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June 27, 2006

Wonder Fugger

I really hate doing this to Lynda Carter. After all, she IS Wonder Woman. And no one -- no one! -- loved Wonder Woman more than I did. Under-roos? Check. Bathing suit? Check.  Hours of twirling in the aforementioned swimsuit in the backyard, in hopes of transforming into Wonder Woman? Check. A tragically misguided decision to tie the cat up with my Lasso of Truth (in reality: twine) so as to interrogate her? Check.  An equally misguided crush on Lyle Waggoner? Check. The desire to move to Paradise Island, where Wonder Woman's mother lived, because I liked the togas all the ladies wore? Check. A change of plans when I realized that there were no men on Paradise Island, and I would have to leave Lyle behind? Check.  However:

Without the sleeves, this outfit would have been understated, sophisticated, flattering.  The sleeves, however, make her look as though she flew to this premiere under her own power.

Which she obviously didn't need to do. Everyone knows Wonder Woman has an invisible plane.

Posted by Jessica at 02:58 PM | Permalink

The Young and the Fugless

Victoria Rowell always looks so utterly happy, even when she looks insane, that it's really rather endearing. Of course, it can't erase the insanity of running around like a 1980s-era jazzercize instructor who borrowed Grandma's shoes and Grandpa's hat for a party, nor can it deter people (like the gaggle of ladies in the background here) from looking at her like she accidentally left all her marbles on the Chinese Checkers board. It also won't prevent the inevitable spilling of something red -- wine, sauce -- down her front at some point during the night. But still... endearing.

Posted by Heather at 11:19 AM | Permalink

June 26, 2006

The Annals of Alexis

In addition to her uncanny sense of occasion when it comes to wedding attire, Alexis Morell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan knows exactly what to wear when:

1) Preparing to choke out a bitch:

The answer is a gold lame ball gown with some sort of cape/stole attachment, and of course the bitch whose hair is getting pulled out of her head is one Ms. Heather Locklear, whose present-day arch-enemy Denise Richards is at home right now grabbing a pen and taking notes.

2) Being the aforementioned bitch who is getting choked out:

Nobody sparkles during a near-death experience quite like Joan Collins -- you get the sense that her Alexis always dressed to make sure that if she were suddenly killed, she would look perfect in her coffin.

3) Shooting skeet out on the range while your arch-enemy is out riding her horse, so that she might fall and miscarry the baby that she and her husband -- your ex and one true love -- so desperately want.

The shawl! The kilt! The kicky tam o'shanter! The surly gay son -- no, wait, he's not gay; his tenderness merely transcends gender... no, wait, yes he is gay... no, wait, he owns the Denver Broncos... ah, but he's in love with the quarterback!

4) Tearing into a chicken wing as if it is the head of your recently reappeared child, who has rather rudely tried to frame you for certain shenanigans involving the attempted slow murder of your stepson via decorating his walls with toxic lead paint.

Only Alexis would wear white -- and a hat -- while eating finger-food.

5) Preparing to hurl a drink at your mouthy former husband and on-off lover, with whom you are bound to be on again because you cannot resist the snug fit of his trousers and the fact that he once had the audacity to try taking you to the cleaners and to bed in the same day:

Pink-bow pearl earrings, of course -- the perfect complement to the Pepto-pink bridesmaid dress you are wearing. And apparently, the earrings do work to increase accuracy:

Well played, Alexis. As ever, well played.

And, because it cannot be said enough: Bravo, Mr. Spelling. We know there are more shows than just these campy few -- who doesn't hold a soft spot for The Love Boat? And Charlie's Angels! -- but you gave us more catfights, snappy comebacks, wedding-day massacres in made-up countries, tragic explosions, accidental drownings, bouts of amnesia, disturbing Blake and Krystal dead-fishes-kissing love scenes, homoerotic man-wrestling on rooftops, and mountings of Dr. Michael Mancini than we could've ever dreamed in a million years.

