Apocolypse? Is she going to ride into the next movie premiere in a swatch of silk on the back of one of the Four Horsemen?

I'm a little scared.

National Lampoon's Fug This

From the diary of Paris Hilton:

Deer diary,

So, it was my birthday. I totally made it to 25. Hott. Not everyone thought it would happen or that I would still be like all sexy and adored and stuff, but then there I was at the party dancing on a table and everyone was trying to touch me and shove flashing cameras up my skirt, so obviously I still rock even though I'm really old now. I'm old, diary. I'm, like, halfway to 35, which is so messed up, dude! That guy Paris I was engaged to -- wait, I should use a suedonym, huh? They call it that because you use them so people won't sue you when you talk about what boring dumbasses they were.

Anyway, where was I? Oh right. That ex of mine Paris "Paris" told me after we broke up that I wouldn't live to see 25 because my vagina would rot before then, but it hasn't,  or if it has I didn't notice and it didn't kill me, so SUCK ON THAT, Mr. "My Parents Won't Let Me Use My Greek Shipping Fortune To Buy Another Big Diamond For My Beautiful Fiance Because She's Just Going To Have To Pawn It When She Goes Broke In Three Years." Maybe my vagina is... that word for things that live through anything... what is that word... biopic! I have a biopic vagina!

But you know, diary, what really sucks is that for some reason people are starting to call Nicky the "classy" sister. I'm not really sure what's classy about wearing a dress that comes down to, like, your KNEES, and is WRINKLED and doesn't even have any cutouts on it. Also, and you didn't hear this from me, but she's totally worn those shoes at LEAST once before, which is such, like, a gnarly and Payless thing to do. SHE is the one who looks like she's halfway to 26, or whatever, not ME. I look all young and foxy and hott in spandex and lace! And anyway what's classier than LACE? The Victoria's Secret catalog I made some bellhop read to me while I put my clothes back on told me that lace is refreshingly feminine! And it is, because the dress looks like it's all long and shit, but really, thanks to the lace, you can still see all my business. And I am all about my business. People don't think I am, but I am. Or wait... am I "all business"? No, I'm pretty sure it's the other one. I don't know. I drank a lot tonight, diary, and the Red Bull is starting to wear off.

Maybe if I start to design clothes, instead of just that jewelry that was selling online somewhere and I don't remember where because I was really busy trying to convince everyone that Kimberley Stewart is as cool as that tramp Nicole -- although Nicole is NOT COOL, diary, so forget I just said that. But... I don't know what I was saying. Except that maybe I should design lingerie so that people stop acting like Nicky has a real career and I have a fake one just because I go on TV and drive around in a big customized bus. She draws on cotton and gets invited on that runway show? Whatever dude. I don't know why she'd want to go on a show with "project" in the title anyway. We have way more money than that. But I'm kinda tired of her getting to do stuff, diary. I want to be the one who has stuff! Although right now I mostly need some extra headlines that don't have to do with me being "stupid" (ha -- like they even know what that word MEANS), which is kind of why I wore a dress that totally showed off my bloat and even had an ugly patterened thing that basically frames it. That way, people will start wondering if I'm pregnant, and nothing makes people love you like getting totally knocked out. Or up? I think it's up. It's like Kimberley used to say:

Okay, I just sat here for 15 minutes trying to remember what she used to say and I don't think I ever actually listened to her once unless she was asking to borrow my outfits. She can't have this one. She needs to go get her own pregnancy headlines.

Man, it's only 5 a.m., diary, and I'm already tired. I AM getting old. Time to go to bed!

Kiss kiss, spit spit,

P

Thandie Fugton II

In a rare consecutive GFY appearance, Thandie Newton -- she of the most vexingly lovely complexion -- proves that there can definitely be too much of a bad thing:

One bad thing is the way the dress falls, which is less "elegant train" than "I took the cover off my duvet and washed it, and then forgot that I did that until I was about to get into bed, and at that point, God, I was really tired and I'd had a couple of glasses of wine and REALLY didn't feel like dealing with that whole mess which is hard to do even when I'm sober, so I said screw it and slept under my duvet without the cover," and the other is the sucking chest wound of a tulle adornment that's perched up there on her torso -- not dissimilar to the little trifle on the white dress she's wearing below. I'm not sure if that's some sort of bug-catcher, or what; our latest pet theory is that she's beginning to use clothes as conceptual art, and these two pieces with their fluffy centerpieces represent the burning hunger inside her that comes from never swallowing any solids.

This feels like an especially dark time in the annals of Hollywood emaciation. Nobody is eating anything that requires chewing.

Thandie Fugton

Sigh. Thandie Newton is so pretty. And yet....

