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July 20, 2006

Achy-Breaky Fug

Somehow, this is starting to feel like Pick On The Under-18s Week here at GFY HQ, which is not really our intent -- it's just unfortunate timing that one kid started wearing pirate costumes around town the same week that the lovely young Miley Cyrus, spawn of The Achy-Breaky Mullet King himself, got talked into a semi-disastrous shirt.

I could have swallowed this, were it not for the lace shower cap that appears to have been lazily stapled to her top. That thing ruins Miley's getup on a few levels:

1) Up close it looks like an As Seen On TV! napkin invention -- The Lapkin, or something -- that attaches to your clothes so that whenever you sit, it falls perfectly into your lap, thereby a) removing the pesky need to remember to unfold the one on the table, and b) preventing untimely accidents wherein your serviette slides indelicately off of your lap, and to fetch it you're forced to lean down and reach so far away that you accidentally tip out of the chair, coming crashing to the ground in front of your sister's boyfriend, whom you've just met for the first time that night, and who is considering proposing provided that the potential in-laws aren't deranged, fanged hill folk with an equilibrium problem (not that I would know ANYTHING about that kind of incident);

2) From far away...

... she looks like she's sporting the biggest, most skydiving-conducive pair of granny panties ever sewn.

Oh, Miley. You have such a nice smile, and we're rooting for you, we really are. Just maybe think about cutting back on the hoo-ha next time.

Posted by Heather at 07:31 PM | Permalink

Celebrity Giamatti Watch: Ethan Embry

I know it seems like a long time ago that anyone really cared what Ethan Embry was doing, and maybe you think that you never cared. But, without knowing it, you probably did. There was that fleeting moment in 1998 where people swooned for his lovesick-geek turn in Can't Hardly Wait, and women and gay boys alike developed sweetly nagging crushes on the gangly saucer-eyed kid with a slight lisp; then he snagged a TV pilot, and he was as close to a household name as he ever got.

But then that pilot turned into Freakylinks, and ... well, you know how that went; now you not only don't care about him, but you didn't remember why he was "famous" until I mentioned it just there.

Still, he's back out and about again. For whatever reason. And it's intriguing. Because take a look at Ethan Embry a few years ago:

More Luke Perry than Luke Wilson, right?

Well, if you'd told this kid that in 2006 he would have puffed up and turned into Paul Giamatti, I suspect he'd have taken off the stupid fedora he always seemed to be wearing and punched you right in the face with a girlish yawp.

For here he is now:

Okay, just kidding, that is Paul Giamatti. But the resemblance between Giamatti -- Hollywood's resident shlub artist -- and present-day Embry is uncanny.

Right? I can't imagine this is where Embry intended to go -- no disrespect to Paul Giamatti, who is a talented actor even if you find the bitter sad-sacks he plays to be intolerably self-pitying, but I don't think that many people are kept awake at night wondering, "How can I be more scrubbly? How can my voice reverberate with nasal contempt for myself and for life? HOW? THERE MUST BE A WAY!" And I should also point out that in Hollywood, at the moment, there appears to be room for only one Paul Giamatti.

So, Ethan, you might want to rethink a little.

Posted by Heather at 12:45 PM in Celebrity Terror Watch | Permalink

July 19, 2006

Celebrity Terror Watch: Carson Daly

It's almost impossible to have missed the photo of Carson Daly that's been going around, wherein he looks aged and skeletal; indeed, unless you live under a rock, or your first name begins with "S" and rhymes with "fury booze," you've probably already been suitably alarmed by it.

Still, we couldn't resist.

Good for Carson for getting himself in shape at a relatively normal speed, but this photo makes me think he's crossed the line into obsession and become a hungry, wan shell. Remember on Seinfeld when Kramer sunbathed in butter, and the smell of crispy flesh piqued Newman's salivary glands such that he started seeing Kramer's head atop the body of a golden-roasted turkey, and became ravenous? That look in Newman's eye has been born again in Carson's. Something is not quite right with the way he's sucking on his lips, as if willing himself not to lick them out of bloodlust for the delicious, meaty, protein-laden photographer who is snapping the shot.

"You've already had your solid for the day, Carson," he is chanting to himself, right hand twitching toward the yellow rubber Live Strong bracelet that acts as his talisman. "Don't even THINK about how he would taste with a pot of lobster bearnaise, and a loaded baked potato... some buttered green beans... hot rolls... Oh, yummy, this man is MINE -- wait, NO! Shake it off, soldier! STAY ALIVE! A Zone bar WILL find you!"

