Jillian Fugerie

Welcome to When Pretty Young Girls People Completely Violate The Sacred Covenant Of Having Breasts, Part Infinity, Part Deux.

Meet Jillian Barberie: brash co-host of local morning train-wreck Good Day, L.A.; participant in primetime train-wreck Skating With Celebrities; fired weather girl for Fox's NFL coverage; crushed that none of this has made her a household name.

I would suggest that maybe Jillian didn't intend to leave the house in a satin shirt that glues her breasts to her torso in sideswept mounds, but a) I find it hard to believe her house lacks mirrors, and b) she comes off as so enamored of her own sassyness that there's no way she doesn't check herself out nine times an hour in whatever reflective surface she can find in the event that all the mirrors in her house are broken.

So all that's left is for me to conclude that her judgment is sometimes just as bad as her current show.

Jessica Fugshaw

Welcome to When Pretty Young Girls Completely Violate The Sacred Covenant Of Having Breasts, Part Infinity.

The dress, in what we suspect and hope is a terrible optical illusion, totally malforms her chest. It's all droop and little delight, a lopsided mess bursting against the ill-firting seams of the bodice. Please, somebody, get up under there and push them back up (after getting her permission, of course, or else she'll sue your ass before you can say "human brassiere"; she's not a lawyer, but she played one on TV) before the wind changes and they stay that way. Where is her mother at a time like this?

The Fug Next Door

"Hey guys!

Don't mind me, I'm just here to take a look at September's receipts! Yeah, it was a long day at the office -- you know, everyone who filed an extension is FINALLY getting around to doing their taxes. Man, I wish people would keep better records. Actors, you know. Always trying to get me to write off their facials and stuff. What's that? Oh, thanks. Yeah, it's casual Friday, you know. Trying to improve morale by letting us wear jeans. My morale would be improved with a raise! Totally. Well, I don't want to intrude on your club opening -- I've just got to go in the back and look over your books real quick. Don't mind me. Oh, thanks, I'd love to have a drink later. I'm really not dressed for an event, though. I mean, I've got my briefcase and everything...okay. Just one. But let's make it a double."

Employee Of The Fug

Jessica Simpson has been going through a bit of a rough time lately, we imagine. To recap, she lost the post-divorce publicity battle; her lip implants backfired; her career as an actress may well rest in the bawdy frat-boy paws of Dane Cook and the grasping, sweaty, deliriously crazy mitts of Andy Dick; her father is still her father; and her sister has totally stolen the Family Mojo by starring in Chicago on the West End and overhauling her nasal passages.

What's a girl to do? I mean, aside from try to take comfort in the soft, incubatory embrace of a fake romance with a slightly bloated "sensitive" musician who can woo her with syllables and the promise that he might one day write a song and allow the world to assume it was about her? That's the natural first reaction; nothing cures a broken heart like a hollow, shallow publicity stunt, especially one that ends in a cover of Us Weekly on which the word "DUMPED" screams across a photo of you with your lips puckered and slightly parted, as if someone has just offered you a chocolate malt and then yanked it away in a cruel prank against your sweet tooth.

Fortunately for J.Simp, the next step was to normalize her gymorexic physique and Crayola-colored skin.

Oh, but one step forward, two steps back. Because you know what doesn't help in this situation? Thigh-high boots that look like you stapled them together with some felt you bought at Michael's:

The red purse might help her spirits a little. But the boots, Jessica. The boots. You are not so intriguing that you can rebound from your current tragic situation in just any old crazy shoes. You're not becoming the type of person who can pull off over-the-knee faux-suede naughty boots simply because you are Who You Are.

Now, Victoria Beckham, sure. Thigh-high boots? No problem. Kind of fabulous, actually. Not because they make sense, but because we've come to adore her for her half-nutter, half-genius fashion sense. Yes, she can put a foot wrong, and indeed often she puts them both there, but on the whole she's so intriguing that even her missteps come back around to being awesome. (Indeed, we had fervently hoped she would eventually be immortalized as a sort of latter-day Joan Collins, but without the help of the late Aaron Spelling -- rest your beloved soul, you mischievous soapy mastermind, you -- we're having to recalibrate our expectations a trifle.)

But Jessica, we're not there with you. Not yet. You are not Posh Spice, honey. You are not British pseudo-royalty. Perhaps the flickering bulbs in both your heads emit the same low wattage, but where we suspect Posh Spice is quite funny behind the scenes, we don't have quite the same high hopes for you. [Don't take offense; you created the monster with Newlyweds, so you have no one but yourself and your Svengali father to blame for that preconception.] 

Ergo, all the boots make us think of is who you aren't. Now, definitely keep trying -- we love a good phoenix-from-the-ashes story just as much as the next tar-hearted cow -- but you might need to aim a little less ambitiously. Your embers aren't quite cold enough yet for a glorious, Posh-esque, dramatic resurrection in oddball footwear.

Fug Stefani

Gwen Stefani looked so fantastic throughout her pregnancy; quirky and unusual, but still flattering. And now...well, we've still got "unusual" covered.

I sort of don't know what to say, and I almost always know what to say.  Perhaps as an homage to Claridge's, where it appears this event was held, Gwen decided it would be a good idea to dress as Americans imagine a low-level British royal would have dressed in, like, 1983, back when even Princess Diana thought it was a good idea to wear giant sailor collars and dropped waists.

My distaste for the 80s revival has been well documented here, but I think if anyone could pull it off, it would be Gwen. But let's move more toward, like, kooky Lacroix 80s revival and away from dowdy, gift bag-looking 80s revival, shall we?

Fug's Next Top Model

Every season, America's Next Top Model has a grand tradition of casting a couple of girls who have no realistic chance to make it in the world of actual modeling -- which is mostly populated by, like, fifteen year old Eastern European girls -- but who REALLY REALLY want it, and who are therefore mildly (read: dramatically and hilariously)  delusional about the likelihood of their future success. Last "cycle", this role was filled by a 26 year old loony named Jade, who spoke in poetry (most notably when she was finally eliminated, an event which prompted an ode called "Left Over Lady." Which she recited while snapping her fingers. Genius. Seriously. Someone needs to get that girl her own show. I miss her.). While the viewers, I suspect, realize that these girls will never really be MODELS, we all enjoy them as excellent reality television characters, and mourn them when they are finally eliminated.

A few cycles ago, this role was filled by Lisa, a girl I first totally hated, then loved to hate.  For those of you who are not watching ANTM, Lisa PEED in an adult diaper, ON CAMERA. She did this for reasons that escape me, but which I'm sure had something to do with getting attention. So I don't really know why I'm surprised that she's wearing a shirt with her own face on it:

And yet, I am.

American Fuggy

Mena Suvari is confusing me.