And yet she is wearing what appears to be a failed design from a Project Runway challenge -- one demanding that the designers construct a wedding gown from toilet paper in homage to bridal showers throughout time. I can just see GFY Crush of the Year, the fantastic Tim Gunn, wandering into the workroom, looking over this monstrosity, shaking his head and saying, "I am a bit concerned about where this is going." And then of course the stupid stupid designer would ignore him -- not realizing how valuable Tim Gunn's advice is, and also not realizing that I wish every week that I could just have Tim Gunn tell me what to do with, like, my personal problems, because he's so nice and yet still constructive -- and send this thing down the runway, and Michael Kors would say something about a Kleenex factory exploding, and Nina Garcia would say something about it being "editorial," and the designer would perk up only to deflate when she adds, "but it's way too ugly for an actual bride," and the guest judge would say something polite that means "ew," and then Heidi Klum would look gorgeous and serene and cheerful and then announce that she hates it. So, auf wiedersehen, Thandie. You look like a meringue as invisioned by the Scott Tissue company. And the throw rug doesn't help.

At least you're still very, very pretty.

Cynthia Fugley

The madness will never stop if the people who actually MAKE the clothes don't snap out of it:

Even she looks sort of ashamed of herself. In fairness, I don't know if any of what she's wearing was actually made by Cynthia herself, but still. Wearing it is implied consent. And nobody should consent to a bra-style top that commits that heinous a crime against a bosom and a body. Even if she actually is pregnant, which is how it looks, the black swatches where her chest should be are made for someone with at least one cupful more than she's pouring.

I bet if she'd eaten any carbs at all in the last six months, she'd have had the energy to shop for something else -- something that didn't require leather leggings and which didn't make her look decrepit and drained. I don't dislike her, but this? This is a cry for help. Help, and starches.

Jasmine Fug

Sigh. Whitley, Whitley, Whitley...

What would Dwayne Wayne say?

I reckon he'd be a little disturbed to see that you have apparently just finished a roll in the hay with a Santa Fe ranch-hand, and, late for a premiere, belted the blanket, cuffed his raggedy old pants so they'd look more like yours, and hit the carpet as if nothing were amiss. But something is amiss, Whitley Marion Gilbert Wayne. And that something is your eyesight.

Dita von Fug

I would have rather liked this dress without its bizarre knee-belt. Although maybe that's a protective measure -- maybe today was the day she woke up and thought, "Oh my GOD, I married MARILYN EFFING MANSON," and figured this little cinching accessory would confuse him enough to keep him circling the block but out of the parking lot, as it were.

Tara Fugger-Tomkinson

Doesn't this look like a hammered seamstress tried sewing Tara Palmer-Tomkinson into this thing? She was drunk-driving the needle from the neck down, until she realized she was heading into The Nethers and screeeeeeeched to an earlier-than-planned halt (hence that disaster of a hemline).

Fugane Krufug

Oh my GOD, DIANE KRUGER.

Why do you want to be CHLOE SEVIGNY?

The Ghost Fug

Because it's Friday, I'm going to pull back the veil of secrecy, and let you, my readers, in on one of the deepest, darkest, most closely held secrets of my soul. A secret that will ruin my cred as heartless bitch. A secret I hope you don't hold against me, but I surely couldn't blame you  if you did.

Sometimes, I watch The Ghost Whisperer.

And by "sometimes," I mean that I have a season pass set for it on my TiVo. And yes, I cry every time  I watch it. Look, we all do things we're not proud of, and I have a weakness for ghost orphans passing into the light. Okay? AT LEAST I'M NOT WEARING LEGGINGS! Anyway, part of what I enjoy about the show are the outfits that J Lo Hewitt wears. Her wardrobe is hilarious. She has about seventy-nine satin nightgowns, all of which she wears with full make-up -- including false eyelashes! -- and a beehive. No, really, she has a beehive all the time on that show. She wears some kind of ridiculous retro gown at least once a week, and on one memorable evening, she actually wore bloomers under a sort of Mary Had A Little Lamb outfit. HILARIOUS. And yet, she sort of pulls it off.  I have looked into my soul, readers, and asked myself if I would wear a beehive to work if I could get away with it, and the answer is YES. YES I WOULD. So I have a sort of shameful, SHAMEFUL soft spot for La Hewitt.  However:

Ugh. I have, as noted, a really high tolerance for the sort of retro-ladylike thing, but this looks like something the dowdiest, drabbest, most humorless, most obstinately virginal girl in high school would wear to the 1963 Enchantment Under the Sea dance.  The girl who wore this dress had a signed picture of Joe McCarthy in her locker, and dismissed the Beatles as  "fluff."  She enjoyed canned asparagus.  She didn't believe in lace on underwear.  She would never play MASH with you, and would only loan you her history notes after a long lecture about the importance of taking ones own notes, thereby making the borrowing of said notes totally not worth it.  She grew up to be the president of your home-owners association and right now she is making your life a living hell because she won't let you put a hot pink plastic flamingo on your lawn. Every day, you think about killing her and then feel guilty, because she's old and you shouldn't think about killing the elderly. What you didn't know was that she's ALWAYS BEEN OLD. Suffice to say, this is NOT the 1963 thing you want to be doing. If you're doing the 1963 thing, duh, you clearly want to be the hottest, chicest, sassiest girl from 1963, who still has really good hair and who once spent an April in Prague, living with a minor rock star. And J Lo Hewitt is usually pretty good at landing on the right side of 1963, but I guess even someone who can talk to the dead strikes out sometimes.