And if that hag Tori -- who is nothing without you on just about every level -- really didn't fly back to see you when you were recovering from your stroke, and really was strolling along the streets of Toronto with her oily husband while you were on your deathbed (come on -- making up over the phone? Please, I don't buy it), then we hope you cut her out of your glorious will. Give it all to Randy and Candy. Their names rhyme, anyway, so it's obviously for the best.

Posted by Heather at 07:10 PM | Permalink

Dynasty: Fugly Matrimony

There comes a moment in each girl's life when she thinks to herself: "My incredibly wealthy fiance -- the arch rival of my former husband, with whom I may still be in love -- has just wound up in the hospital, thanks to my overly vigorous love-making.  I better go marry him now, so I can inherit all his money, and his company, and therefore ruin the lives of everyone who has ever wronged me. But he's only semi-conscious, and he's sleeping in an oxygen tent. What can I possibly wear so that he can properly see me, his glorious bride?"

As always, Alexis Carrington (almost Colby, as soon as she gets to the hospital) has the answer:

Posted by Jessica at 04:32 PM | Permalink

Melrose Place: The Magic of the Hairpiece


If your hair looks like this:

It's perfectly acceptable to wear a wig.

Posted by Jessica at 03:13 PM | Permalink

90210: A Legacy Of Fug

DAVID: I really, really like my outfit. I am a hip-hop legend in the making.

BRENDA: I am SO bored with it taking three hours to unzip my pants. GOD, it's no WONDER Dylan dumped me for that bitch.

BRANDON: Calm down, Bren. We all have high-rise pants. The whole world is suffering. Andrea and I are going to do an editorial about it for The Blaze.

BRENDA: Can it, BRANDON. Aren't you supposed to be at the Peach Pit?

DAVID: No, I mean, look at me. I really think I'm going to take the music world by storm -- George Michael would totally wear this. Why hasn't Donna had sex with me?

BRENDA: Because you're dressed like the village idiot who ran off to join a marching-band circus.

BRANDON: Easy, Bren. Remember, you're wearing a vest.

BRENDA: Thanks, BRANDON. You know, I hardly think wearing tight jeans stuffed with a bowling ball gives you the right to talk about other people's clothing.

BRANDON: Chill, Bren. [Insert name of Girlfriend Of The Week here] likes them that way. And Mrs. Teasley lets me get Steve out of trouble more often when I'm dressing left.

DAVID: ... Oh God, you're right. These pants are terrible. They look like something Scott would wear, if he hadn't accidentally shot himself with his father's gun while trying to impress me.

BRENDA: David, I don't want to talk about death. You are so INSENSITIVE to the fact that sometimes, I get really scared. I got held at GUNPOINT. And Dylan's father blew up.

BRANDON: Don't worry, Bren. David's not going to blow up.

BRENDA: I don't CARE if David blows up, BRANDON. GOD. You never LISTEN to me. I'm just SAYING that...

DAVID: Will you guys stop pretending I don't exist? Donna's never going to let me inside her spandex pants. She is so precious to me. But... would it be weird if I asked out Kelly again? I know she's my stepsister and all, but I DID see her naked. She is also so precious to me. Am I precious to her?

BRENDA: David, Kelly is a total slut. She'll fall in love with anything that dangles.

BRANDON: Relax, Bren. Nat told me never to...

BRENDA: Stop lecturing me, BRANDON. We can't all get a Zen high off the fumes of our hair gel.

BRANDON: Look, I think we all need to just take a deep breath.

BRENDA: It's just so hard sometimes. All my life I've wanted to be treated like an adult, but I've suddenly realized... being an adult comes with so much responsibility, and maybe I'm just not ready. Maybe I just want to be Daddy's little girl sometimes.

DAVID: Uh, Brenda? I think you picked the wrong time to spit out the moral of the week.

BRENDA: Well, at least I'm not a VIRGIN, David. At least I'm LEARNING THINGS. At least I finally got my HAIR right.