First, she showed up around Bryant Park in this ensemble, which is essentially Catholic Schoolgirl as bastardized by several of today's cloying trends (leggings, tights, imagined air of brooding mystery). As you might imagine, this photo is an especial anathema to our sensibilities because it tries to fuse the dreaded formal shorts craze with The Spandex Scourge.

Then, she shrugged off living in The Now -- the terribly, terribly trendy Now -- and arrived at the Stuff Style awards in a variety of cloying trends from a year or two ago.

Tons of giant necklaces? Check. (Even Hilary Duff has given those up by now, Mena.) Ashlee Simpson's old hair, from back when she was being punky so that it would appear she possessed her own identity? Check. Dress over pants that makes her look bloated and so floaty that she's in danger of being caught in a slamming car door? You betcha! Random extra layer that resembles a sleeveless black sweater? Oh HELLS yes!

I was going to say that I think Mena needs to figure out whether she's yesterday's rebel, or today's preening sourpuss, before she goes any further. But because either answer requires a subsequent immediate, intensive stint in wardrobe rehab, she might as well just check herself in now and figure it out as she detoxes, thus sparing herself any more awkward periods of indecision.

Fug The Cover: Janet Jackson

Oh, Miss Jackson. (I guess we better call her Miss Jackson, since I'm about to get nasty:)

Actually, I guess I can call you "Janet," since I don't really blame you for this monstrosity. I mean, you didn't style the shoot. And I'm sure you didn't arrive on set, all, "I KNOW! I've lost a lot of weight in the last nine months. Let's do it AEROBICS STYLE, like an homage to Olivia Newton John's 'Let's Get Physical' video! Except with a BIG OLD BELT! And fingerless gloves, like the kind I wore in Fame! Come on! Put away those gowns! We're going to listen to my body talk!"

I do feel, however, that you need to be paying more attention to the wisdom of one Miss Tyra Banks, who would be screaming her balls off about the fact that you have no neck in this shot (seriously. Almost every episode of America's Next Top Model features a girl getting dressed down for having no neck). It looks like your head just popped right out of your sternum and onto your shoulder.  Honey, if your body COULD talk, it would be telling you to ELONGATE YOUR NECK.

Also, to maybe to have a talk with W about their air-brushing team, because they made you look a bit too much like your brother here for any of us to be entirely comfortable.

Fugker Posey

Lord knows the world loves the comic and dramatic stylings of Parker Posey, but there are times when her other stylings could use some help.

The afro-perm looks alarmingly like my worst bedhead. ... Okay, no, my worst bedhead had to have been the other weekend, when I was told I resembled a recent photo of Carrot Top in Rolling Stone. A true moment of shame. But, this one would be close. Still, as a curlyhead who gets all fired up to cut her hair short and then remembers too late why it's problematic to wear it that way, I can forgive (or at least understand) hair trauma.

My real problem here is the dress. What is the deal with her wanting to be dishevelled? She looks like an Elizabethan nun whose ruff is slowly unraveling. I hate this kind of mothballed costume-shop fashion; it's making me grit my teeth something fierce, because I want so badly to cut off those ratty threads. Kids, don't run with scissors, but if you're going to do it regardless of my warnings, at least do it in her direction so that you can snip those deadly, dangling bastards.

The Simple Fug

When friends told Paris Hilton that if she came over, she'd be up to her knees in pure, white snow, none of them expected her to take that so very literally.

The Name On Everyone's Lips Is Gonna Be FUGLY!

INT. Night. The party following Ashlee's Simpson's debut in Chicago:

ASHLEE: Can we finally agree that I'm the cute one now? Can we? Seriously, Jess! I'm totally the cute one now.

JESSICA: I can't believe it's come to this so soon. I felt like I had at least five more years of holding you off. But the divorce hit me like a ton of bricks, Ashlee. And then that disaster with John Mayer.  And I've totally gained weight since I stopped working out nine hours a day. Even my hair is, like, all....

ASHLEE: Lank? Lackluster? Meh?

JESSICA: I was going to say, depressed. Those commericals are true, dude. Depression HURTS. It hurts everyone AROUND ME. Aren't you hurting, now, too?

ASHLEE: I feel great!

JESSICA: Nothing even fits me anymore. I made this top from one of the curtins in my hotel room.

ASHLEE: Well, at least you're crafty now that everything else has fallen apart! You know what they say: when God closes a door, he opens a window, or whatever! Your window turned out to be arts and crafts! That's awesome!

JESSICA: I guess. Where's the cheese table around here?

How I Met Your Fugger

Cobie Smulders is very, very cute. So I really hope she alights from the satin train and tries something else next time, because something about this dress is betraying her.

Unless she is slowly inflating a basketball that's glued to her abdomen, in which case, the dress is exonerated from all wrongdoing, and she should consider medication.

Fugsay Lohan

We've been pretty patient with Lindsay Lohan lately. She's allegedly been trying to get it together, albeit with a few missteps and a crotch flash, and we were totally encouraged by the news that she was both dating an alleged clean-living advocate and had a screaming match with her no-good self-involved slag heap of a mother -- not that we advocate screaming at mothers, but since Dina has firmly and unhealthily (for her child) entrenched herself in the "boozy sorority sister" category rather than the "parent" one, we feel little remorse. And so word of their little spat gave us a reason to hope that maybe, maybe, Lindsay was going to shake off Dina's evil talons and get some ACTUAL advice and help from someone with ACTUAL maternal impulses and ACTUAL sense. (It's a crying shame when we feel more motherly toward her than most other people.)

But then, poor Lindsay had her little breakup hissyfit/makeup sex with Harry Morton, and it turns out she's just as unstable and co-dependent as ever. And in many ways, we still feel for her. She's young, she's wasting her talent, and she has no one out there giving her any real guidance except for a guy whose chain of restaurants is named after a particularly repulsive euphemism for female genitalia.

Still, there is no excuse for this:

[Photo courtesy of X17online.com.]

It's bad enough that she is wearing leggings, and indeed, leggings that are wholly exposed. But the real problem is that she's dragging Queen into her bloated abyss of dysfunction. Do NOT besmirch Queen with your ill-fitting, off-the-shoulder, faux-pants-loving fashion crimes, Lindsay! Do not taint Freddie Mercury and his musical legacy with that spandex stink. Please let him break free. He wants to; he said so in song.

And, please don't spill your energy drink, aptly named "Rehab" (I'm not kidding), all over it -- I suspect you need every suggestively named drop.

Fugge Bryant

Brit Celeb Kelle Bryant (of the poor man's En Vogue girl group, Eternal, and also, according to Google, a contestant on my favorite nonsensical British reality show, Love Island) is not to be trifled with:

Can you imagine what it would be like to be sitting in your seat at the MOBO awards here, minding your own business, thinking about the open bar at the party later, when your seatmate arrives, and she's wearing this? That shit's dangerous. One false move, and you're in for a lifetime of eye patches.