That said, I do like her false eyelashes.

Gold Fugger

Oh, Kanye. You are hilarious:

I secretly rather enjoy the Shiny Preppy Drum Leader outfit, and I'm really glad he's not wearing rings over his gloves again, nor a crown of thorns, and God knows, I am incapable of hearing "Gold Digger" without dancing around and waving my arms in the air in a manner which implies that I simply do not care, but I think we can all agree that using other human beings as accessories on the red carpet is just too much. Especially when they're painted.

And you know that somewhere, Gwen Stefani is like, "DAMN! The weird entourage of objectified women is MY IDEA. God, and his are SPRAY-PAINTED. That's SO MUCH COOLER! How am I going to top that? I know! After the baby comes, maybe I can travel with an entourage of crawling INFANTS.  Yes! Brilliant! GAME ON, WEST. GAME ON."

Fuggings

Sometimes, you tap out.

Sometimes, you feel like you've said all you can say about leggings. And yet people persist on dragging them back into the fashion spotlight anyway.

And you think maybe you're fresh out of things to say about a men's gymrat tank top hanging loosely around a ratty lace underthing and a wan frame, with a big belt around the outside. You're not sure what you can add to the madness that has gripped these people. You want to bang your fists against the wall and take away their shopping privileges. You want to forcefeed them photos of themselves. You feel like: Why do I even have to say this? Don't people know? Don't they have photo albums from back in the 1980s, and don't they ever peek at them and think, "Wow, if only I knew then what I know now, I would never have put that on my body"? Didn't Kate Bosworth ever stop and think, "If this tank top is ten sizes too big, then maybe, just maybe, I don't need to put it on?" Does she not know how Bloomingdale's works?

And what of the matronly black boots with leggings -- what more is there to say about that? What, aside from wondering when jazzercise-wear crossed with hunting gear, can we add to the discussion of how stupid Kimberley Stewart looks in her barely dressed, haphazard, and yet calculated and publicity-desperate bid to be photographed anywhere, anytime, wearing anything, by anyone? Why wouldn't she wear a skirt with that shirt? Or jeans?

What's the deal, Kim? Have you been talking to Kate? Do you both have photos of Sienna Miller and M-K Olsen hanging on your wall, and you light a candle to them at night and get down on your knees -- without the pads on this time -- and whisper, "Please, sweet Jeebus, give me the courage to look like a lazy slob all the time, because one day, one day, someone will wake up and call it fashion"?

Yeah. It's like I said: Sometimes, you're just not sure what there is left to say.

Fug Me

Okay, so Debbie Harry is awesome. There must be no confusion about that point. She's terrifically cool, and I kind of wish she were my next door neighbor, because I feel like you'd always have an interesting conversation with her over the rose bushes, and she'd invite you to her Christmas party, which would be LOUD and full of weird mixed drinks, and you'd agree to feed her dogs for her while she was on vacation because that way you could sort of nose around her house and look at her platinum records and peek in her medicine cabinet. However, she would also be the kind of neighbor where you'd be sitting in your breakfast room drinking a cup of coffee and reading the gossips and she'd come wandering out of her house and out to her car, and she'd be wearing, like, two KFC buckets, a Hefty bag and a pair of garden hoses and you and your husband would look at each other and just sort of chuckle and shake your heads. You know, something like this:

Did she steal that Fez from the Muppet Show? I'm actually not even joking. I'd like to know.

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?

Thanks,

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.

Sincerely,

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?

Yours,

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

Dear Y, YSCY, KY, BNOEWY -- YISI:

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!

The Fuggy Home Companion

There are SO MANY THINGS I love about this photo:

1. Lindsay's shoes
2. Lindsay's hair color
3. Lindsay's pedicure
4. Lindsay in general. As regular readers know, I love for reasons even I can not explain, but which I expect have to do with: her hair in Mean Girls; her adorable ass-shaking handshake routine with the butler in The Parent Trap; the hilariously mean text messages she sent to Paris Hilton about Jessica Simpson that were revealed during those delicious three weeks last year when we all got to read everything in Paris's Sidekick; and how psychotic she got when she and Wilmer broke up -- mostly because I think we've all felt exactly that psychotic about a break-up, you know, on the inside, but never had the wherewithal to actually just go ahead and expose the psychosis to the entire world.
5. Even Lindsay's dress, which looks better when photographed from the front, and which I suspect is more subtly colorful in person.
6. Meryl's boots. Nice Louboutins, Mere!
7. The expression on Meryl's face, in that she appears to be warning Lindsay about us specifically
8. The idea that maybe Meryl is going to take Lindsay under her wing and whip La Lohan into shape.  Wouldn't that be an exciting development? I feel like Meryl wouldn't let Lindsay run all over town drinking and sleeping with inappropriately old men and accidentally running things over with her car. Meryl would have Lindsay studying, like, Strindberg, and practicing accents alone in her room until late in the night.  And then Lindsay would start crying and call her and be like, "Meryl, this is so hard," and Meryl would be all kind, but very firm, like, "I don't want to hear your whining, Lindsay," and then Lindsay could realize her full potential and I wouldn't have to apologize for liking her anymore.
9. Meryl in general -- I mean, come on. We're heartless beeyotches here, but she's Meryl F'in Streep. I have some respect, you know. 

