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.

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.

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.

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?

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

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.

Fugger

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

Her dire need for a hot oil treatment.

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

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?

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.

Northern Fugposure

The mussed, wavy hair, the deeply crooked smile, the awkward and forced machismo of his snug jeans and bow-legged stance, the open shirt, the hasty leather vest, the unbelievably creepy facial hair... Oh, dear God, it's happening: attention-hungry John Corbett is trying to turn himself into Katie Holmes, Tom Cruise, and Keith Urban all rolled into one.

Fugabella Rossellini

I am speechless.

It was only a year ago that we fugged Randy Quaid for a similar atrocity; Ms. Rossellini, do I really have to tell you that you should not live by Randy Quaid's example? You are Isabella freaking Rossellini. I don't care if you're starting to look oddly like Mike Myers with every day -- you are not supposed to engage in tunic-and-trousers terrorism.

We are at Defcon 1.

Monica Befugcci

I've never quite gotten Monica Bellucci. I can recognize that she is a lovely woman, but she's not a traffic-stopping exotic stunner to me even though I've heard her referenced as such. Unlike with, say, Catherine Zeta-Jones, whose effortless glamour always captivates me, my gaze always drifts past Monica Bellucci without registering. It never stops on her -- she never grabs me and makes me stare because of the charisma or rare beauty she possesses. In fact, all I can ever summon up about her is that she is a brunette, and she is married to Vincent Cassel, who was funny in Elizabeth and extremely flexible in Ocean's Twelve.

But, I'll give Monica props for catching my eye here:

What, may I inquire, is that? Did someone shoot a bird that had landed on her dress? Is the gown itself made from fabric depicting Christmas lights that she once considered as material for a tree skirt? Why did the jeweller loan her a necklace that drops down her cleavage instead of laying gracefully against all the other exposed real estate to the north? And why is there a camel belt around her waist?

And also, Mon, one final reason why CZJ has it all over you: On her deathbed you would never catch Catherine Zeta-Jones with hair that stringy. Somewhere, there's a Kling-On extra from Star Trek going, "Hey... I think that's my old hairpiece!"

Fuggie Antoinette

"Father, father! Fraulein Maria's come back from the Abbey!"

Kiki may be wondering what, exactly, she has to do to get in our fashion good books. And to that I say: The skirt of the gown isn't bad, but the top -- particularly those sleeves -- looks poorly sewn and restrictive, and I'm a little concerned that she might not have seized this prime opportunity to wear a good bra (but, I can't tell for sure, so maybe that's a step forward in itself).

Still, with the reported fervor with which it's rumored she's approached her Cannes appearances -- desperate to make a splash and look as flawless as possible at every one of them -- I expected something less frumpy and staid. And, Kiki, why truss up your noggin with a red dye job and extensions just to pile it into a phenomenally unflattering Swiss Miss updo on your big night? Let the mane flow like you did at the photo call. This is no time to squander a striking, standout change and turn yourself into a governess.

The Fug's Daughter

Hot Mess of the Decade Tara Reid is getting messier, although absolutely not hotter:

This is just not...it's just...not....this is just so bad.  And it's not bad in, like, a fun, dumb, chaps-wearing, fur-turban-sporting,  Posh Spice way. It's bad in like a bad, tacky, sad, I Have To Stop And Pick Up Some Ointment, Barefoot in the Esso Bathroom Britney way. Tara, honey, there's a reason no one is hiring you anymore. It's because you're too old -- and look way too rough -- for teen roles, and you haven't fixed yourself up to look like you're suited for any kind of Rom-Com roles at all.

Now, listen, I've seen you deskeezed (okay, like, maybe twice, but still), and you're still cute! You clean up...better than one would expect! Look around! Do you see Rachel McAdams out and about dressed like she just crawled home from a foam party in Ibiza? Is your American Pie contemporary Alyson Hannigan photographed looking like she's been styled solely using cast-offs from streetwalker's White Elephant sale? Does Reese Witherspoon ever FLASH HER TITS? No, no, and she'd rather shoot Ryan in the kneecaps first.

And yet all you do is complain that no one takes you seriously, and why are people so mean to you about all your partying, and why can't you get a job? But here's the thing: you do have a choice. You can either: a) give up on acting, retreat into semi-obscurity, socialize solely with celebutantes 10 years younger than you are,  drink and tan your face completely off, and let your floo-flog hang out all over town, OR b) you can decide that you want to work again as something other than a punchline to a mean joke, and you can put on some sunscreen and some pants, spend a month in Promises, get your publicist to sell "TARA REID'S SECRET PAIN: And Her Triumphant Victory Over Low Self-Esteem" to People Magazine, start showing up places fully dressed like an adult woman, dig out your agent's number and get to work .

In other words, as Heather said to me once, "sack up, ho."

Fugly's Reasons Why Not

I realize that Heather Graham is, well, Heather Graham. And that I should show her mercy, because being one of the worst parts of a relatively well-liked movie trilogy like Austin Powers -- and in a role that should have been hard to screw up -- is a tough cross to bear, as is the spectacular failure of her terrible ABC sitcom that bombed despite a marketing campaign so pervasive they all but silkscreened the billboards to my pillowcases. [Cue the headlines: Emily's Reasaons Why Not ... To Watch This Show.]

At any rate, that and the fact that she wore the following to a Diesel event -- and was therefore probably asked to wear it -- almost rescued her from appearing on this page.

Almost.

Even if she was asked to wear that monstrosity, it's she who said yes, and she who slipped it on, and she who posed for photos instead of hiding herself behind the nearest clothing rack; ergo, it's she who bears the responsibility. Not that she doesn't have the figure to pull it off -- she is divinely curvy here -- but because thing is truly stupid.