On the other hand, I imagine this stabby little ensemble would make it much easier to make your way to said open bar unmolested.

The Fug Dahlia

Oh,  Miss Scarlett, you sadden me.

The man standing behind you is clearly thinking, "I know, bro. I can't believe this chick would cover up that ass with a jumpsuit! Criminal!" And he -- although crude -- is not entirely wrong.  Because you look  like a terribly chic prisioner, like this is a prison-issued jumpsuit that you have sassed up in the name of keeping up your spirits and maintaining your personal style while you await trial. But while I am sure your spirits are high and your body is comfortable, you can not be considered innocent while your pant legs appear to be PEGGED.

Fugliette Binoche

"Mon dieu! It turns out I have to keep up with the bleach! Who knew?!?"

You Are Fuggin' Voxy

We owe a big debt of gratitude to a lot of people for the fact that Go Fug Yourself continues to exist, and one of the biggest is to Typepad, which hosts our fair blog. The fine people there have gracefully put up with our traffic lo these two years and counting, and they have never once told us they want us to stop associating their good name with people like Tara Reid and the Hiltons. For this, we are immensely grateful.

And so, it's our pleasure to do a little promotion with Six Apart, the company responsible for Typepad. Certain speedy Go Fug Yourself readers -- specifically, the first 1,000 to sign up -- will get to play around on Vox, a free invitation-only blogging service they're developing.

Basically, in addition to offering you space to blog and post photos and videos, Vox is a way for you to control your community of readers -- like, say, if you want to share stuff with your parents, without them also running into entries about the guy you hooked up with on Thursday night, or the time you vomited into their washing machine and managed to clean it up without telling them. Or, you could go the other way and make it friends-only; that way, because you know exactly who all your readers are, you can safely post personal photos without worrying that your father's business partner will find the one of you at the bachelorette party -- you know the one -- and send him the link.

You can also use Vox in conjuction with stuff you've already done with Flickr.com, YouTube.com, Amazon.com, and our old pal and partner-in-crime Photobucket. But, although it's free to use, it is invitation only, so this is the easiest way for you to get in and give it a whirl, and then bring in whomever you want.

So, get thee over there and savor a bagel with cream cheese and Vox. Watch the quick brown Vox jump over the lazy dog. See the Boston Red Vox play. Inhale some Voxious fumes. Sing Britney Spears' hit song, "Voxic." Whatever floats your boat. Just go forth and enjoy.

Fugly Fug II: Playtex Boogaloo

Much has been made about Fergie Ferg's song "Pedestal," in which she delivers what she imagines is a scathing criticism of a blogger, or all bloggers amalgamated into one Symbolic Blogger, for saying things about her from behind the safety of a computer screen.

And while we can understand why that's frustrating, the root of the problem is that she just gives us so much fodder. From publicly wetting herself to her myriad fashion crimes to things like the shirt she wore out in public that we fugged yesterday, there's just so much darn fodder there.

Such as the sequel to yesterday's photo, which we like to call Exhibit C-Cup.

We rest our case.

Well Played: Kristen Bell

We have fugged Kristen Bell a lot. So this is going to be a refreshing change:

Heather and I saw a fair amount of La Bell when we were at Fashion Week, and it seems like she learned a lot from her stint there -- and she didn't, thank god, pick up that she should put on some shiny silver leggings. Simply put, I love this: I love the color on her, the cut works with her petite little frame, the hair is good, the nails are good, the shoes are good -- it's all good. It's simple and flattering, but not boring, and best of all,  it's not too overwhelming on her, which is traditionally where she goes off course.  Yay!

See, we're not bitches all the time.

Fug.C. Chasez

J.C. Chasez went from heartthrob to Tara Reid bedfellow (allegedly... wouldn't want J.C.'s lawyers coming after us for slander) to failed solo act to quaint old fellow who sits on the porch with a handful of Werther's Original in his sweater pockets -- that is, when he's not daydreaming about the remote-control trolley running through is apartment.

Aw. Would you be his, could you be his, won't you be his neighbor?

Fugly Fug

Giving credit where credit is due, Fergie came across as fairly sweet on The View the other day -- when you get her in full conversational flow, she drops that idiotic street-talk cadence she adopts everywhere else, and so she actually seems sort of human. Maybe even regular.

If you close your eyes, that is. Because half the time she's running around in stuff like this, which just makes me laugh, shake my head, admire her abs (again -- due credit) , and then shudder and laugh again.

This whole decision that her debut as The Dutchess (why the stray T, Fergie Ferg? Are you shouting out to all your peeps in The Netherlands? Holla back, Amsterdam!) requires folding her clothes in half strikes me as a bit hilarious. This is not the first time she's done it -- you may recall she wore a white shirt and tie this way at the VMAs, when she performed her single. Which by the way was so wrong for The View that I could only cringe in empathetic embarrassment while she was grinding and bouncing around, and I silently thanked God that Baba Wawa wasn't there to see it, because knowing she was there somehow would have made the experience even more discomfiting for me.

Anyway. With shirts like this, Fergie reminds me of a very awkward pre- or early-teen standing in front of the mirror and tucking her shirts up under her bra in idiotic configurations, just to see what wearing a belly-shirt would feel like. I think a lot of girls did that when they were younger; I certainly did. First you tuck it under your bra outright, then when you realize that is not going to work, you try that thing where you bunch it all into one long tail, pull it up and under your bra, and then yank the tail out the neck hole. This looks completely idiotic but it kept the shirt up; the whole strange enterprise was a rite of passage of sorts, I think. I never did it because I particularly wanted to wear a belly shirt (okay, sometimes maybe there was an air of, "Could I... could I maybe... possibly...?" but it was always followed by an immediate return to consciousness along the lines of, "Wait, no, sweet God, no, the world is not ready for my negative-six pack") but, well, Madonna wore belly shirts, and anything Madonna did sartorially was pretty bodacious -- except maybe for the conic bras -- and worth trying to imitate in the privacy of your own home.

I stress: in privacy of your own home. Fergie Ferg, it is never, ever a flattering or attractive idea to tuck a shirt under your bra -- or look as if you have -- unless perhaps somebody is about to operate on your stomach and a very attractive person is holding your hand, wiping the delicately attractive sweat of pain off your brow, and staring into your eyes while whispering that there is No Other Way.

In conclusion, her shirts are silly, and I have revealed too much. 

American Fug

Tara Reid has given up her acting career and picked up modeling. Next month, she will be appearing on the cover of Dead Eyes Monthly:

(This photo was also considered for the cover of Ima Kill You, Jessica, If You Don't Stop Being So Mean To Me weekly.)

In case you're wondering, she also appears to be really gifted at runway:

I admit that I am not an expert on catwalk style, but I am pretty sure two-handed waves are not particularly fierce.