Please notice, however, the one thing missing from this list: Meryl's dress. Oh, Meryl. Meryl, Meryl, Meryl. Did you know that the more I type "Meryl," the less it looks like an actual word? I'm concerned that I'm having that reaction because your kooky, kooky dress has triggered some kind of  seizure in my brain.

Meet The Fuggers

So I kind of have no opinion on the Travis Barker/Shanna Moakler union. She's very pretty, and kind of amusingly forthright in all the interviews I've read, and they seem happy enough. I know she just had a baby, so it's nice that they're getting a night out and about. However:

[I know, the picture is so much smaller than the ones we usually feature and I can't quite figure out what happened, but let's all avert our eyes from my technical ineptitude and pretend everything is just fine.]

She looks fine -- a bit tired, but, hello, just had a baby -- although her coat looks a bit like she accidentally closed it in the car door and dragged in along the asphalt all the way to the club.

But him. Oh dear God. As far as I'm concerned, whatever you decide to wear out for an evening, it should NOT make you look as though you somehow tripped and got trapped in the rack and had your extremities stretched an extra painful six inches. Like, why does his neck look so long? And if his legs were a normal, non-mancropped length, would his neck still look so elongated? [Because I feel like if one part of you looks weirdly long, making another part of you -- say your legs -- look freakishly short is only going to make the long part look longer...right? And then we're in a proportional nightmare the likes of which I can not fathom.] Is the "funhouse mirror" look what the kids are doing these days? And as Travis Barker is about my age, am I supposed to get used to men my age running around with superfluous bits of ankles and wrists and necks poking out of their clothing in awkward and unnatural ways? Or is this a punk thing, of which I am unaware? So many questions, and no answers. And now I'm really tired.

Stars: They're Just Like Us (In That They, Too, Find Brandon Davis Scary)!

If I were the Us Weekly body-language expert, and I were being consulted to do something as gravely important as making up subtext to a celebrity photograph, I would probably suggest that Nicky Hilton is thinking, "Try to smile, be cool, stay on your side of the line -- if you don't touch it, you can't catch anything from it."

Laura Fugging

I wore this exact costume to play a fairy princess in my Grade 7 musical. No joke.

Well, there was one key difference -- I actually took the time to do my hair.

Celebrity Terror Watch: Grammy Edition

The Go Fug Yourself Celebrity Terror Watch squad is commencing a Sternum Watch for Sheryl Crow:

It doesn't help that this dress is enforcing a high waistline on her that gives her lower half a bizarre dumpyness, but that torso is a frightening thing. Dating a professional and highly competitive cyclist probably sent her over the fitness edge; now we're worried that breaking up with said professional cyclist might have driven her away from the fridge. That's not cleavage -- that's a cutting board.

We consider this a high alert situation that needs to be monitored and, as quickly as possible, repaired. Somebody please make her some fried chicken, or take her to Jack In The Box for some meat and cheese between slices of butter-soaked sourdough. Britney? Where are you, dear? You're needed. Sheryl can hold Sean Preston on her lap (if she has the strength) while you take her through the drive-thru.

Grammy Freaky Fug Friday: Well Playerd, India.Arie

I thought India.Arie looked lovely at the Grammy's, and here within the snug, safe confines of Freaky Fug Friday -- where a girl's cold heart can warm up a tad without fear of it being permanent -- I'm not afraid to admit it.

Apparently, her mother made this dress, and not long before the event. What a wonderful job she did for her daughter -- hopefully she'll get some business out of it, if she wants it, because certainly she could do a great service to other starlets and musicians who don't know the half of how to dress themselves.

I mean, look at her: She glows. The dress hugs her bust and gently cuddles her curves without pinching anything, exaggerating things to bizarre proportions, and the detailing is both interesting and graceful without being over the top. The neckline flatters her and doesn't look like -- or look like it feels like -- a harness. She matched it with low-key earrings, a gold bracelet, and that's all she needed.

[Okay, so there are colorful bangles and two odd, massive slab rings, too, and they don't look like they go with this outfit -- but I'm willing to overlook that because your eyes still go to the dress long before they go to either of those things -- indeed, if you can tear them off her face and body in the first place.]

In all: bravo, Mama.Arie, for enhancing your daughter's lovely, healthy body, and proving that women who look like women -- and not like they just snapped off a tree trunk -- are the real idols.

Grammy Fug Carpet: Whither the Pants?

That's a cute shirt Tera Patrick is wearing.

"Shirt" being the operative word in that sentence.