For a moment I thought perhaps she had it on backwards, and that the bizarre pelvic flap was in fact supposed to go over her derriere, in some sort of risky and strange homage to the bathroom escape hatch in footie pajamas. That wouldn't have made it any better, certainly, but at least more readily explicable. As it is, we just have to sit back and sigh at the quadra-boob it's giving her as she strains against that hastily tied black ribbon -- a tenuous yoke on which her last gasp of modesty relies.

... Man. Seriously? I can't get over it: That is a supremely fugly, fugly crime against denim. I believe the wife of the mayor of Fugtopia wore that to his inauguration.

Fuggy the Vampire Slayer

We haven't seen Sarah Michelle Gellar in a while, presumably because she was keeping her head in the sand while Freddie Prinze, Jr., embarrassed the family with his (mercifully cancelled -- sorry, Brian Austin Green) ABC sitcom. But now that her long national nightmare is over, I'm surprised that her reappearance in the public eye is so lackluster.

She looks emaciated in that dress, which is a glorified shapeless sack cinched carelessly around her frame. The sleeves look like badly glued appliques. And, possibly, her facial muscles have forgotten how to smile, ostensibly from being forced first to take the paycheck and run in the Scooby Doo abominations, and then run odious lines with her husband ad nauseum, before she could return to pimping her own career safe in the knowledge that her name has a much tinier chance now of being linked in public to the italicized word "Freddie."

So buck up, Sarah. Things aren't so bad, unless of course your film Southland Tales is. But let's not get ahead of ourselves: Buy a dress that fits, do as Miss Tyra instructs -- stand in front of the mirror to practice smiling at yourself -- and eat some complex carbohydrates while repeating after me: "There is success after Buffy... There is success after Buffy..."

Fugovision Song Contest

Every year at about this time, all of Europe goes insane for the Eurovision song contest, cheering for each country's entry into what could be termed a one-night international American Idol marathon with more language barriers, loud and drunken reveling, culture clashes, crazy clothes, and camp value.

What happens is, the participating countries hold their own national contests to determine what musical act will represent them at Eurovision, and then (as of 2004, anyway) there is first a semi-final and then a final hosted by the country that last won. There is some sort of voting process that I believe is viewer-driven. Famous past winners: ABBA with "Waterloo," and Celine Dion, singing for Switzerland for some reason. Although the genius of the contest is better examplified by the Belgian act that came in second in 2003 by singing a song in an imaginary language. It's awesome. Just try and imagine Katharine McPhee getting anywhere by standing before Simon Cowell and crooning in tongues.

The reason for my rambling: I am devastated that nobody in the U.S., not even BBC America, televises any of Eurovision. Because that is why I missed the live display -- as opposed to the welcome yet not-quite-the-same blurry YouTube version -- from this year's Finnish winner, Lordi:

Lordi dresses itself -- primarily with the aid of reindeer fur -- as different monsters from different eras. Although presumably even the undead have an enduring sense of patriotic pride, as evidenced by the zombie whose face is rotting off, yet whose head is adorned with a kicky little Finland top hat, as if he is threatening here to break into a series of cabaret-style high kicks before he flosses his teeth with your intestines. And Mummy Of The Bride over there just seems so endearingly thrilled to be clutching that bouquet of spring life in his decaying arms. Fantastic.

Crushingly, iTunes hasn't figured out how to let me buy things in Euros (please, iTunes, get on that immediately), or else I'd be all over Lordi's album -- titled, of course, The Arockalypse, and filled with kicky death metal songs entitled "The Night Of The Loving Dead," "Chainsaw Buffet," "Bringing Back The Balls To Rock," "It Snows In Hell," and of course the Eurovision-winning tune, "Hard Rock Hallelujah." And Finland is going insane for these guys -- four different versions of "Hard Rock Hallelujah" are in the Finnish iTunes Top 10 Songs list. I absolutely cherish the idea that the Finnish people want the world to see five huge guys dressed up as punk Skeletors and think, "Oh, man, that is so Finland." I secretly -- okay, not so secretly -- love Lordi deeply even though they look completely insane.

By contrast, here is what contestant Jane Comerford from Germany wore:

She is Glinda the Good Witch as portrayed by the ghost of Tammy Wynette (which, if that were true, would at least give her something to talk about with Lordi: death). Jane is part of a band called Texas Lightning singing a country song. She is actually Australian, too, which just makes me love that fug hotspot even more. I'm unclear on why exactly she is representing the Germans, but that's the best thing about Eurovision: Who cares? All I know is, I never trust a woman with marabou straps unless her name is Alexis Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan and she is threatening to take away my South China Sea oil leases.

Severina, the Croatian entry, opted for a marginally less modest ensemble.

Lil' Kim would be proud. Then she'd be hopping mad, having been beaten at her own game by a randy brunette singing with four members of a Croatian boys' choir. Then she'd punch the wall of her cell, and then she'd sit through a few weeks of prison-sponsored rage therapy, wherein she would learn to conquer her rising bile not through violence, but by vowing to call Severina's stylist as soon as she is sprung from the slammer and hire her to create a wardrobe for the Lil' Kim freedom tour.

The point of my rambling entry is, I suppose, that whatever your particular tastes are in fug, Eurovision will cater to them. And that is precisely why it's so upsetting that we don't get to see it ourselves in the beautiful clarity of broadcast TV. Sorry, but broadband video snippets aren't quite the same. Where are the random, barely programmable cable stations when you need them? Snap to it, MTV9! Come on, VH-2! I can TiVo it if you burn it off in the wee hours. Just please don't deny us a place at the fug feast.

I think that says it all, don't you?