Poor Tara Reid. Honestly.  She is such a mess, I can hardly bring myself to publish this post. I mean, I'm going to and all, but simply as a call for help on her behalf. Girl, FOR REAL: go to the Golden Door or Canyon Ranch or something for like TWO MONTHS. Dry out. Give people a chance to miss you. Give your hair a chance to regain a flimsy hold on life again. Try to PULL IT TOGETHER. GOD.

Naomi Fuggs

Is it just me, or is it true that in 90 percent of photos of Naomi Watts, she looks either spaced out, or as if she's trying to smile through some uncertainty as to what is happening around her?

This photo says to me that Liev Schreiber has great taste in coats. And that when he realized with horror that Naomi was about to leave the house wearing the exact same thing Lindsay Lohan has already donned to go clubbing (cute open-toed Louboutins desecrated by a floaty, baggy dress/shirt over leggings), he decided he'd rather die than let his beloved share anything in common with a wailing, jealous, evil-mothered wild child, so in a confusing whirl of fashion rage that left Naomi dizzy-eyed and discombobulated, he bought a coat and thrust it on her to hide this brutal happening from photographers' prying eyes.

Then he called me up and yelled at me for typing a terrible run-on sentence. It was awkwardly prescient of him. Too bad he couldn't have used those powers to save her from the billowy fug in the first place.

Fugga Vidal

Poor Lisa Vidal. So cheerful, yet so tragically unaware that the front panel of her shirt is attempting to make a break for it.

Fugmore Girls

Please all bow your heads in a moment of silence for the passing of Lauren Graham's feet.

I will allow that it's good Ms. Graham took this opportunity to wear something body-skimming, proving that she is not, in fact, pregnant, no matter what the Gilmore Girls costumers want you to think when they find innumberable ways to add 20 pounds to her frame -- part of their apparent jihad against her, which started last season and which thusly can't be a real pregnancy unless she is heading down Lilith Crane Blvd.

But still, Lauren, a good hem job is not that hard to find. Let me put it to this way...

Really cute shoes by, say, Stuart Weitzman: $250 and up

A good tailor who will hem your pants for you: $30

Being able to SEE the really cute Stuart Weitzman shoes you spent all that money on: Priceless.

Danity Fug

GOOD SWEET GOD:

Yes, this looks like a bunch of girls appearing in a fashion show being held in the gym of the local junior high school, but it's actually the pre-fab girl group Danity Kane appearing at some kind of surely hellish promotional event. From what I understand from my readings, Danity Kane (what "Danity Kane" that even mean? And what are you damn kids doing on my lawn? GET OFF OF THERE!) is the end-result of Making the Band III, and thus, are in part the handiwork of  whatever the hell I'm supposed to be calling P. Diddy now. (I mean it: what are we calling him now? Is it still P. Diddy? Have we gone back to "Puffy"? Can I just call him Sean?)

So, Sean -- I'm just calling him Sean, for Christ's sweet sake -- has his own line of clothes, and he's a major investor in Zac Posen's line, and he's actually a pretty sharp dresser himself, so he should know better than to make these girls leave the house looking like this. I mean, if you've got a girl group, shouldn't they at least dress in the same GENRE? For marketing purposes, or even just neatness? You know, like how Destiny's Child used to leave the house all wearing sequins, or camo pants, or matador outfits, or whatever.

Instead, we've got an homage to Pebbles Flintstone;  a girl making the FATAL mistake of CREAM-COLORED CAPRI-LENGTH LEGGINGS, like why don't you just take a picture of your cellulite (even if you don't HAVE any cellulite, as this girl probably does not, cream leggings  gives it to you), and a very sad "Heart-Break" applique top; a girl who clearly has some kind of deranged desire to look as stumpy as humanly possible, and who is also dressed the way I am when I'm running out to Tito's Tacos to get grease to sop up a really, really bad hangover and have -- due to said hangover -- lost the will to live and/or dress myself; Daisy Mae; and a chick trying to camouflage a Renaissance Faire serving wench's shirt with an otherwise potentially maybe cute strapless top. There is NO continuity here.

Oh, unless the theme is "ugly"! Maybe I've cracked it!

Fugsana Baiul

In many ways, Oksana Baiul is like a Peldon 2.0.

Now, I'll give her that unlike a Peldon, Oksana is someone we've actually heard of, on account of her figure-skating success and, of course, the ensuing life drama that earned her a TV movie starring Monica Keena -- whom we will always remember fondly as Drunk Abby Morgan from Dawson's Creek who accidentally tragically fell off a pier while inebriated.

That aside, we can't quite figure out why Oksana is becoming Omnisana. Seriously, she's everywhere: on the red carpet, at parties, and all over the place at Fashion Week. It's left us shrugging with a very familiar confusion. How, exactly, is she getting invited? Is it on the strength of her stint as a guest judge on the summer loonfest Master of Champions? Was Marc Jacobs a particular fan of how she judged the guys who fastened a grater to the front of their cars, then drove in circles in order to shred a wheel of cheese?

And, of course, the other thing she has in common with La Peldon: She was born without a "what not to wear" gene.

We get that she's at a Heatherette show, so that explains her wearing that disturbing t-shirt that drags a Care Bear to a dark place no Care Bear Stare could ever penetrate: She's supporting, and trying to impress, the designers. Okay. But I have to believe that even those boys would look at this and say, "Girl, please." Maybe they would love that she's wearing a tiny garter belt with her fried hair and pastel eye palette; they probably would eat up the way she's channeling a 14-year old streetwalker from a bad-good Lifetime movie whose mother, Bonnie Bedelia, vows to take to the streets herself in the hope of finding her daughter and bringing her home. It would be called By Hook Or By Crook.

But I can't imagine they would do anything but belly-laugh that she's forcing the garter belt into impotence by wearing actual tights with it. On her list of crimes against the retina in this photo, that may rank as the most amusing.

Nicky Fugton and the Tale of the Black Satin Shirt

We all have favorite articles of clothing. I, for example, have a blue and white striped tee with the cutest little gathered neckline that I wear all the time.  Nicky Hilton appears to be obsessed with her black satin tank. (Is  she wearing it in homage to Chanel's sold-out Black Satin nail polish? If so, you should send us a bottle, Nicky! That is the price for our SILENCE. [Not really, we don't take bribes. (OR DO WE? [No. (Well, maybe. [No.])])])

We've dinged her for wearing it as early as January of this year. And again in April. And she's worn it THREE TIMES in the last couple of weeks. Behold:

Backstage at the Heatherette show:

(She looks very cute here, I think. And in case you're wondering, I still think she's knocked up and I won't begin to believe that I am wrong until I see her out drinking a martini, eating a giant piece of raw fish on top of a wheel of unpasteurized cheese, with dye in her hair, wearing a shirt that says "Ortho Tri-Cyclen Lo Works For Me. ASK ME HOW!)