Grammy Fug Carpet: Danni Ray

You're at the Grammy Awards, honey, not the gynecologist. Put your peaches back in the can, stand up straight, and stop visually begging people to use their trophies as a speculum.

Fugrose Place

Look, I get it: life is really hard when you're The Other Vanessa Williams. You make reservations for dinner and have to watch the waitstaff's faces fall when you show up and you're not Vanessa Williams Vanessa Williams.  And then you have to explain that you were on the first season of Melrose Place? The boring season? The season where the big sweeps event was Billy trying to decide if he should take over his father's carpet store? And, no, you don't know Heather Locklear. No. No, you don't know Marcia Cross, either. No, you weren't on set when she ripped off her wig. No. No. Look, they fired you. You got fired from Melrose Place and it HURTS, okay? It hurts.

As do the color combinations in this outfit:

Yowza! That is a LOT going on. Lose the horrible midrift-level cardigan (an item which, for the record, works on approximately one person and she's working as a ballerina in the American Ballet Theatre somewhere), and swap out the green jeans for a dark wash and you've got a sassy little outfit if you're ever in a situation that calls for you dashing to the market in an afgan. Or -- and don't say I never gave you options! -- swap the pink shirts for a white button down and, yet again, a very charming outfit if you're thinking about running errands swaddled in a throw rug. But the pink! And then the more pink! And the green! And the rug, which may, in fact, be from Billy Campbell's Dad's carpet store! It's all just too much for the retinas.

Grammy Fug Press Room: Keith Urban

INT. NICOLE KIDMAN'S HOUSE. DAY

KEITH: Nicole, what do you think about this outfit I picked out for the Grammys?

NICOLE:  You look brilliant, Keith! Simply brilliant! What shirt are you planning on wearing? Something from Thomas Pink? Ooh! You can wear those vintage Cartier cufflinks I got you! I'm so excited for you! I hope you win tonight! Winning is so divine!

KEITH: A shirt?

NICOLE: [puzzled look] Um...yes?

KEITH: I don't know about that.

NICOLE: [gale of charming Australian laughter] Oh, Keith! You are so funny!  I just love your sense of humor. God, Tom had no sense of humor at all! At all! One day I had Russell Crowe call him and pretend to be L. Ron Hubbard calling from the great beyond and when Tom found out it was just Russell,  he almost drove over there and punched Russell in the face! Of course, he would have had to have stood on a box to do it, and Russell would have grilled him up in a cheese sandwich and eaten him for lunch but...well, anyway! I love how playful you are! I love it! Oh, come here, you! You delicious man! I'm so happy!

KEITH: Nic. Seriously. I mean it. I was thinking the best shirt for this was just...waxed chest.

NICOLE: ...waxed chest? Really?

KEITH: Waxed chest is so rock and rock!

NICOLE: Hmm.

KEITH: Right? Isn't that a great idea? It's so ROCK STAR. It's like totally Michael Hutchence, right?

NICOLE:  Would you look at the time? I'm late for a Botox party!

KEITH: You're not coming with me to the awards tonight? The waxed chest and I need your support!

NICOLE: Oh.... No. No, you'll be fine. Don't you think it's best that you walk the red carpet, just you and your chest? You and your waxed chest? Because...it's like....you're....um. A loner! An, um, rocking loner! You don't need ME to be there! No, no. No, I can't be seen there with you and your waxed chest.

KEITH: I guess you're right.

NICOLE: Oh, I know I am! All righty, then! I really must dash! No, no, don't get up! No! No, you don't need to kiss me good-bye! Nope! Well, well! Yes! Good luck! Good luck, and good night!

KEITH: Thanks, honey. You're so supportive.

THE END

Grammy Post-Party Fug: Madonna

The more Madonna tries to yoga off all her body fat and dress like she's in her 20s, the more she ends up looking like a cartoon character.

I know Madonna is and always will be an icon, but come on: That face is beginning to look crazy.

As for the getup: The boots-leggings are more Posh Spice territory than Madge's, and that top is more Duff, Lohan, or Clarkson than Aging Queen of Pop Who, Although She's Still Got It, Really Needs To Stop Kidding Herself And Cease Pretending It's Not Creepy That She Is Trying To Pass As Britney's Contemporary -- Although We Are Grateful She Changed Out Of The Tights She Wore On-Stage, As We Are Very Weary Of Her Crotch Right About Now.

Grammy Fug Carpet: Teri Hatcher

Teri Hatcher proves that she woefully, tragically misinterpreted all that "What's in the hatch?" talk that buzzed around ABC last summer.

Grammy Awards Fug Carpet: Mary Hart

Love her or hate her, you have to respect Mary Hart -- the original holder of the syrupy "Ms. Perky" title Katie Couric has since usurped -- because she's been around forever and she's still kicking. There are lots of interchangeable blond field reporters of varying ages, like Dayna Devon and Jann Carl and Nancy O'Dell and God knows who else, who could have booted her out of the anchor's seat by now. But no one has.