I wonder if they do weddings. Brangelina, any interest?

Letter of Fug: The Refuggening

Hi, y'all.

Sigh.  It's been a while since we talked, I guess. I just haven't felt like writing much lately. (Kevin is reading this over my shoulder and he just went, "or showering." I hate him. ARE YOU READING THIS STILL, KEVIN? I SAID I HATE YOU.  I REALLY MEAN IT.

Okay. He went into the other room. I bet you ten dollars to do drugs, even though I told him that was NOT ALLOWED ANYMORE. I didn't even know he could read. Or make jokes. Although I don't think that one was funny AND the reason I don't get to shower very often is because every time I leave the room my baby falls on his head and then the police come and HOW DID I GET IN SUCH A MESS?)

So I don't have very much time to talk to you because Jamie Lynn is only watching Sean Preston until she has to leave for some party at Cameron Diaz's house. She promised me she would slip Justin the security code to the main house here in Malibu just in case he wants to come over and see me or kill Kevin in a jealous rage even though I do not advocate murder but I think she is just humoring me because she also didn't say anything mean when I left the house with my thong and my bra hanging out the back of my top and if that wasn't a cry for help like Dr. Phil talks about I don't know what is.

Anyway. I'm having another baby. Even though I keep screwing up with this one and no one will help me figure out what I am supposed to be doing. I am NOT EVEN 24 YEARS OLD, Y'ALL. I need some HELP. I need some ADVICE. All everyone is doing is making fun of me for not knowing how to install a car seat, like have you ever tried to read the instructions for one of those things? I think they write them in some foreign language and then translate them back to American. And I am pretty sure that everyone drops a baby now and then -- SERIOUSLY -- because babies are squirmy and you know what? I wasn't even the one who DROPPED him, that was SOMEONE ELSE.  And I fired her and I don't know what else I am supposed to be doing and no one will help me with any of it and now I'm having another one and I am sure I will love it but I ONLY HAVE TWO ARMS.

And just between you and me, I was totally going to divorce him and then I found out I was all knocked up again, like HOW MAGIC IS HIS SPERMY STUFF? It's like RADIOACTIVATED or something.

But you should know that I am thinking about...things.

Because there are people who have babies with no husband, right? Like Meg Ryan has that cute Chinese baby now. And Angelina Jolie! She had TWO babies with no husband. And so does Sharon Stone and I am pretty sure that I am way smarter than Sharon Stone.  So I am not saying that I am going to DO ANYTHING like that, AT ALL, but I am saying that I am aware that OTHER PEOPLE do things like that ALL THE TIME. If you KNOW what I MEAN.

Do you know what I mean? I mean I am going to be saying POPOZAO to that freeloader before you know it and BOY IS HE GOING TO BE SORRY.

Random Scrolldown Fug

I'm not a huge fan of feathers, but as dresses go, Corinne Touzet wasn't doing that horribly...

... until it erupted into an outfit ripped from the pages of Bride of Beelzebub magazine.

Fug Skin

I am not quite sure what's going on here:

She looks sort of like the lovechild of Stevie Nicks and Blackbeard, taking the walk of shame home after a hard night partying on the vessel of family friend Captain Morgan, during which she utterly and embarrassingly decimated his legendary rum stash.

And we're not talking about how  this outfit gives her what looks suspiciously like a baby bump, because it's Friday, and we don't need another excuse to break open our own rum barrels.

Brandon Fuggis

It's well-documented by now what Brandon Davis was filmed saying about Lindsay Lohan -- lengthy and numerous rants disparaging her private parts and their cleanliness, announcing that he is disgusted with how poor she is because she is only worth $7 million, and spitting that he would never, ever sleep with her, before asking the videographer, "Would YOU [sleep with] her?" All the while Paris Hilton is choking on her own laughter, because there's nothing at all trashy about her.

Even though we are upset with Lindsay over her recent fashion choices and painful adherence to The Evil Legging, we can't condone his particular breed of vileness. So in the spirit of turnabout being fair play: I wouldn't sleep with this man. Would you sleep with this man?

Imagine it: Just you and Tubby, rolling around in the massive oil slick generated by his pores. And the most glorious part is, you could go at it all day and all night, because unlike Lindsay -- who is destitute with that $7 mil she has earned -- Brandon doesn't actually work for a living or contribute to society in any way at all beyond spurring an increase in Lysol sales. Doesn't a fling with him just sound like squalid heaven? Right!

I find it divine that he's insisting certain foul things about La Lohan's private parts when his are almost certainly so greasy that if you wrung them out, you could deep-fry a turkey. Mischa Barton, once pitiable for allowing him to touch her in intimate ways, must now be considered something of an American hero for turfing his putrescent ass (even if she did take up with someone else who is questionable in similar ways).

In fact, if you are a woman who has not given in to Brandon's condescending grease-pig charms, stand up and pat yourself on the back and then go buy yourself something pretty, because you are sane, rational, and smart. And Lindsay, if his spewed bile about your temporary interest in his bloated genitals is true, then consider this a wake-up call (just your luck, indeed) and file an immediate insanity plea with yourself. He is that damaging high-school jerk who lacks any redeeming qualities, any humanity, and any deodorant, yet still somehow has this insane power to make people hate themselves with just one sentence. Distance yourself from the dead-eyed vacancy of a trust-fund zombie cloaked in the grime of his own sedentary, fruitless existence, and for the love of God, take a break from the party circuit and the fetid, juvenile, detention-hall hell it's become.

Also, I am sure that I hate what Brandon is wearing - it's guilty by association.