Posted by Heather at 03:48 PM in Celebrity Terror Watch | Permalink

You, Me, and Fuglee

Kate Hudson is a pretty girl with nice legs. But I do prefer it when they aren't poking out the business end of an overly elaborate lampshade.

By now, we pretty much get it that she's Goldie Hawn's daughter. Visual reminders no longer required, Kate, so go ahead and leave this shapeless, spangled, striped shift in Goldie's old Laugh-In closet, where it belongs.

P.S. I know he's not in the photo, but PLEASE, cut your son's hair. He's a cutie, but now that he's sporting waist-length golden tresses, I NEVER see a picture of him without instinctively thinking, "What a sweet little girl." Seriously, if you want it rocker-spawn shaggy, fine. But this isn't rakish, raffish Owen Wilson messy-longish hair -- your son is practically Ava Phillippe, Jr, but with an anatomical surprise. Can't you give him a wee trim?

... Of the HAIR, people. A trim of the HAIR. My lord. But seriously. Is it a religious thing? Does that prohibit, oh, I don't know, some sort of pony-tail holder, even? Perhaps a hat?

Posted by Heather at 12:32 PM | Permalink

Fugly 101

Dear Johnny Mr. Depp (sorry, my Mom made me cross that out):

Hi dude Mr. Dude! My name is Matthew Underwood, and I just want to say that I am a huge fan of yours! You are, like, THE swashbuckling inspiration to my generation, man! And the eyeliner... it's totally changed my life, dude, because my eyes are all fierce now and the actresses in town are jealous and yet also can't help staring at them because I TOTALLY smolder now.

Did I mention I am a huge fan? God, I'm so nervous! I bet I mentioned that already. But you can totally see for yourself from this photo that was taken at the Monster House premiere -- I went in costume as a pirate! Isn't that wicked? Pirates of the Caribbean was so meaningful to my life that I just could NOT show up to this movie premiere without making it obvious to everyone what I would RATHER be watching. I'm not even in Monster House! I just showed up to make that statement!

Anyway, I'm writing because... well, I think I could learn a lot from you. We're totally alike, you and I. See, you did 21 Jump Street, which was about youth crime, and I am on Zoey 101, which is that show with Jamie-Lynn Spears where my all-boys prep school is starting to admit girls now and my character thinks that is a crime. See? The same. We're both crime-fighters. And, seriously, look -- I am like your CLONE up in that Jack Sparrow stuff! I'm getting goosebumps! My mom was totally mad at me for wearing that out in public -- something about looking foolish, looking like I didn't know what event I was going to, I don't know; she doesn't GET ME -- and she was yelling at me, all, "Well, if you love Johnny Depp so much, then maybe HE can raise you!"

So, you know. If you wanted to... I mean, adoption is totally safe and popular. And that way I can be EVEN CLOSER to modeling my career after my one and only idol! Or maybe, if you can't get the French paperwork in order or something, you could just arrange it so in one movie, Jack Sparrow finds this really scrappy young boy and decides to be his father-figure (oh, God, and George Michael has that song... this is GIVING ME CHILLS, Mr. Johnny, I KNOW you can feel it too), and then we can be on a film set together while you give me the gift of your method and we'll sit around trying to understand girls and drinking beers. I'm not legal, but parents can totally get away with giving their kids beer, I think... I'm just saying. But I really think it would be good for me -- I mean, I don't want to get sucked into that Spears vortex, and I'm at a very impressionable age, so the sooner we hang out the better, and maybe I won't EVER brandish that second finger-gun. I don't WANT to be That Guy, Johnny. Help me.

Okay! So get back to me with the details! I love you -- your work, I mean; I won't love you in THAT way until you're OFFICIALLY my dad.

Peace, dude -- I mean it, write back soon!


Posted by Heather at 06:41 AM | Permalink

July 18, 2006

Stars Are Fug

Behold! The species Parisis Hiltonis, in her natural habitat -- out back, where the garbage cans are.  Shush, let's watch and see what she does:

[Photo courtesy of X17.]