However, that doesn't mean Mary Hart can pull the wool over our eyes:

You may be going for that timeless, ageless Dick Clarkbot thing, and that's all well and good, but don't forget that we all do know better. This is a dress you'd expect an American Idol winner to wear to her first event, or maybe Amy Lee from Evanescence to pair with some really massive Doc Marten boots and an ill-advised, slightly depressing tutu. But you are... how can I say this? ... well past that life phase, Mary. This is not the dress for you.

Grammy Fug Carpet: Kimberly Elise

The scrolldown fug strikes again, and this time it's attacked model/actress/ruffle-lover Kimberly Elise:

Although, really, you barely have to scroll down before her Ruffled Longline Bib of Fug smacks you across the face like a particularly frilly insult.

Grammy Fug Carpet: Random Fug

I don't know who Ashley Altman is.

But I'm pretty sure SHE thinks she's Barbie.

Grammy Fug Carpet: Sally Kirkland

Okay, we know Sally Kirkland is nuts. She always looks nuts. I saw her at Forever 21 at the Beverly Center and actually thought to myself, "who is that crazy woman? Oh. Sally Kirkland."

But this is like a new height of nutsiness:

She looks like the star of an Ice Capades production of The California Raisins Story: The Geriatric Years.

Letter of Fug: Part Whatever

Oh. My. God. Y'all.

I just realized I meant to wear pants with this dress! Can you tell? Do I look crazy? I don't look too crazy, do I? When I left the house this morning my mother said something about a lampshade in a whorehouse or some such but all she does is mutter about stuff all day long anyway so I didn't know if she was talking about me or about an actual lampshade she wanted to buy from a whorehouse but the point is that I am a little worried about sitting down because this skirt is really short.

But ANYWAY, it's awfully nice to get out of that house because I swear to God all I do in that house is yell about things, like where is Kevin's wallet, and no he can't take my purse with him, and what happened to the money I gave him yesterday, and no he can't bring the baby with him to the 7-11 because what if he accidentally gives the baby a Slurpee because that might give the baby diabetes, and no I am not IMing Justin and even if I was he can't read what I said because he's functionally illegitimate anyway, or whatever that word is for not really being able to read. So it's nice to be out and about and I think Kevin does clean up real nice even if I secretly think he's turning out to be a total liability, which is what my manager called him this morning. And right after she said that she said that she didn't understand where this all came from anyway, and I told her that maybe she should have listened to me when I told her that I was so Lucky, I was a Star, but that I cried, cried, cried in my lonely heart and if there was nothing missing in my life, then why did my tears come at night, and she said she had no idea what I was talking about and I told her that it was a SONG I sang once and it was a big hit and then she said that she never paid that much attention and THEN I told her that she also should have listened to my song "Overprotected" which is all about how I was tired of people telling me what to do and this is why I keep saying that I don't know why everyone is so surprised I got married and had a baby because I've been trying to tell them all for YEARS that I was TIRED of not getting to EAT so THEY could make more MONEY and I SWEAR I HAVE JUST ABOUT HAD IT WITH EVERYONE I SEE EVERY DAY. Except Sean, because I could just eat up his cute little baby face.

So what I'm saying is: I'm glad to be out of the house, I wish I had worn pants, and I'm pretty sure that I'm going to fire everyone even my mom.

Fugruza Balk

When did Goth darling Fairuza Balk turn into a New Jersey nightly news anchor?

Fugdy

Brandy, Brandy, Brandy...

You were TV's Moesha. You gave birth on MTV. Your IMDb bio claims you "are no longer a vegan." And, sure, I've always been a little frightened by your mouth, but you used it to lie about a "secret marriage" to your ex, and that was pretty fascinating.

So why did you think you could slip this past us? You know how we feel about formal shorts. You know how aggravated we are that when we went shopping for skirts on Saturday, we couldn't find any, because apparently shorts are the new skirts and nobody's bothering to make clothes any more for people who don't want each thigh to be encased in its very own fabric tube (unless they are boho skirts, and that simply won't do at all). The whole look is a little throwback: the cropped top, the suit jacket, the shorts... take out the boots, and you're looking at something Tatyana Ali would have worn on a very special episode of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, when she attended a rally at California University and met a fetching boy named David Silver.

And the wig, Brandy. The wig.

I saw that thing at Aaaaaaaaaah's last Halloween, I swear it -- I think it was part of a French Revolution "dishevelled aristocrat running from the guillotine" costume. And it looks like someone plopped it onto your head with all the delicacy of Tara Reid leaving a club at 2 a.m. You can do better. Please beat this.

Her Fugs

Fergie would like to join the legions of celebrities who use a red-carpet appearance to demonstrate that everything is fine, and peace is, like, the shit:

And indeed, everything is fine: She is still scary, and still sartorially confused (is she fox hunter? An 18-year old? A pregnant snowboarder? Who can say), and that's the way we like it. That's how we know the world is spinning properly on its axis.