A couple of days before the Heatherette show:

And here we have it again, maybe a week before the other two pics were snapped:

Seriously. It's not like the shirt is a BAD one, necessarily. I just find it perplexing that a girl who has all the money in the world, not to mention her own clothing line, wouldn't mix it up more, especially at Fashion Week.  On one hand, there's something refreshingly normal about her wearing this shirt over and over and over again. On the other hand,  I can't help but wonder (Carrie Bradshaw style) if she shouldn't consider buying one in a nice navy, or chocolate brown. Just to get me off her back.

Hell-To-The-Fug

Life has not been kind to Whitney Houston.

Turns out that being married to a preening self-involved smack hound, emaciating yourself, going on national television proclaiming that you make too much money to do crack ("crack is wack; crack is cheap") and that you would very much like to see receipts proving the allegations that you spent half a million bucks on cocaine, rejecting family interventions, refuting domestic abuse rumors even as your human scrap heap of a husband is being arrested at your behest, degrading yourself on a reality show in which the aforementioned bloated maggot you married -- now free from prison -- involves himself in your fecal matter, allegedly being forced into rehab by your family and then FINALLY filing for separation from your toxic spouse...

... can really rough up a person's judgment about what wig to wear.

We have faith, though, Whitney. Once you legally lose those 200 lbs of asshat, we think you'll be on your way back. But please, don't let your auntie Dionne take you hair shopping again.

Samantha Fugton

Why do I feel like Samantha Morton wants to smack my open palm with a ruler?

This dress makes her look a bit like a linebacker from the waist up -- a very frumpy linebacker, who loves stuffing a bra with socks and wearing translucent gloves that have yellowed with age, all as part of some kind of society-matron drag act.

The whole thing is so stern and severe and Lady Going Through 'The Change' that I decided to look up her age, out of pure curiosity. And as it turns out, Samantha Morton and I are the same age: 29. How is this possible? Why is she grannying herself up? I'm not saying she needs to run around with her cleavage tumbling out, but why not have even a little bit of fun? Her interesting face and pretty eyes get lost here in the aura of Polident fumes, while the thrice-her-age Helen Mirren owned the Emmy red carpet like an ageless glam goddess. It's intriguing that I have to encourage Ms. Morton to learn youth from her elders, but there you have it.

Yes, Fugly, That's Our Baby

TOM: Kate, what do you think of my hair?

KATIE: It's amazing.

TOM: I set the Flowbie to stun. HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA. No, seriously, I actually just set it to "long." You don't think I look like a boy-bander? I think I look like a boy-bander. A little bit. A little boy-bandy.

KATIE: You look amazing.

TOM:  What about my suit? Do you like my suit? Is my suit too movie-premiere-y for a soccer game?

KATIE: Your suit is amazing. Everyone wears Gucci to their child's soccer game. Gucci is amazing.

TOM:  Are you being sarcastic?

KATIE: I haven't been sarcastic in 18 months. My head hurts too much.

TOM: Have some vitamins!

KATIE: Uh-huh.

TOM: WHAT'S THAT?

KATIE: Vitamins are amazing. Scientology rocks.

Fug Jones

This is one of those ensembles that actually gives me TOO MUCH to work with:

Do I focus on that fact that her freaky shrunken head has probably made her terribly attractive to headhunters, and thus, she should avoid small unnamed South Pacific islands, so as not to end up simmering in a giant iron kettle full of her own juices? (Everything I learned about small unnamed South Pacific islands, I learned from the Jungle Boat ride at Disneyland, you see.)

Or how about her World Title belt?  Won via TKO in the Championship Fight for Most Unbelieveable Denial of Plastic Surgery, versus Sharon Stone.

Or how about the fact that her skirt appears to be a second grade class's Awesome Autumn arts and crafts project?

Maybe all of the above.

Fugah Michelle Gellar

We're glad to see Sarah Michelle Gellar has embraced brown hair again.

It's just a shame she's also embraced wearing outfits that look like gift bags Bobby Trendy designed in the throes of a bondage fetish.

New York Fugshion Week: Inner Monologues

JAIME KING: Remember when I used to date Kid Rock, and I was a clammy-looking kid who couldn't focus her eyes? Man, I have totally turned it around.

ERIKA CHRISTENSEN: I am totally going to smack this Rossum kid next to me. Seriously, I can't even look at her, in her little poofy white thing and all that face paint. My OC-6 would audit the HELL out of her snooty ass.

EMMY ROSSUM: If I can just sit here and look as human as possible, nobody will notice that I'm plugged into an outlet underneath my chair.

ERIKA: That's right, White Wedding, you sit there in your sheath and fan your pancaked skin. Don't worry about anything. Certainly not THESE BABIES right here -- I'm SURE nobody is staring at how huge they look in this dress. Heh-heh. Drink it in, photogs. Like sands through my hourglass, so are the days of your lives. Praise Xenu for a supple chest, and not a case of the ice princess's raging Dutch Elm Disease. I've eaten nails less brittle.

JAIME: ... KID ROCK, people. We didn't even wash our hair. NOBODY thought I was going to bounce back from that.

EMMY: Thank God for these frumpy white dresses -- they keep my motherboard cool and nobody can see my wiring. Now, what is it that real girls do, again? Fan themselves? Ignore their own kind? Wait, was I supposed to change my facial expression at some point in the last six months? ... Shoot. I think I need a software upgrade.

Fugly Crawfug

It pains me to fug a lady who is rocking the aging process -- real or artificial -- as hard as Cindy Crawford is. Seriously, nips and tucks or not, she looks fantastic (and any work she bought is top-drawer; certain celebrities hell-bent on surgery should call her for a referral, KENNY ROGERS), and I hope her husband is suitably appreciative and worshipful, and not some sort of Mr. Christie Brinkley asshat who thinks nailing an 18-year old makes him important.

At any rate: The transgression here is, sadly, one with which we're all too familiar here on Go Fug Yourself.

Yes, that appears to be a glittery dress, and yes, those are pants: Two great tastes that go down bitterly together and form a sour, acid cocktail of rage in our bellies -- one that no tube of Tums could ever banish. Adding insult to injury is the fact that the dress looks like it cost $5; now, while I have no problem with cheap clothes, I do find it's best to snag the ones that don't look like they cost $5, nor as if you stole them from a box in a studio costume shop labeled, "Reject bin: Mannequin." And I really would not follow up that little act of sticky-fingered larceny by drawing attention to it by pairing it with trousers.

What went wrong, Cindy? If you had to stumble, why did you err on the side of two years ago? Why couldn't you wear legwarmers tucked into ankle boots, like so many other slaves to lunacy? Couldn't you fug in The Now?