Fuggee

Remember that show Emme used to do on E!? With Leon "Eyebrows" Hall -- whom I secretly loved and wanted to drink cocktails with, while trading bitchy comments -- and that British lady with the long, long ponytail? And all the make-overs? I don't remember what it was called (Wear Better Outfits, With Emme? Makeovers and Stuff? Fashion Police? It was Fashion Police, right?), but I enjoyed it, and I liked Emme. 

So this makes me somewhat sad:

She's so cute, but what's with the Hair of Great Severity and the Wrap of Tremendous, Possibly Carmelite, Seriousness? It's like, from the waist down, she's taking her kids to a fun pool party at her friend Kathy's house, where the kids will get to swim, and she and Kathy will get to drink margaritas and talk about whether they would go with Patrick Dempsey or Chris O'Donnell if they were Meredith Grey, and from the waist up, she's been spending a lot of time thinking about how to solve a problem like Maria.

For the record, I'm pretty sure Maria would vote for going with O'Donnell, but she'd have to put some serious thought into it.

My Fug School Musical

I can't tell if this is just an awful, awful homage to Olivia Newton John in Grease, where she deploys tight shiny pants and heels in order to win back big dumb lug John Travolta and thereby freeing him from the cruel freakish prison of a varsity sweater (the horror, the HORROR), or if Ashley Tisdale just figured that the premiere of a movie called Surf School didn't require actually getting properly dressed.

There is also something awfully Peldon about her overlong t-shirt that reads, "DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR" -- especially the way that, coming from her, you figure it's just a message for that bitch in her on-set chem tutoring session who tried to steal all her answers and then shoved her tongue down the tutor's throat even though she FULLY knew Ashley had called dibs on him, and they're never going to speak again and Ashley just wants her to know that she would rather DIE than disrespect the Rules of Dibs.

Speaking of the Peldons, what do they have to say about all this?

Nothing. Not a bloody thing. They had the gall to show up after two months on the lam, or whatever it was, and actually look decent. Normal, even. This photo reminds me of a box my parents re-use every Christmas: white cardboard, decorated on the sides, emblazoned on the front with colorful, huge letters that say, "DOES NOT CONTAIN WHAT YOU HAD HINTED FOR."

[Amazingly, never once in the 20-odd years we've used that box has it borne the frustrated red pen scars of a quick but vicious grammatical edit from My Mother The English Major.]

So in that sense, thanks, Courtney and Brown, because it's nice to see that you're still out there Peldoning about, but this photo does not contain that for which our APB had hinted (man, grammar is so awkward sometimes). What we really wanted was some crazy. Capital-C Crazy. We wanted "my stylist is Crispin Glover and my coat is made of rat tails, Q-tips, and the hair of a virgin" insanity. Come on! If we can't trust the Peldons to loon it up at the merest hint of red in a nearby carpet, then what or whom CAN we trust?

Fugga Herzigova

At the premiere of The Da Vinci Code, Victoria's Secret model Eva Herzigova ensured her mystery was far simpler to decipher:

She looks like Tinkerbell at the prom.

.

I especially enjoy that she has to clutch that piece of fabric between her legs, or tape it there, so that a brisk wind doesn't make her ladyparts a matter of public record. And yet, at this point, why even bother with the modesty flap? Just get Fred Leighton to bling it up and call it jewelry.

Or, better, stencil the number of her waxer on it. In fact, the mighty crotch's full potential as a billboard really hasn't been tapped. I'm sure we could get some more celebs on board. Paris Hilton has just been waiting for the day someone will pay her to display a Red Bull logo on her worst-kept secret.

Fug My Fugly

Listen, Lohan.

I know you're distraught over our falling out -- although I must remind you that IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT -- but wearing a pillowcase out and about isn't going to help anyone.

The Fugly Diaries

The rest of Scarlett Johansson's outfit from this photo doesn't matter; it's a gray suit, worn while shooting The Nanny Diaries, and it's fine. But what vexes me is what the costumer has done to her feet:

This is The Nanny Diaries, not The Nana Diaries, right? I get that a childcare professional who runs around after the young 'uns might want wear comfortable footwear rather than cute footwear, and that sometimes to walk without agony from A to far-off B in New York City people change into shoes that will pound the sidewalk with greater shock absorption. I do understand. So aside from its outright fuglyness, it confuses me that nothing about that hideous Smileville Friendship Convalescent Center sock-and-shoe combo even looks particularly comfortable. Not to be all actory about it, but what exactly is her motivation?

However, my bigger concern is that this will somehow sneak its way into real life. So tread carefully, dreaded costumer. If you in any way push fashion in this direction, I am going to shake my fist and put a pox on you henceforth. DO YOU HEAR ME? A POX!

Fuggis Hilton

Dear Dairy Divey DiarrheaHAHAHA Diary (phew),

That Girls Gone Wild dude had a birthday, so I decided to go, because I am a girl, and I'm totally wild, and, like, every guy who's ever seen me naked has totally looked at me that night and said, "Paris you're COMPLETELY gone," so I guess I am ALSO that. And, Nicky said she wasn't going to go, so that made my decision for me, since I'm sick of us posing together because even though we look kind of alike and I wonder sometimes if we are secretly sisternal twins or whatever, we are NOT identical twins, so we don't need to act like Mary-Kate and Ashley and stand next to each other all the time. I mean, God. Sometimes I just want to be all, "Nicky, do YOU have a fragrance?" and then, like, brush past her on the red carpet and go to a party that ONLY I am invited to and NOBODY ELSE except for a bunch of dudes and maybe Rachel Zoe or something because even though she's nice and likes to party, no one will want her instead of me because she is totally way too old to be having sex -- I think she's like 40 even though she says she isn't, and that's the age when I told Nicky I want to be put to sleep, and come to think of it, that is TOTALLY something only OLD people do, so why is it called youthinasia? Did it start in, like, the Asia party circuit? That sounds pretty rad actually.

