Go Fug Yourself: The Fug Awards Old Fugs Got questions? Contact us About us Press Clippings Advertise with us Fug Merchandise

« April 2006 | Main | June 2006 »

May 31, 2006

Fug-Fug Olsen

It's nice to see that Mary-Kate Olsen...

a) Still doesn't brush her hair;

b) Still clings to those ribbed tights and staunchly believes that they're viable "bottoms" even though if a stiff wind blew up her overlong tee, her own bottom would be exposed, and not in a cute way, but in an "I see London, I see France, I see the cotton crotch of those uniform tights and that's frankly totally unsexy" kind of way;

c) Still refuses to look anyone in the eye;

d) Has turned to wearing jazz shoes as imagined by the kind folks at Easy "Looks like a pump, feels like a sneaker" Spirit;

e) Still wears strange, inexplicable clothing layers (there is some kind of floaty thing over her tee but under her jacket); and yet...

f) Still seems to be doing better health-wise.

I am such a softie. Well, this second, anyway.

Posted by Heather at 02:52 PM in Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen | Permalink

Random Fug

This lovely actress, who has appeared in such serious works as Sharkskin 6, in the pivotal and emotional role of "Dimples Waitress," is a very, very pretty girl...

...who appears to think she's on her way to a screen test for Chloe Sevigny's role in Big Love (in the interest of full disclosure,  we've been discussing the Sev here at GFY HQ lately, and while we stand by our opinion that she has a serious problem dressing herself on many occasions, we must admit that we think she's really, very, very good on Big Love. So, way to go with that, Sev. Don't ever say we never said anything nice about you).

And while "Buttoned Up, But Secretly Brilliantly Machiavellian  Polygamist" really works on that show, it's not always the smartest choice for a red carpet event.

Posted by Jessica at 01:57 PM in Random Fug | Permalink

May 30, 2006

Pirates of the Fugabbean

Earlier this evening...

KEIRA KNIGHTLEY: So, I've just bought these pink amateur-stripper shoes and I'm simply dying to take them out on the town.

OILY ORLANDO BLOOM LOOKALIKE WHO COULD BE HER BOYFRIEND RUPERT BUT MAY ACTUALLY BE ORLANDO BLOOM FOR ALL I KNOW: Oh, Kee, that's SUPER. Whatever will you wear with them?

KEIRA: I'm not sure, but I do think it's smashing how your profile looks so much like Luke Perry's.

OOBLWCBHBRBMABOBFAIK: He is my everything.

KEIRA: I do reckon he'd have washed his hair a bit, though. Look, pay attention to me again, okay? The shoes. I've already got the skort suit to go with them, and it's pretty spectacular. It looks like a Bed In A Bag set.

OOBLWCBHBRBMABOBFAIK: Well done, you. There isn't a girl alive who isn't cringing at how many of those she bought back in the 90s, and how fooled they all were by culottes. Making people uncomfortable is totally principle No. 1 of Siennaing yourself. Well played.

KEIRA: And belting it through nonexistent belt loops is even better -- seriously, I'm going to beat Sienna Miller at her own game. But what is the outfit missing? Maybe a sweater...

OOBLWCBHBRBMABOBFAIK: "Maybe"? Especially a sweater. It's summer. Oh! Brainwave! Think about it -- what is the ULTIMATE summer accessory, especially with open-toed shoes?

KEIRA: Erm... some sort of man-beard to help fend off his gay rumors? ... Leggings?

OOBLWCBHBRBMABOBFAIK: No, no... think even MORE drama. MORE Sienna. MORE.

KEIRA: Oh, snaps, you sexy pirate tart! BLACK TIGHTS! Genius!

OOBLWCBHBRBMABOBFAIK: Right? In the summer, nothing is as perfect as thick, nubbly black tights!

KEIRA: God, it is perfect.

OOBLWCBHBRBMABOBFAIK: I know -- you are officially one crotch-snapping bodysuit away from making it as impossible as you can to go to the bathroom efficiently. It's so 1990s high-school keg party, I can't even STAND IT.

KEIRA: That Bosworth chick is lucky to have you. If you weren't already teaching her the art of Millering herself silly, I'd yo-ho-ho my way into your trousers like a granny on a pile of prunes!

OOBLWCBHBRBMABOBFAIK: That made no sense, especially as I might not actually BE Orlando Bloom, although I myself haven't even decided that yet... Oh, stop pouting, Kee, I'm teasing. Put your epic jaw away.