Fugly Fugton

And we're back!  Heather and I had an amazing time at Fashion Week, and thank you so much to those of you who read our work over at NY Mag's Fashion Week blog. But now it's time to take off our stilettos and get back to stabbing people with them.

And who better to start with than our old friend and favorite, Courtney Peldon?

I know. I know.  Doesn't this look like a promotion photo for television movie -- set in 1992, like, check out her Kelly Taylor-style white bike shorts -- in which she's kidnapped and dragged into the woods by a deranged psychotic (played by Kevin Dillon), who fell in love with her during his daily trips to the local coffee shop at which she worked, and who then locks her away in a remote cabin and slowly tortures her, all in the name of love, much like that Sweet Valley High book where Elizabeth gets kidnapped by a crazy orderly at the hospital where she is a candy-striper.

Over the course of the movie, of course, her shiny purple tunic (oh my god, a shiny purple tunic) would get torn and greasy and dirty, and by the time her pals from the coffee shop (a sassy gay played by Nicholas Brendon and a sharp-tongued girl played by Sara Rue) convince the stern, yet handsome cop in charge of the investigation into her disappearance (Neil Patrick Harris, trying to stretch his range, but mostly looking like he's about to high-five someone) that the Coffee Shop Psychotic is behind it all, it will barely even be a tunic at all, which will be a blessing, both for her and for everyone watching this godforsaken made-for-tv monstrosity, which will be called Venti Latte With a Shot of Crazy: The Wendy Sue Ellen Maloney Story.

I really don't know if that's what she was going for here, but I'm pretty sure that, no matter what, our clearly de-engaged Ms Peldon should stay out of the woods.

We had better WORK IT

Strange things are afoot at the Circle K.

If things get a bit quiet around here through next week, it's because starting today (Friday, Sept. 8), Jessica and I have been in New York City at what might well be our Xanadu of major events: Olympus Fashion Week. [We are still squealing about this. Seriously, this is our favorite thing that we've ever done, EVER.]

The good folks at New York magazine invited us out to put our stamp on some of their show and party coverage, which you can see here on the Show & Talk blog. And yes, those are our caricatures up top. Jess looks cute; mine looks ... well, nothing like me, frankly, but maybe my evil mug is just hard to render. Or, it's karmic payback. Whichever. And hey, as I said to Jessica, "At least nobody will recognize me from it, and therefore no one will throw a drink at my head." She would have replied, but she was busy ducking people's champagne bottles.

At any rate, we're bound by our schedule to cover Fashion Week first and foremost until Sept. 15 (a Friday), so we can't promise we'll be able to update at all until Monday, Sept. 18. But, in good faith, we will try to stop in and drop off a fug whenever we can, so do check back just in case.

Thank you! Have a great week, and we'll see you soon.

Fugcha Fugton

Ladies and gentlefuggers, I give you Ms. Mischa Barton, demonstrating the latest in tourniquet-chic:

[Photos courtesyof X17 Online.]

I have questions.

1) At what point in her day did she say, "What this torn white tank really needs is a plaid diaper"?

2) Could she please have a chat with her pelvic bone? It's an awful camera-hog.

3) Does she travel with sanitary seat liners?

4) Don't you think Marissa Cooper would have worn those shorts... as a hat?

5) When will somebody tell her being born with beautiful eyes, skin, and hair, and bedding a string of gnarly boyfriends, is not actually a strategy for defying gravity?

Sigh. I guess we should just be thankful she's not parading around town with things tied around her head...

... Right?

Oh.

Huh.

Okay, one more question, then: When did "Modern-Day Flower Child With A Dash Of Bjorn Borg" become a personal style?

Fug Suede Shoes

At the Viva Glam Launch:

LISA MARIE PRESLEY: I feel so freaking awkward.

EVE: How cute are my boots with this little dress? Cute!

DITA VON TEESE: My dress is flawless and you would stab your first grade teacher for my shoes. Don't deny it.

LISA MARIE PRESLEY: They're both totally dressed to suit their personalities. And I'm dressed like the maiden librarian at a junior high school in the middle of nowhere, circa 1954.  If I'd known they would have wanted me to look like MYSELF, I would have worn something a little more rock and roll. Or pants.

EVE: I have got legs for miles!

DITA: Pale girls worship me for eschewing self-tanner.

LISA MARIE: I am going to kill my stylist.

When Intern George isn't rubbing our feet, scrawling "Mr. George Fug Girls" on his Trapper Keeper, or peeling grapes that he then feeds us from a silver platter -- as we lounge on our chaises and swoon, "Dahling, WHITHER the fug today, I shall simply PERISH if Mischa Barton doesn't soon leave the house in a Value Village tee!" -- we sometimes let him answer our mail. And today, we decided to let him print some of his answers. We swear on all things holy (so, on George himself) that these are all VERY real e-mails we've received at GFY HQ, with names removed to protect the somewhat innocent.

---

E-mail #1

"You people are f***ing disgusting pieces of sh*t. Why do you have such an obsession with look's? Your f***ing inhumane creatures. Fugly? Good one! Look's dont last hunnie! It doesn't matter what we look like ok? What matter's is who we are as a person. I dont think anyone should be on this stupid f***ing site. Your site is disgusting, inhumane, rotten, cruel, full of lies, bullsh*t, random, stupid, ugly, and...HAHA! FUGLY TOO!

GET A LIFE YOU MORON'S! EAT SH*T AND CHOKE ON IT YOU DIRTY PIGS! I HATE YOU! DUMBASS'! GO BLOW A GOAT!"

Dear Friend,

You are upset. Let me hold you. It will be so very soothing. Then we can talk together about how I am living proof that good looks last, and last forever.

But, don't insult pigs. They're really very smart, sweet creatures -- loyal, great pets, and very tasty for breakfast once they're too old to be loyal, great pets. I could never betray one with a goat dalliance and I'm shocked you would ask such a thing of me.

Kisses,

G

---

E-mail #2

"wat up paris um... i was just wondering if u could send me a sighning ! NOT U FAT HOOKER SLUT HOOR BITCH !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1"

Dear Friend,

You seem angry. Let me hold you.

Also, Paris Hilton is many things, but "fat" isn't one of them, okay? Let's not bog down our communication with deceit. That will only hurt us in the end.  True love cannot prosper on a foundation of LIES.

Cuddles,

G

---

E-mail #3

"How the f**k could you say all of those mean and harsh things about Jessica Simpson???? You must just be jealous cause you know you can never look that good!! I do have to admit i hate how she has been betraying herself lately with maxim and other things ,but still i would like for you to respond back to me what you really hate about jesscia simpson i know you have already said everything but do it again if you hate her so much!!! "

Dear Friend of Jessica Simpson,

I don't know -- I think I look pretty good, sweet lady, and I think you'd agree. So let's not sully our time together with random insults, or hate, or talk of what's wrong with Ms. Simpson -- the details of which you already know, and which so aggrieved you that I can't believe you want them repeated.

