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May 25, 2006

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.

Posted by Heather at 08:58 AM | Permalink

May 24, 2006

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.

Posted by Heather at 04:40 PM | Permalink

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!"

Posted by Heather at 12:15 PM | Permalink

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.

Posted by Heather at 11:11 AM in Kirsten Dunst | Permalink

May 23, 2006

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."

Posted by Jessica at 02:29 PM in Tara Reid | Permalink

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.

Posted by Heather at 12:39 PM | Permalink

May 22, 2006

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..."

Posted by Heather at 04:14 PM | Permalink

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?

Posted by Heather at 12:36 PM | Permalink

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.

Posted by Jessica at 09:00 AM in Britney Spears | Permalink

May 19, 2006

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.

Posted by Heather at 05:21 PM in Random Fug | Permalink

 

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