She does appear to have learned one lesson, though: that dark pants are a safer fashion choice, because they are more apt to hide any, ahem, wet spots. Perhaps that's why she's flashing the peace sign -- because she's come to terms with her incontinence.

Everything About Me Is Fug And I'm Perfect

As regular readers of GFY are aware, I LOVE Miss Janice Dickinson.  I love her. I want her to be my mentor and drag me all over town with her, both of us wearing high high pointy shiny heels, and one of us (me) crying and the other one (her) yelling at me to pull it together and stop whining because it was time that I accepted the fact she wasn't going to let me eat, today or ever. I know she's had a lot of work done, and she's crazy, and yadda yadda yadda, I just don't care. I love her. Last month, I was at my hairdressers, and Janice pulled up outside and ran into the spa next door and I swear to God, if I hadn't had foil all over my head, I would have raced outside after her to tell her that a) I love her, and b) she looked totally fierce that day, which she did.

So this makes me kinda sad:

The outfit ain't that bad. It's a little bit  "he ran into my knife. He ran into my knife ten times," but if you don't buy Janice as a crazy sexy murderess, then you've been reading this site in braille. The thing about this whole look that concerns me is how skiiiiiiiny La Dickinson looks. I mean, don't we have enough on our hands with the Mary Kate and the Nicole Richie and the Who Ever Else Isn't Eating Today without worrying about Miss Janice wasting away?

Okay, look at her here in October:

Delicious! Crazy, but delicious. Crazy delicious, in fact. So consider this a plea, Janice. Don't diet away your beautiful, if oft-plasticized face! I am currently counting down the days to the spring release of your third book, the enticingly titled Check, Please! : How to Pick Up Boys . . . And Dump Them When You're Done, because I know that even if I think your advice is INSANE -- which I suspect I might -- it will surely also be hilarious and provide me with Hasselhoff-like levels of delight. And you know that none of us will have time for you to battle some boring eating disorder when your new book is out! You will be much too busy tormenting Tyra on her talk show in the name of promoting your book for that! Think of the readers, Janice! Think of the readers and eat a sandwich!

Fug J

I've decided to table the discussion I just had in my head about how people who were on later seasons of The Apprentice are not really celebrities in order to share with you this delightful tribute to Mad Max, courtesy of the woman Mark Burnett tried unsuccessfully to make into the Second Coming of Omarosa, Stacie J:

Problems I have with this:

1. As previously mentioned, if we have in fact moved Beyond Thunderdome, I wasn't made aware of it.
2. While Ms J's abs are indeed impressive, she looks like she just emerged from a messy altercation with an overly protective seat belt, and the seat belt won.
3. "J" is not a proper last name, unless you are America's Next Top Model's runway coach/judge, the best-in-small-dosages Miss J. And you, Stacie J, are no Miss J.

Mighty Fugrodite

So, women deal with pregnancy differently. Some of us are thrilled to finally be able to eat whatever we like without feeling guilty. Some of us are nauseated the entire nine months and can't wait to not want to vomit all the time. Some of us get nesty and cosy and broody, and some of us can't ever really believe that we've actually got a whole other person growing in there, because, you know...weird. And some of us -- if by "some of us," I mean "Mira Sorvino," which I do -- realize that pregnancy is a magical, miraculous time that can be celebrated in only one way:

Dressing like a pimp.

Fugela Anderson

I'm developing a new theory: that Dolly Parton is an enterprise run almost identically to that of the Dread Pirate Roberts. So when the Dolly Parton we know grows weary and decides to retire, she identifies a replacement who will seamlessly merge into the life of Dolly Parton and carry on the Dolly Parton name and brand, as if nothing had ever happened. That way, Dolly is ageless and lives forever, and people will never have to know what a dark and woeful place the world would be without her and that hair, and the breasts that unwittingly prepared a nation to cope better with Anna Nicole Smith.

The aforementioned harebrained theory came to be after I saw a photo of a woman I believe is en route to becoming the new Dread Pirate Parton: Pamela Anderson.

I know Pammy's always had some serious flotation aids up there (except for the brief period in which she had them removed), but... the chest, people. The chest. Is it just me, or are they inflating? They look more dominant, somehow. More ready to take over a C&W empire and matching theme park.

Interestingly, the non-cleavage portions of this ensemble are actually sort of classy. So yeah, Pammy will have to tacky up a dress like this a tad, and her makeup is too subtle (never thought I'd say that about Pamela Anderson). But on the whole, one can see why she might be in line to step into the Partoncy. Dolly would be proud. And probably is proud, because she's in the process of picking out all the hairspray, lipstick, and cowboy boots Pamela Anderson could ever need in order to fully assume her destiny. Whenever that day comes.