Ahem. Anyway, so I figured Joe's party would be a good time to hit the circuit and troll for dudes with my new cleavage everyone is talking about -- I got bored with that Stabby Nachos dude and all that dumb relationship stuff, so I decided to go outside with my shirt hanging open to get everyone talking about whether I had implants. I am so smrt! To make sure everyone stares at it and not at my gold sneakers, I totally wore a cropped vest over my shirt -- it was Nicky's idea. She said something about how if I wore a short vest with a really long black tunic thingy pulled down over my hips, everyone would stare at me in disbelief, and that's awesome, because my cleavage is unbelievable... unbelivably hott!

Did I actually get implants? Ha! Silly Diary! I'll never tell, Diary, not even you! Because I don't trust that you won't go talking to Lindsay Hohan (hee) or Nicole Bitchie (hahahahahahahaha) or The Wimpsons (I am AWESOME today!!!!) or Icky Hilton (HAA, oh wait, that's Nicky -- I shouldn't say that about her because she totally holds back my hair still when I'm detoxifying).

So you'll just have to guess if my boobs are real any more... although if that dude with the big teeth plays his cards right he will totally know if they're real, if you know what I mean, and I think you do! (I'm going to nail him, is what I mean.) He kept staring at me with these huge eyes and at first it was scary because he didn't blink but after a while it turned super hott, because he obviously is in love with me and I am a really sweet and giving person and so I walked up to him and wrote my number on his year and told him that I love gnawing on carrots, and that I knew of a cool rabbit hole he could explore. Isn't that hott? I used that exact same line on Man Paris, although I don't want anyone to know that -- especially the dude with the big teeth. I want him to think he's my first. He's totally going to call, Diary. They all call.

Dangling some carrots (heee, I'm so naughty),

P

Tracy Fuggins

Every morning, on my way to work, I pass a billboard for some television movie ostensibly starring Tracy Scoggins. And every morning, I think the exact same thing: "Tracy Scoggins is still alive?"

Apparently, she's not only still alive, she is in the midst of a full-fledged fug rampage:

Double-you tee eff, as the kids say.

Her shirt seems to read, "Stare: It'd Be Rude If You Didn't."   Personally, I would have gone with, "Stare: Why Else Do You Think I'm Wearing This Monstrosity?" or "Stare: IF YOU WANT TO GO BLIND." But that's just me.

Fug Soup

Fab legs, Aisha. And great shoes. But that weird pointilist nightmare of a dress is so short, I can tell what your fallopian tubes are doing.

Well Played, For A Millisecond: Fergie

I'm not happy about what I'm about to do.

This whole thing reminds me of the deal with me and wedges. When wedges came back in, I hated them. They seemed so '70s to me, and not in a way I wanted to revisit. For some reason they struck such a visceral chord of distaste within me. I liked my heels separate from my shoes, and I really didn't like them made from something that's better served plugging a wine bottle until I'm ready to open it. "I am NOT buying a wedge, I don't care HOW hard Lucky and Steve Madden try to push me," I proclaimed on more than one occasion. "And don't even get me STARTED on those damn espadrilles that are coming in again."

Well, of course, then I started accidentally admiring wedges on people, and making tiny exceptions to my firm anti-wedge stance. And then suddenly I owned something sort of wedgey, and poof, fast-forward to April, when I bought some espadrille-wedgey things that tie around the ankle for my honeymoon and I had to check with my friend Carrie that I wasn't crazy and that they didn't look all that vile, and she confirmed they really were cute on, and suddenly there I was with a fusion of two hated things burning a hole in my suitcase. I felt dirty. And I wore them constantly when I was away.

I thought of this when the following photo flashed across my computer screen this morning.

Will you look at that? Fergie looks... classy. And pretty. The dress fits her in the most flattering places, she accessorized it really tastefully, her hair looks washed and brushed, there are no horrid little braids or formal shorts or C-3PO boots in sight, she appears momentarily sober and able to stand upright under her own power... in the immortal words of Wentworth Miler on Ellen, "Brava, brava."

WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?

I grappled with this all morning. Was this the first step down a treacherous, slippery Fergie slope? Would I wake up in a month unfugging her all over the place and saying to myself, "You know, she does rock a 24-inch zipper on her shorts"? Would Jessica try to talk some sense into me, leading to me locking myself in my bedroom with copies of Us Weekly out of which I would lovingly cut photos of Fergie, knowing it was just her and me against the world -- a cold, cruel world that didn't understand legwarmers and pants-wettings? Would she have to tie me to a tree and stage an intervention, a carefrontation, in which all my friends baited me until I broke and then patched me back together again?

Then I realized that I've held strong against the Black-Eyed Peas for their entire gnawing existence. I've been tough on leggings. I won't stand for dresses over pants. And my crusade against overlong pants that eat a girl's feet has marched on with vigor. So there's no reason to think Fergie will break me -- Fergie, the bane (and, therefore, the life-giving manna) of much of GFY's existence. There's no reason to think she'll weaken my resolve. And there's no reason to think that when I go see Poseidon, I will suddenly find myself weeping inconsolably when she is (please please please please) crushed by a falling piano.

And thusly, I slapped some sense into myself, because so few bid a lasting adieu to The Fug and certainly Fergie won't be that kind of pioneer. It felt right to be strong and give credit where credit is due. So congratulations, Josh Duhamel, you kept her clean and pretty for the duration of the pre-premiere red carpet. I salute you. If you can keep up this good work, we can finally go out for that romantic dinner you've always been after. Okay? Great.