BRANDON: Dial it down, Bren. It's not David's fault that he drew the short straw and got stuck with Donna. Let's just be cool, okay? Come on -- we should go find a homeless person to bring home for the holidays.

Posted by Heather at 02:20 PM | Permalink

Beverly Fug, 90210

We have learned so many things from 90210. Brandon Walsh taught us not to have a gambling addiction,  drink and drive, or date a bigot.  Kelly Taylor taught us that the polite date rapist at least brings a blanket along.  And Brenda Walsh -- well, she taught us the most of all.

For example, the importance of properly grooming ones bangs:

The power of a judgmental glare:

And finally, that it takes a very special sort of girl to pull off a necktie:

And that girl is Brenda Walsh.

She looks so happy here.  Like a kicky, relaxed Paula Poundstone fan. Of course, at any moment,  she could fly into a righteous, judgmental rage, call you a whore, announce that she never wants to see you again, and stomp off, but that's the glorious magic of Brenda Walsh. She can do whatever she wants. Up to and including menswear.

Posted by Jessica at 12:49 PM | Permalink

Fug in Peace, Aaron Spelling

Regular readers here at Go Fug Yourself are well aware that Heather and I are devoted, longtime worshippers at the altar of  Aaron Spelling.  Long have we wished for an All Spelling All the Time network -- just think of it! 90210 followed by Melrose Place followed by Models, Inc followed by Dynasty followed by yet another episode of 90210! Paradise! We really would never leave the house! And when we weren't mentally scheduling this delicious programming, we were dreaming of creating a new hour-long nighttime drama starring Heather Locklear, Joan Collins, and Shannen Doherty, each scheming to bring the other to her (satin-clad) knees!

So it was with great sadness that we learned that the man who taught us  never to fake a French accent in France,  how to best manipulate your boss into killing himself so you can steal his job, and the power of a well-placed fur turban has finally taken leave of this mortal coil and gone to the great Spelling mansion in the sky, where we presume the bowling alley is staffed entirely by vixens and the wrapping paper room is full of caviar.  And therefore, today, in honor of our hero of delicious, trashy goodness, Go Fug Yourself is dedicated to the sartorial triumphs and missteps of the men and women who stomped their way through the various works of Mr Spelling with such delightful, dramatic elan. *  We rip off our wig to you, sir.

* except 7th Heaven. We hate that show.

Posted by Jessica at 11:39 AM | Permalink

June 23, 2006

Fugly Furtado

Welcome to episode two of the new hit series Nelly Furtado and the Pantaloons of Terror:

Same awful taste and blood-flow prevention, new woeful color.

Even Adam Sandler and Kate Beckinsale seemed alarmed while she performed on their shared TRL episode.

Adam: Dude, this chick is craaaaaazy.

Kate: Do you think her hair is prettier than mine?

Adam: I think she is from hell.

Kate: That outfit makes her knees look bloated. THAT is why the only liquid I eat is lemon juice.

Adam: You scare me.

Kate: I'm famished. Got any Tic-Tacs?

Adam: I have no idea why I am here.

Kate: Or, God, I'm so hungry I could even be really decadent and have a sugar-free Life-Saver.

Adam: I'm sure I could rustle up a cracker.

Kate: What? What kind of shit is that? A CRACKER? I'm supposed to eat starches now?

Adam: Seriously, I have no idea what I'm doing here.

Kate: What are you trying to do, fatten me up on the eve of my big movie release? BOLLOCKS TO YOU.

Adam: The rapping genie girl is starting to look better and better to me.

Posted by Heather at 02:45 PM | Permalink

Keen Fuggie

Sienna Miller, in New York City:

There once was a young English lassie

Who occasionally tried to look classy

But even her basic black

Brought a measure of tack.

The poor girl only ever looked assy.

Posted by Jessica at 11:29 AM in Sienna Miller | Permalink


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