Posted by Heather at 03:44 PM | Permalink

Random Fug

If professional guest-star and occasional show-killer Katherine La Nasa (Three Sisters, Greetings from Tucson, Miss Match, Love Monkey... need I continue?) can be a bad-luck charm for television programs, then do you think she might be able to have the same effect on fashion trends?

Because I'm getting very, very tired of people wearing the exact same clothes to movie premieres and breast-cancer fundraisers that they wore to step-aerobics that morning. Doesn't breast cancer at least merit a shower?

Posted by Heather at 03:12 PM in Random Fug | Permalink

One Night In Fuggis

Dear Diary,

I've decided to do some community service so that people will know I love the world, and then love me in return. I'm very excited about it ever since my mother told me that my new sense of purpose totally took five pounds off my hips.

Today, I've decided my community service is: being a metaphor. Isn't that awesome? I got the idea when Brandon was crying to me about how his father called him a filthy leech, and how he wouldn't listen when Brandon sobbed to him that "firecrotch" was really just meant to be some kind of metaphor for Lindsay's inner spirit. Because, HEE, I totally thought he said "megawhore," and once I stopped laughing and agreeing with him (because, Diary, she kissed my ex boyfriend -- I hate it when people touch my castaways), he explained to me that a metaphor is something that, like, means something about something. Do you see?

Well, I see.

So I decided to make a statement. And I chose world peace, all right? Because a lot of really cute boys in uniforms are dying without getting to meet me first and that is the worst. So, look at me: Up top I have this really crazy shirt with all the anchors on it, and on the bottom there are my animal-print shorts, with matching hoodie. And these two things totally don't go together, just like a lot of people in this world who don't understand each other and don't think they go together. But I want to bring these two things together, to show that we totally don't have to be at war, and even if you don't get somebody, you don't have to kill them. Like the time I met somebody from Our Can Saw at a bar. He insisted that's a state, and I didn't believe him because I could swear I saw one of those at a party once and it was a power tool. He said, 'No, it's a place, and I said, 'No, it's not, and I grew up in New York where there are really good schools so I think I'm probably right,' but still, he swore that's an actual state. And did I kill him? Nooooo! I bought him a drink. And let him grab my crotch. (And then slapped him when he tried to kiss me -- like, hello, my mouth is private.) So anyway, even though I sort of ended up slapping him, we were mostly completely fine, and I think the world should be the same way.

And that is what my clothes mean! Sometimes you can wear leopard and anchors and nobody has to get hurt! Can't we all just love each other? Do you think I should offer to wear this to those United Nations of America meetings?

Of course, another reason I wore this is that they're my PJs, and I didn't want to take them off, because I spent all night in them texting Matt Leinart all these awesome "drop anchor" eunuchisms or whatever -- basically, he completely wants to nail me, and I'm going to allow it as soon as his mean bosses stop making him cry by saying shit like,
'What do you want -- football as your job, or foot-jobs for your balls?' and I've seen Flashdance so I know what they're talking about even though I've NEVER done that for him (but, now that they mention it, doesn't it sound fun?). So it was, like, really romantic, and this shirt makes me think of love.

Oh, God, see? I brought it RIGHT BACK around to love. And peace. I am so awesome, Diary. I am full of things to say about things that mean things. I am a walking megawhore! Or whatever that word was.

XOXO,

P

Posted by Heather at 12:51 PM in Paris & Nicky Hilton | Permalink

May 26, 2006

Fugly Trendy

It's a Friday. We're dragging. Everybody needs a little pick-me-up, especially when so many of us have a holiday long weekend dancing in the distance just far enough away that we can't reach out and grab it yet. And so, to make the workday slog at least a little more pleasant until you can sip that first martini, I present to you: Bobby Trendy's latest and greatest hit.

He looks like he just went out into the wilds of Las Vegas and hunted, caught, and skinned that showgirl his own self, and is now wearing the spoils of his labor the way a woodsman might hang a moosehead over the fireplace.

Posted by Heather at 05:24 PM | Permalink

Fugger

Once again, Sharon Stone speaks eloquently on a subject close to her heart:

Her dire need for a hot oil treatment.

Posted by Jessica at 03:54 PM in Sharon Stone | Permalink

Celebrity Skeeve Watch: Jamie Kennedy

It's not that Jamie Kennedy has always been an immaculately groomed Clooney of a gent -- not at all. And that's fine. Not everyone can be that dapper. But the pre-Kutcher prankster has taken something of a surprising left turn lately, going from a carefully careless-looking scamp...