ALL POINTS BULLETIN: Find Our Fug

Have you seen this woman?

Neither have we.  And frankly, dear readers, we are getting worried. As recently as the Oscars, Courtney Peldon could be found attending the opening of an eye.  And yet she hasn't been photographed for going on six weeks! This is like the Normal Person equivalent of not leaving your house for 7-9 months.  We've had a high level GFY Security Council meeting about this issue (Intern George, whom Heather and I could not bear to let go, took notes), and we've come up with some possible reasons for Our Fug Queen's alarming absence:
a) Beset by rage and jealousy over her engagement to Crispin Glover, Peldon's former paramour Jason Davis kidnapped her and is now keeping her locked in the basement at Casa Davis. He's also forcing Brandon Davis to guard her 20 hours a day, which explains why Brandon has no time to wash his hair.
b) She's terribly busy planning her wedding to McFly. It's quite a complicated event, involving a team of trained rats carrying her 40-foot train. Brown Peldon will officiate, but she will be rapping rather than speaking.
c) She's been on a lengthy conference call with Brown Peldon and Bai Ling, trying to figure out how to make leggings look sufficiently skank-ola. They have already rejected the following suggestions: making them out of mesh, cutting out the ass, and wearing them soaking wet. Currently on the table: cutting them up the sides and then putting them together again with giant safety pins. Bai thinks this is too demure, Brown thinks it is too Hair Metal. They are at an impasse.
d) She got stabbed again, but no one bothered to tell us.

No matter what the reason, one thing is clear: we kind of miss the kid.

Fugga Jovovich

Milla Jovovich has her own clothing line.

Why am I concerned?

Don't blindly trust this woman, this "designer," or else you, too, might end up wearing a shirt that reminds me of an old summer bedspread my parents had, a ratty denim skirt that looks like Britney Spears broke it in before handing it off, an old birthday party balloon pulled around your waist, and the dreaded fashion terrorist we call leggings.

Tread carefully.

Fugse

Some say celebrities are self-centered. I say, it was really thoughtful of Lisa Edelstein to wander out of the Big Bingo Happy Hour at Red Lobster in order to attend this benefit.

Good Fugger

I secretly love Kenan Thompson. Back when I was a baby-sitter, and he was on the Nick 'tween sketch show All That, I may have occasionally forced my charges to watch it when they really wanted to watch Aladdin for the fifth time. I certainly watched the show he did with Kel "Dance 360" Mitchell, Kenan and Kel. And I may, in fact, have actually seen Good Burger. Twice.  So I was pleased when he was added to the cast of Saturday Night Live.  And amused by what I imagined was Kel's reaction to this news (namely, blind jealous fury; rampant, uncalled-for abuse of DJ K-Sly on the Dance 360 set; and a misguided theft of the show's $360 prize money, which financed only 1/23th of his planned, New-York-bound Road Trip of Rage). Which is why I am unhappy to see that sweet, funny Kenan is showing up places dressed like a doorman.

Seriously. It's like he's just about to hail me a cab.

Fug of the Hill

Thoroughly tired of going to parties and finding herself inappropriately dressed for the rash of impromptu gynecological exams that contantly break out -- who hasn't suffered that indignity, really -- Brittany Murphy came to this shindig properly prepared for a drunk, willful pap smear.

Stars -- they're just like us! They dress stirrup-ready!

Random Fug

If Google is to be believed, this Kathleen de Leon person is in some kind of band by the name of Hi-5. She is dressed as if it's "High-5." But the nice thing is, if you pull her tassel, the butler shows up and offers you a cocktail.

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.

Fugployee of the Month

Oompa-loompa doompety-doo
I've got another fugging for you.
Oompa-loompa-dumbety-dee
Tanorexic fame-whores are frightening to me.

What do you do when your affairs are a mess,
And the press has been siding with your cuckolded ex?
Spray yourself gold and fluff up your cleav,
'Cause that's all the tricks you've got up your sleeve.

But hair and skin should never maaaaaaatch....

Oompa-loompa talentless hack
Before you buy those orphans, at least dye yourself back.
But even Foreign Baby Love can't redeem you --
Sorry, but that's what overpublicized marriage, a horrible show, calculated stupidity, genuine stupidity, a horrible movie performance, a year of fake public appearances before a bitter divorce rife with rumors of your infidelities, a brilliant PR campaign by your husband, that hideous "Angels" cover, and having no friends in the world besides your hairdresser (although, look at yourself -- is he REALLY your friend?) because even your father is more interested in Ashlee now will DOOMPETY-DO.

Random Fug

Amanda Keller is the host of a brilliantly named Aussie TV show called, I kid you not, Mongo Thingo. And that pairing of words -- or "words," since I'm not entirely sure either one actually counts for real in that category -- is the best I can think of to describe this getup. It's both totally mongo and a dreadful thingo. She looks like the star of the new ballet The Dirty Harry Suite, which she costumed by borrowing her father's too-big cowboy boots and pairing it with a funeral petticoat. And I'm not sure what that jolly tableau on her handbag signifies -- perhaps it's an image from the emotional climax of the ballet, in which Dirty Harry defies expectations by creating a literal baseball farm-league and teaching all the local urchins to hit a fastball.

Editor's note: Apparently the show is called Mondo Thingo, not Mongo, which makes more sense. However, in my heart, it will always be Mongo, and it will always drift through my head with the sound of Cleavon Little chirping, "Candygram for Mongo," accompanied by an ensuing image of Amanda Keller turning to the camera lens and saying in a growly man-voice, "Mongo like candy," and, later, "Mongo only pawn in game of life." Because really, that's what the show should have been, and I will now mourn the lost possibilities.