American IFug

Look, I'm not at all opposed to the Brokeback Mountain thing drifting -- like a tumbleweed -- into our collective fashion consciousness. Recently, I went shopping with my gay boyfriend and we outfitted him with several vaguely Brokebackian shirts, all of which looked smashing on him. So I know it can work. However, withness last season's American Idol quittee and Wilmer Valdermamamamamayayayayayayamamama-look-a-like Mario Vasquez:

A COON-SKIN CAP IS TAKING IT TOO FAR. TOO FAR! What's next? Are people -- other than Victoria Beckham, who's already on top of this, but, as Victoria Beckman, gets a pass for being sort of fantastically deliciously nutso to begin with -- going to start sporting chaps in line at Starbucks?  Or spurs? Am I going to have to wait an extra forty-five minutes next time I try to fly to Vegas because all the hipsters are wearing SPURS and they're setting off the metal detectors going through security? Oh, or how about LASSOS? Should we all start carrying LASSOS? I'd like to state right now, and for the record, that LASSOS ARE ONLY OKAY IF YOUR NAME IS DIANA PRINCE AND YOU'RE SECRETLY WONDER WOMAN. 

So let's just get a HANDLE on this whole gay cowboy thing and remember that while a western shirt is totally cute, A DAVY CROCKETT COSTUME MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE YOU RECENTLY SUFFERED A HEAD INJURY.

Kristen Fugoweth and the Drawstring Fug

Kristin Chenoweth, the perky, petite sprite from Broadway and The West Wing, is modeling a trend that's been all over starlets and Project Runway alike recently: the drawstring-bag waist.

Ignore for a moment that she looks as though a very poncy department-store counter has gift-wrapped her, and turn your eye away from the torso detail that's supposed to be peekaboo-sexy but actually looks as if the dress has ripped.

Instead, focus your gaze on her midriff, where the dress is bunched and pulled together on the outside of the garment. The dress Nicky Hilton wore in a photo presented to the Runway designers (that Marla then copied) featured this same figure-devouring detail, as have one or two other creations on that show and countless "flirty" designs spotted elsewhere.

Riddle me this: Why is this popular? The last thing most women need is to add an extra layer right where their waist is, because on everyone -- Chenoweth, Hilton, the scary-thin models -- it creates an illusion of thickness. Of girth. And as a loyal Cosmo reader, I know for a fact that's not a woman's No. 1 way to incorporate girth into her life. On the Hilton dress in particular, it made her look like she'd been compressed -- like her waist was slowly land-grabbing its way up her body.

This must be stopped.

Fugerly Williams

I really liked Father of the Bride. Kimberly Williams was so cute and smiley, and she was rocking her curly hair, and sure, her eyebrows needed waxing, but so did everyone's at some point, and she took care of it later and everything was fine.

Until this:

I don't really think it was necessary to bring out the knickers. It's never necessary to bring out the knickers. Unless you are a ragamuffin pickpocket on the streets of London, or an urchin selling flowers for tuppence a bloom, there is really no need for these to exist at all -- let alone make a red-carpet appearance with a top that was probably first designed for an ice-dancer. I can appreciate that when it's on an actual competitive skater, but not when it's worn by an actress who has PAIRED IT WITH KNICKERS.

JorFug

Brit star Jordan thought long and hard about what she ought to wear to her book signing. Something bookish, surely. Something literary. Demure. Something a little...Clan of the Cave Bear meets J. Crew?

Now, before you fire up the old email: yes, that's really her. No, it's not a wax figure. Yes, her hair is like the shiniest, most plastic weave I've ever seen, too.  Yes, I think my Barbie also had those boots.  No, I'm pretty sure they're fake. Yes, she's crazy skinny. No, I'm pretty sure the tan is fake, too.  No, I don't know what happened to the rest of her skirt. Yes, I'm scared, too.

Fug Young

Oh dear God. It's like what Mary Poppins would wear if the Banks family ever gave her a legitimate night out, and she had nothing suitable in her magic bag, so she called Camilla Parker-Bowles and said, "You always look glittery with a no-nonsense edge. MAKE IT HAPPEN FOR ME."

Semi-Scrolldown Fug

I'm guessing somebod spiked the seamstress's punch, because what begins as an ode to Pepto Bismol...

... quickly devolves into a blinding valentine to either a) hallucinogens, or b) that insane IKEA heart pillow with the arms on it that, every time you enter the store, is begging you to take it home for $10 so it can cuddle you in perpetuity.

Love. Angel. Music. FUG

Look, I'm happy that Gwen is getting to have her own baby after Gavin's Secret Mystery Lovechild Who Looks Just Like Him So How Much Of A Mystery Could Her Paternity Have Been? bombshell.

And yet she herself is not looking like much of bombshell lately:

There are some outfits that are so complex in their fug that they defy words and require math. This is one of them.  And I think we can all agree that Derelicte + harajuku x hormones + Gavin's manpris = CRAZY.

It's Hard to Think of a Fug-Related Pun When The Subject Has No Credits to His Name

I thought that when Man Paris finally escaped the clutches of Paris Paris, he'd clean up and stop dressing like a particularly deranged blind dude.

And yet it was not to be:

I've heard Man Paris is actually very nice, and I'm sure it's true, but that doesn't excuse the fact that those jeans could clearly actually up and walk away from him under their own power, if in fact that power was dirt.