... to a guy who looks exhausted because he spent all week casing your neighborhood, trying to figure out what tree gives him the best vantage point for peeping. This Jamie Kennedy spends his insomniac hours writing My Space blog entries about how you refuse to acknowledge your passion for him, and filming songs he's written for you on his Casio with a WebCam his mother bought him because he told her it was for the chess club. He smells alternately like dandruff, Robitussin, and burnt Parmesan cheese.

We are declaring a Code Yellow on Jamie Kennedy, with the hope that he'll save himself before he blows into Orange Alert Brandon Davis territory, and suddenly begins to believe that being a slobbering pile of human waste is the Holy Grail of personal styles.

Appendix: SKEEVE WATCH TERROR LEVEL CHART

SEVERE:

Kevin Federline

HIGH:

Brandon Davis

ELEVATED:

Michael Madsen

GUARDED:

Wilmer Valderrama

Low:

Jake Gyllenhaal

Posted by Heather at 06:51 AM in Celebrity Terror Watch | Permalink

May 25, 2006

Bonnie and Fug

This is so very painful for me.  The last person in the world I want to fug is Faye Dunaway, because I love her so very much. She's a great actress, of course, but she's also so very interesting, and I have always sort of wanted to be her protege in bitchery. I feel like we would sit around her pool in terribly fabulous dressing gowns and good shoes and really huge sunglasses, drinking bloody marys and saying mean things about our underlings.  Part of this impression comes from having read her autobiography, which is brilliant and which she clearly wrote without the help of a ghost writer, since it wanders all over the place in a totally delightful way [which lead to sentences much like, "Working with Polanski was difficult in some ways, but I loved working with Jack. I also love fried chicken. But I never got to eat it when I was on set. Anyway, I don't want to talk about Roman anymore." Brilliant.] I also love her for a story that's currently floating around, which is probably not true, but which is still awesome: whilst Ms Dunaway was making The Starlet, she was picked up one morning by a [probably scared shitless] PA. And she came out to the car in full on movie star sunglasses, and didn't say a word, and they were driving to the set, and the PA turns on the turn signal to, you know, turn right or whatever, and, from the back seat, at last, comes The Voice. And it says, "Can't you turn that thing DOWN?"

Anyone who asks if the car's turn signal can be turned down is all right by me, is what I am saying. So, long story not very much shorter at all, I love her, and this is very hard for me:

Well, that's...not so bad, right? The shoes are good. The color is good. The...okay, the cut is kind of wacky.  What's with all those crazy, crazy pleats on the hips?

But maybe it's better from the back!

AACK! No. She appears to be emerging from inside a drawstring gift bag.

This is particularly hard for me because La Dunaway is generally so very chic. I mean, look at her back in the day:

DON'T EMAIL ME, I know this is in costume for Bonnie and Clyde, BUT, according to Ms Dunaway's aforementioned biography, she and costume designer Theadora Van Runkle [who also styled her in real life -- they were sort of the Rachel Zoe and Nicole Richie of the late 60s and early 70s, except, you know, both of them were talented] worked very closely together to create Bonnie's look, and it certainly because a trend, so I'm giving her some credit.  The woman is pulling off a beret AND a scarf worn bandana style. That takes SKILLZ. CRAZY skillz. So where did it all go wrong, Faye? Where?

Posted by Jessica at 12:44 PM | Permalink

Fug Aiken

For so long, America was locked in a nationally terrifying stalemate. Acclaimed actress Annette  Bening and curiously milquetoast yet strangely obsession-spawning singer Clay Aiken had become, however unlikely, one and the same.

I figured it would be Bening who blinked first and backed off their bleached, spiky common ground -- if for no other reason than the fact that the aforementioned little square of acreage was probably hotly vied for by a bunch of screaming, loin-quivering American Idol fans for whom he is an unflagging beacon of heterosexuality.

But no.

Unfortunately for Clay, I'm not sure that going from The Bening to something closer to Green Day-meets-k.d. lang is really a move in the right direction. Emo-rock "I've just been soaked by the cruel cold rain of my own pain" hair really just looks like a bad wig on him.

Someone needs to step up to the plate and match him lock-for-lock. That way, we we can enjoy another round of "Who Blinks First?" before Aiken finally crumbles and gets a long, curly Tyra Banks weave.

Posted by Heather at 11:35 AM | Permalink

 

eXTReMe Tracker