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February 21, 2006

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.

Posted by Heather at 11:43 AM | Permalink

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).

Posted by Heather at 10:40 AM | Permalink

Fugane Krufug

Oh my GOD, DIANE KRUGER.

Why do you want to be CHLOE SEVIGNY?

Posted by Jessica at 07:49 AM | Permalink

February 17, 2006

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.

Posted by Jessica at 12:40 PM | Permalink

February 16, 2006

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."

Posted by Jessica at 11:27 AM | Permalink

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.

Posted by Heather at 11:03 AM | Permalink

February 15, 2006

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.

Posted by Jessica at 11:23 AM | Permalink

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?

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!

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

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.

Posted by Jessica at 08:31 AM in Lindsay Lohan | Permalink

February 13, 2006

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.

Posted by Jessica at 05:55 PM | Permalink

 

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