Fugperate Fugwives

It's pretty well-documented how we here at GFY feel about Marcia Cross. Love the hair, love the acting even though we hate the show, love the lesbian rumors, love the potentially connected lack of interest she's showing in her upcoming wedding, love her skin, love her figure, love her resume. She was Dr. Kimberly Shaw, and as we all know, Dr. Kimberly Shaw doesn't just cut a bitch -- she mows down and/or explodes a bitch. And so we stand behind Marcia Cross against the world, especially The Hatch, any time we're required to do so.

However, we can't always give her a free pass...

Dr. Kimberly Shaw would hate this. She wouldn't stand for a dress that gives her a phantom pot belly and pulls against her thighs in an achingly unflattering fabric tug-of-war, topped off with a filmy drape that looks like an exotic wedding veil gone wrong.

You know who would wear this overwrought piece of sausage casing? The Baroness. You know who I mean: blonde, Austrian, thick drawn-on brown eyebrows, tried to get Maria out of Captain Von Trapp's life by sneaky means so she could marry into his money and then send the kids off to boarding school while she stood on the patio in her ball gowns cackling merrily between drags of the cigarette dangling from its stylish holder... that Baroness.

And as much as this realization almost saves the dress, because the evil Baroness kind of rules, in the end Marcia and her Viennese Golddigger couture can't win because satin -- 95% of the time -- is a bigger enemy even than Dr. Michael Mancini.

Fug Through This

As always, there are two sides to every story:

On one side: her skin looks good.
On the other: what's with the gigantor belt buckle?

On one side: her body is looking great -- slender, but not skinny
On the other: I don't quite know about those boots.

On one side: I really like her shirt.
On the other: Is it supposed to be all gaping open like that?

On one side: Do we care if it's a little gape-y? She's Courtney Love, and it's very cute otherwise!
On the other: blah blah blah shorts blah blah blah

On one side: Sunglasses at night!
On the other:  Eh, let's just be happy there are no homeless men suckling at her bosum, shall we?

The Fug Whisperer

Since she started communing with dead people on a regular basis -- which I realize is part of a fictional show, but the people at CBS apparently do not, as they recently sponsored commercial segments in which she answers as herself viewer questions about interacting with the dead; next they'll be selling on eBay the right to have your taxes done by Dav1d Krumh0ltz -- Jennifer Love Hewitt has more often than not made some dodgy fashion choices. Consider this: Us Weekly named her "Best Hollywood Body," or some similar compliment, so what did J.Lo.Hew do? She showed up in this:

I love that color. The dress is not far off from being cute, honestly; I just find it fascinating that Ms. Lo.Hew attended a celebration of her figure in a dress that dumpifies it -- indeed, goes out of its way to make her breasts look kind of saggy. In fact, in the issue itself in which Us hands out its hotly awaited awards that rival only the Billboard Music Awards in societal relevance, our favorite faux-medium (sorry, Patricia Arquette) says she she flatly refuses to wear skinny jeans because she knows they make her look pear-shaped. Clever girl. Too bad this thing is plucked from the same fruit bowl.

Godfugga

It's the end of Two Weeks Without Heather, and Intern George and I are very excited for her to come back.  GFY HQ is so lonely without her. Also, we're very tired from having to divide our efforts between saving the world (George) and saying mean things about people's outfits (me).  So I'm just going to throw this up, and let you all Choose Your Own Fug:

a) Oh my god, leggings! I want to die!
b) I've given up on fighting the leggings. That battle has been lost. But look at those shorts!
c) I've given up on fighting the leggings. And the shorts.  Those battles have been lost. But look at that poncho!
d) I've given up on fighting the leggings. And the shorts. And ponchos. I feel like I might be able to win that last one, but I'm so very tired. Her hair is cute, don't you think?

Jodie Fug

We've talked about Jodie Marsh before here on GFY, and I have to say, my delight in her unapologetic tackiness has only continued to grow. Like this?

OUCH! And yet it's so Footballers Wive$ meets Mad Max of her that I almost must applaud.

Fugging UnFuggable: Fug

Tom: GIVE ME SOME SKIN, BROTHER! My bangs are BACK!

Kanye:  I'M wearing a BANDANA!

Tom: YEAH YOU ARE.

No, I Hate What YOU'RE Wearing

Did you order a shirt? We love you for it. They shipped out on April 28th, so you should have it in your hot little hands before you know it!

Met Costume Fug

So, last night was the Met's annual benefit gala, which is always a TREAT for me, because it's basically a shitload of models and socialites, with a sprinkling of selected actresses, dressing to the nines -- no, not even the nines. Like the tens. -- doing the whole W magazine "W Eye" society party thing, which I just find fascinating. And every year, this particular event is a gold mine of fashion, from the utterly sublime to the completely absurd. For example:

Sublime:

Of course, it helps that she's incredibly beautiful to begin with, and this certainly isn't particularly risky. But as we always say here at GFY  HQ: there's nothing wrong with deciding to just look pretty. And, MAN, Thandie Newton is pretty.

Absurd:

Marcia Gay Harden is many things, including "a good actress" and what my grandmother would call, "a handsome woman," but as such, she should not be dressing like a Barbie. Ever.

Sublime:

I suspect some people may disagree with me on this, but -- as in the case of Michelle Williams's Oscar dress -- I love the unusual color choice. I also think the cut is an interesting way to handle satin, which can be sort of unforgiving. It's very Glamourous Nightgown Chic, in a way that I think works beautifully -- it's interesting and unusual, while still being very wearable. It's also alarming how much Michelle Monaghan looks like Katie -- excuse me, KATE -- Holmes.  Do you think she and Thandie Newton chatted about Crazy Tom Cruise over their cocktails? I like to think they exchanged their best tips on avoiding brainwashing.