Oh, that's sweet, isn't it? It's so rare that we get to witness this kind of display of affection between the Parisis Hiltonis and her cousin, the ferret. Usually, the two are engaging in some kind of feral wrestling, vying for genetic superiority, and/or mates. Clearly, the Parisis Hiltonis has stunned the ferret into submission by hypnotizing him with the pattern on her dress, and then delivered a sort of predator-to-predator death blow by subjecting him to that hat. But all in the name of love. It truly warms the heart, doesn't it?

Posted by Jessica at 02:36 PM | Permalink

Gold Medal, Bronze Heartbreak: The Fugsana Baiul Story

URGENTLY WANTED: One make-up professional or even random stranger for assistance in application of bronzer and/or foundation to former figure-skating Olympic medalist and star of top-notch productions The Cutting Edge 2: Going for the Gold, and TV's Master of Champions, Celebrity Charades, Ice Wars 10: North America Vs. The World, and The Wizard of Oz on Ice. Applicants should display skill in blending, skin-tone-matching, and troubleshooting discrepancies between face and body color; applicants must carry at least three compact mirrors on his/her person as well as a variety of sponges and blotting papers, and perhaps a large paper bag for true emergencies. Skill in delivering polite negative feedback required, and adeptness with handcuffs or soft restraints a plus.

Posted by Heather at 11:49 AM | Permalink

Fugly In Love

From the files of Ned Sofanegra, WHEE! Online gossip columnist:

"While on a hot-n-sticky road trip to the steamim' hot Big Snapple, I saw scrumptious-bumtious Beyonce on the streets and couldn't resist stoppin' to tawk it up with the deelish Dreamgirl. Such a slurpy delight!

'Your hair reminds me of Whitney Houston in the early 90s,' sez I. 'So tell me, would you rather have sex with Whitney then, or Whitney now?'

Miz Thang just looked at me like I was kee-razy, and not in the "love" sense she crooned about a few summers back. Me, I think even slim-trim sex-aaaay Beyoncealicious would snap skinny Whit like a twig! But I pressed on -- gotta gobble up the diva dish and lick the plate clean!

'So sorry to see a dog tried to eat your crotch -- thank God he only got away with half the dress!' I cooed at my fave bootied beauty. 'Which makes me wonder, which animal would you want to be mauled by: Paris Hilton's ferret, George Clooney's pet pig, or Colin Farrell?'

This is when her bodyguards, big burly hunks of chunky funk, hustled Lady B and her boots of shame inside. No answer today. Which do you think? Me, I'd take option C, but sumthin' tells me that La Knowles knows her bread's buttered down near option Z, if you get my rappin' drift."

Posted by Heather at 06:16 AM in Beyonce | Permalink

July 17, 2006

Fug Vegas

Nobody told Nikki Cox that when you buy a Victoria's Secret body-shaper, you're meant to wear it under something.

Posted by Heather at 11:18 AM | Permalink

Fugi Ling

Poor William H Macy. Can't you just read his mind?

WILLIAM H MACY: Save me. Someone save me.

BAI LING: I am soooooo comfortable here with William H Macy. I feel so safe.  I feel so in love. I feel like I am wrapped in a giant ball of safe love. Love safe. Sove! Lafe!

WILLIAM H MACY: I fear I am about to start laughing inappropriately. The way you do at a funeral. Who wears a bikini top with a matching skirt, anyway? Although this isn't bikini material. I don't think. I don't know. Felicity always wears a sensible one-piece...dress or swim suit, come to think of it. Oh my god, is she touching my butt?

BAI LING: Bai Ling Macy. Mr and Mrs William H Ling-Macy. Bai and Bill Macy-Ling.  Ooh! Ooh! Personality Number Nine will LOVE being Bai Macy-Ling. That sounds like a new cut of panties!

WILLIAM H MACY: Felicity. I am so sorry. This means nothing. This crazy woman just attacked me.  What was I supposed to do? I'm scared of her. She's preternaturally strong.

BAI LING: I am so glad I decided to take this totally adorable polka dotty dress and make it into something that shows my middle section part! Look at Billiam H. Ling Macy-Ling rubbing my tummy!

WILLIAM H MACY: I am trying really hard not to touch any exposed skin.

BAI LING: I can't wait until he leaves that lady who was the man-lady in that movie thing.

WILLIAM H MACY: How long am I supposed to stand here?

Posted by Jessica at 07:46 AM | Permalink


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