No, let's make a little space in time that's just you, me, my villa in Lake Como, and my warm, warm embrace. Instead of getting upset, just let me hold you. I am quite dapper and I smell fantastic.

Smiles,

G

---

E-mail #4

"hey whaaaaaaats ur you fugers. "

Dear Friend,

I'm not sure I understand the question. But if you're upset, I recommend just looking at my picture for a few minutes and your blood pressure will drop like a stone.

In suavitude,

G

---

E-mail #5

"you must be really fameis can you call me here is my phone number [REDACTED] "

Dear Friend,

Now, here is where I must breach my calm facade -- although I would very much like to fix this with a hug, I must ask: What are they teaching the youth of today, that people are e-mailing their telephone numbers to strangers on the Internet? Are we still beset by that plague? Have the stories of tragedy in People magazine taught no one of these evils?

Listen to Hip, Hot Uncle George, kids: I don't want you to send personal information to people you don't know. It's not safe and I WILL NOT HUG YOU if this persists. Do you hear that? Go sit in the corner and think about a life without my soothing arms, and I know you'll do the right thing.

A very stern -- but also loving -- frown,

G

Fug's Anatomy

No, no, don't be discouraged, Sandra -- yes, okay, you lost the Emmy, and it was very sad. But you're going to be FINE. Your show is still a hit. You really don't need to reclaim your old paper route. Okay?

Be strong.

If You Wanna Be My Fugger

Oh, Baby Spice.

I just don't get it.   You look like you're appearing in a moderately successful West End musical about a winsome, girlish cat-burgler, and this is the costume for your big number at the end of the first act, "Lemme Shimmy Through Your Window (Lemme Rifle Through Your Drawers)." But, tragically, you seem to have accidentally put on the shoes intended for the big tap-dancing routine "Shuffle, Shuffle, Shuffle Off to Sing Sing," in which your plucky heroine is caught and sent to the pen.

Kristin Fuggalari

To anyone who doubts our claim that strapless dresses cannot be considered home-runs -- no matter HOW cute they are -- until they have been carefully test-driven, I present to you the following visual argument courtesy of (Tw)It Girl du jour Kristin Cavallari.

Game...

... set...

... and awkward, awkward match.

Don't drink and dress, y'all.

Fuggie Frost

Sadie Frost is a very lucky lady.

Yes, sure, she's faced with the indignity of wearing some really ugly ankle boots, but I'm pleased to report that she was not -- as I initially thought -- the victim of a tragic, senseless avian accident in which a bird drove itself into her skull and died there, permanently lodged in her ear.

No, it was something much more mundane.

Sadie was actually just the victim of a tragic, senseless milliner, who memorialized his own tragic, senseless avian accident by crafting a tragic, senseless hat.

She's also a victim of slightly greasy hair, but really, why quibble when she's so fortunate to have emerged from this without a bird beak enmeshed with her parietal lobe? So what if her eyes look so unfocused and dazed that she might well think she's at Royal Ascot, the poshest of English hatfests? No one will get hurt until she grabs a security guard and tries to place a bet on Posh Spice to win the third race.

Don't Cha Wish Your Girlfriend Was Fug Like Me?

While I'm stunned that the Pussycat Dolls managed to win an MTV VM-Eh award, I'm always happy to see this anonymous gaggle of "singers" prowling the red carpet.

Lead Cat -- we know she's the lead because she is allowed to stand slightly ahead of the rest -- actually looks okay, as does the blue sparkly one next to her, who resembles an Apollo 13 wife on her way to a launch party but is at least managing to make retro-chic work for her a bit. Well, except for the bun, which I suspect cost $13, and may actually be a pastry with cheap hair extensions wrapped around it.

Duff Cat on the left up there continues her remarkable embrace of all things Hilary Before Her Good Makeover -- down to the little extra-cinched hem on her dress, which echoes something Hil has already worn. But she should fire whomever chose a dress for her that has built-in wrinkles; ditto Bland Cat, second from the right, who looks like she shook it out from a crumpled heap in her neglected dry-cleaning pile and figured that no one would notice because one of the other cats was bound to look worse. (She was half correct.) And Posh Cat on the far right, whom I once thought bore a passing facial resemblance to everybody's favorite footballer's wife, was obviously erroneously inspired by Lindsay Lohan's Shakespearian bloomers. She barely coughed up a hairball's worth of original fug.

Aged Cat, meanwhile, looks like the cocktail waitress at the Playboy Mansion's Senior Bunny Texas Hold 'Em tournament. I mean, she's sporting a VISOR with her dress. A VISOR, PEOPLE. You know who else wears visors? Kevin Federline. And come to think of it, there's a slight facial resemblance to him in this photo. So until she earns her way back out of this reeking bog, she's known to me only as Federfeline. And being a groin-licking mewling version of Mr. Spears is a sad, sad fate indeed.

Random Fug: Courtney Marit

I don't know why this woman is holding an Emmy.

.

Her only credit, as far as the all-seeing eye of IMDb can tell me, is that she was on Survivor. And that didn't win. But more importantly, why is she at the HBO Emmy party wearing a harness and a dirty wedding dress?

Maybe she's pitching a new show to the network. Maybe it's called 'Til Death Do Us Art, about a morbid performance artist who agreed to marry her fiance while bungee jumping, and then decided that she didn't have any interest in yoking herself legally to a jackhole who wanted to get married in a wet suit while swinging under a bridge. So she runs -- through a wood, and I suspect a barn -- and vows never to remove her dress, so that others might see her as a living work of art denouncing hasty commitments. And jackholes. And harnesses. Billed as the anti-Big Love, it will feature her trying to convince people not to get married. Courtney Love will ultimately star, of course, since this getup is basically inspired by Hole's first hit album. And Scott Bakula will make his triumphant return to television as the dry cleaner who follows her around begging her to please WASH that damn thing before it starts to smell. Her old art-school T.A. whom she saves from a wrong-headed wedding to a socialite before falling in love with him herself? Why, Bill Pullman, of course.

Can't wait. But I don't know that wearing your pitch to a post-awards party is the best way to get it greenlit.

When Stars Are Fug

I like to call this tableaux, "When Bad Shoes Happen To Cute Outfits." Behold!

This photo was, according to our sources, taken the night of the VMAs, when Ms Paris was turned away from Bungalow 8. Hence her downtrodden expression. I suspect that the doorman got a look at her shoes -- and at the shoes of her companions -- and just decided, "This is IT. I can't do it anymore. I can not continue to validate this kind of abuse. WILL NO ONE RESPECT THE SHOES?"