Alarming:

Um, no. Like, I get that the theme of the ball is "anglomania," but....there's such a thing as being too on point, and of all people, I would think that someone like SJP, who is generally extremely sharp about such things, would know better. There's cleverly referencing something, and then there's ACTUALLY WEARING A COSTUME. And actually, this just reminds me of the episode of Sex and the City where Charlotte and Trey have to gussy themselves up in the MacDougal tartan to go to the Scottish Fling, and Bunny McDougal is very mean to Charlotte about her infertility, and I suspect that wasn't really the point of this get-up. Also, I hate the shoes.

Next! Should be absurd, and would be ridiculous on ANYONE else, but is sublime because the color is amazing and Linda Evangelista -- and probably ONLY Linda Evangelista -- has the charisma (and the height) to carry off all the crazy ruffles. This is what is known as "getting away with anything because you are a motherf'ing supermodel, and there's a reason you didn't get out of bed for under ten grand a day":

She's so fierce, even when she's wearing something that would make a lesser woman look like a toilet paper cozy. I hope Christy Turlington is taking notes, because Linda is WORKING HER OVER right now.

But what is wrong with her?:

Dear Emmy Rossum: YOU'RE NOT FIFTY-FIVE YEARS OLD. The truth is that the dress underneath this matronly bandleader get-up is lovely -- albeit boring in the typical Emmy Rossum Only Wears Virginal White Ralph Lauren way -- but the jacket? Looks like she bought it at the Junior League White Elephant Sale in White Plains, 1993. Try something new, Emmy. Like COLOR.

Sublime:

I'm not a fan of the Huge Seed-Like Bead Necklaces, and I don't like this one particularly, either -- I think this necklace, plus the neckline of the dress, plus her hair, makes her neck look short -- but I covet this dress. The cut, the color, the beading -- fab. FAB. I long for it.

Absurd:

SHUT UP SIENNA.

In all honesty, there is a part of me that loves this -- because it's short and shiny and very Viva Las Vegas, and that's fun. I don't even mind the tights. But I hate her hair, and I hate that she seems to think she's actually Edie Sedgwick, and I hate the way everyone from Teen Vogue to Vogue  Vogue has shoved Sienna Miller in all of our faces for reasons I still can't comprehend. She's just taking what Kate Moss does every day a million times better and sticking a headband on it.  And you know what? I know she's an actress, but I haven't seen a single movie she's ever been in. All she's REALLY known for in the United States is a) banging Jude Law and b) dressing like a fruitcake. Aside from that, she doesn't seem particularly interesting or clever or intriguing. In fact, she doesn't seem like ANYTHING. There's nothing there to aspire to. So why does Vogue think we care about her? Seriously, Anna Wintour, I REALLY WANT TO KNOW WHY YOU PUT HER ON THE COVER THAT TIME. Look up at Linda Evangelista and now look back at Sienna. One of these woman has presence, and IT'S NOT THE ONE DRESSED LIKE A DISCO BALL. Now, I'm certainly not one of those Why Are There Only Actresses On Magazine Covers All The Time, I Long For the Past And Hate These Starlets sort of readers -- I don't mind a beautiful, interesting actress on the cover of Vogue.  But Sienna Miller doesn't fit that description.  And, frankly, I can't believe that someone like Anna Wintour really gives two shits about Sienna Miller to begin with, not to mention the fact that I suspect that if Sienna Miller WORKED for Anna Wintour, Anna "Nuclear" Wintour would destroy her with two well-placed put-downs and then eat her for breakfast and that, my readers, is why I secretly love Anna Wintour. When I was reading her [very poorly written] unauthorized biography-cum-hack job last year, I closed it and decided that I rather felt for poor Anna, who came off, to me, as somewhat misunderstood. She really just wants people to do their damn jobs properly without a lot of whinging.  Anyway, I really feel that there is NO WAY that she could possibly REALLY endorse Sienna Miller, and I WOULD JUST REALLY LIKE TO KNOW WHY EVERY CONDE NAST PUBLICATION IN EXISTENCE IS TRYING TO MAKE US BUY HER AS THE MOST STYLISH STARLET OF THE NEW MILLENNIUM. Seriously. Why, Anna? WHY?

Okay, I feel better now. I've been carrying that around for a while. But I mean it, Sienna. Shut up.

Mission Impossible: Fug

"Hey guys! Man! I LOVE THESE PHOTOGRAPHERS! Photographers are my FRIENDS. When you have a girlfriend you may or may not have forced to fake a pregnancy for you, and you need the public to know that she is just HUGE with your child -- the FRUIT of your HETEROSEXUAL SEED -- all you need to do is push her out of the car in front of Barney's, and these dudes are all OVER HER! Man, they're the BEST. THE BEST! You guys should be on my payroll! FOR REAL! EVERYONE SMILE NOW. YEAH!

You may have noticed that I also fixed my bangs. Kate -- she's KATE NOW, by the WAY, none of that 'Katie' stuff, and BY THE WAY, it is NOT at ALL weird that a man to whom she is not even MARRIED is making announcements about how she should be addressed, instead of letting her, you know, SPEAK IN PUBLIC, I don't care WHAT YOU SAY OUR RELATIONSHIP IS SO NORMAL AND BEAUTIFUL AND STUFF -- looked at them last week and started to cry. I CAN'T SEE MY WOMAN CRY. So I pushed them back up again.  She kept crying but this time IT WAS FOR JOY BECAUSE SHE LOVES ME AND MY REGULAR OLD FASHIONED MAVERICK HAIR. MAN! I feel so GOOD! ONE MORE PICTURE GUYS! YEAH!"