May 09, 2006
Fug My Fug
Lindsay Lohan couldn't hide her nerves. She knew the leggings and the beretmulke would incite one of Jessica's legendary rages on GFY. She suspected it might lead to a strongly worded document suggesting Lohan might be the bunion on the mangled, unwashed foot of the Mayor of Fugtown. She knew it might end with Jessica, broken-hearted and further betrayed, furiously purchasing copies of Mean Girls only to stomp on them, light them on fire, smoke some summer sausage over the flame, then hurl the porky pieces at the Just My Luck billboards while screaming a string of obscenities so artfully fury-laden that even Suge Knight might sit up and say, "Excuse me, but you really ought to watch your language, young lady."
But, alas, Lindsay's style train was long gone from the station, in that she had already left her pants at
Brett Ratner's Stavros Niarchos's Adam Levine's Haley Joel Osment's Bill O'Reilly's Brody Jenner's house; the best she could do at this point to placate Jessica and save the life of many a bulging blood vessel was to beef up the red in her hair -- victory in our time! -- and borrow one of Meryl's caftans, repurposing it into a baggy 80s-style tunic shirt the fugliness of which she prayed La Streep's clout would obscure.
Sadly for Li-Lo, a righteous fug rage quells for no legend; the shameless Streep salvo missed its mark, and the fugtastic glow of her awful French boho princess ensemble burns undimmed. Naturally, Jessica was displeased. But I bring you word that we sedated her mid-uproar and she is now resting comfortably and in possession of her whole sanity.
No summer sausage has been harmed.