Seriously. Paris, despite your attempts to convince us otherwise, you are not Pat Benatar. And thus, you should not be wearing those ankle boots with anything but pants. Take a cue from your Smoking Friend With the Sour Expression But Very Cute Cocktail Dress there in the middle. You can't see her shoes in this picture -- in fact, her footwear looks quite bedraggled -- but in other shots from this evening, you can tell that she's paired her dress with espadrilles. Yes, Paris! Seasonally appropriate footwear matched with the style of her dress! It CAN be done. She appears to have what we used to call, back when I was young, "a clue." It may behoove you to catch one.

On the other hand, at least you're not wearing Uggs. Here's my question about your Ugg-wearing companion: it's HOT right now. So, if you were going out for the evening, and you wanted to wear comfortable footwear that was inappropriate for the occasion, wouldn't you reach for flip flops, not Uggs?

Kids today. Just when I think I've got you all figured out....

VMA Post Party Fug: Paige Davis

Behold Paige Davis -- or, to use her legal name, Mindy Paige Davis Page:

Leaving aside the perplexing fact that the former host of Trading Spaces is going to VMA parties -- please tell me that they're bringing her back for a special celebrity season, and, like, Ludacris and Axl Rose are going to trade spaces -- can we talk about this dress? Who puts this on and thinks, "shiny...shapeless...sold!" I don't think she's pregnant (the side view seemed very bump-free), and I subscribe to the theory that, unless there's a bun toasting in your oven, you probably should shun the poncho-dress, or, as I like to call it, the droncho. Let's trade the droncho for something more flattering,  shall we?

VMA Post Party Fug: Lil' Kim

Welcome back to the world, Lil'. We're thrilled to see that doing hard time in the pokey hasn't blunted your erogenous zones' need for unimpeded ventilation. I mean, without the constant threat of being exposed to your fabric-averse ladyparts, where would the fun be?

VMA Fug Carpet: Jennifer Lopez

Dear Rat-Faced Pipsqueak Jesse McCartney,

You want to know if I'm pregnant, you Howard Stern-blabbing poster boy for runny-nosed puberty accidents? You want to tell everyone I quit Dallas because my Mark ate a sandwich one night and had the strength for two minutes of egg-scrambling ecstasy before he passed out in his coffin again? FINE. Take a look up my uterine pipe YOURSELF, squirrel! Mira! Here it is! Do I LOOK like I caught a raging case of incurable Violet Affleck in my woman-sauna? Could a PREGNANT LADY pull off dressing like the star of Gloria Swanson On Ice? If I was slinging around a bag of womb-fruit, tonto, do you think a hundred Hollywood writers would be sitting around my photo RIGHT NOW falling all over themselves to create a movie for me about a future in which society is populated with a robot race of synchronized swimmers who are not only the most respected citizens of the world, but who double as the intergalactic military, and whose captain -- ME, acne brute! -- saves the world with a specialized blend of sass, leg splits, and choreographed aquatic gymnastics... while also learning to have her cold metal heart feel things deeply in a deep, deep way? NO! I THINK NOT. (Matt Damon, you want the lead? Llamame! Don't tell your oaf friend!)

So, Jesse McCartney, stick your THUMB back in your BLABBY MOUTH, pathetic peach-fuzzed wussy child, and RUN AWAY, before I flap my puffed sleeves down to the Dallas set and cut off all your girlfriend's Lucy Ewing hair. Then she will have to copy my turbanesque head scarf and WHO WILL HAVE THE LAST LAUGH THEN, EH, TOOTHPICK CHILD? HAHAHAHAH!

Also, catch me on LL Cool J's new single, in stores now!

Kisses, runt,

J.Ant

VMA Fug Carpet: Vanessa Minnillo

I never would have figured that Big Brother's Chicken George and MTV's Vanessa Minnillo would have anything in common. And yet, here it is, proof of common ground between beauty queen and buffoon: Both enjoy wearing scrunched-up aluminum foil. How sweet.

VMAs: Paris Hilton

Paris Hilton, in her continuing attempt to become a singer, shows up at the VMAs in an homage to Bjork's infamous Trumpet of the Swan:

I especially enjoy the expression on the man sitting behind her. It's as though he started applauding for her, and then, actually catching a glimpse of her, has stopped mid-clap to think, "Sweet cracker sandwiches, what is she wearing?"

Good question, Perplexed Clapping Man. What IS she wearing? Let's take a closer look:

1. Bangs sculpted into a careful homage to Conan O'Brien
2. Wee little bows tried around her wrists like the world's twee-est handcuffs
3. De riguer giant belt
4. A skirt composed of equal parts duck feathers and the rejected scraps from Madonna's "Like A Virgin" costume. When Madonna and Bjork discover this fact, they will put on matching purple leotards and cartwheel over to Paris's house, where they will beat her severely with a sock full of quarters.
5. Black ankle boots, of course. Because what else do you wear with your fluffy white party dress? She's so ROCK AND ROLL! But what else would you expect from a songstress whose album includes the hardcore lines, "Girls and boys are looking at me/I can't blame them cause I'm sexy," or "I'm hot to death and I'm so, so, so sex-ee." I mean, the girls has CHOPS, am I right?

Is it wrong that I sort of just indulged in a fantasy wherein she walked right off the end of the stage, cracked her head, gave herself amnesia, forgot that she was supposed to be busy destroying the very fabric of our nation, and disappeared forever? That's what we're all hoping for, really, right?

VMA Fug Carpet: Leonor Varela

Apparently sick of people complimenting her figure (how tiring!), Leonor Varela created a diversion: She donned a confusing, malformed gold-satin atrocity with an unexplained stomach patch, made sure it pulled and strained awkwardly around every last curve, and then wrinkled the skirt in the limo before walking the carpet.

Congratulations, Leonor. It was indeed the perfect way to create confusion. I'm officially befuddled.

VMA Fug Carpet: Amy Lee and Jared Leto

Okay, you regular GFY readers have learned a few things about me in the past 2 years.  For example, I enjoy the work of Shannen Doherty, and I have a dirty, inexplicable, painful love for Lindsay Lohan that not even her current love of formal shorts can kill. I love George Clooney. I hate leggings.  And so forth. But I have kept secrets from you, my readers, and one of my many secrets is that I love match-making.  Because beneath my bitchy, evil exterior beats the heart of a secret romantic. And I think I have found a match on the VMA's red carpet. Reaquaint yourself with Amy Lee, and then meet her new one true love:

Amy Lee:

And her soulmate:

He's PERFECT for her, right? You know how they say that couples who've been together for years and years start to look like each other? They've already got a headstart! AND they presented an award together, which is how all great romances start. Oh, it's going to be so great. They can share eyeliner and talk about Robert Smith together! She can nurse him through the gout! Plus, if Lindsay Lohan tries to get back together with him, Amy will cut her, and while I don't want to see Lindsay injured, I would like to keep her away from El Leto. Everyone wins!