February 28, 2006
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.]
February 27, 2006
Random FugThis 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!"
February 24, 2006
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.
February 23, 2006
National Lampoon's Fug This
From the diary of Paris Hilton:
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,
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.
Posted by Heather at 11:20 AM | Permalink
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.
Posted by Jessica at 06:28 AM | Permalink
February 22, 2006
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.
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.
Posted by Heather at 10:43 AM | Permalink