Go Fug Yourself: The Fug Awards Old Fugs Got questions? Contact us About us Press Clippings Advertise with us Fug Merchandise

« September 2006 | Main | November 2006 »

October 27, 2006

Fug Stolz

Remember Kim Stolz, the snarky lesbian on America's Next Top Model's fifth "cycle"? Have you ever wondered what she might be up to now? And have you ever thought that grouping an all-female modeling show in "cycles" is a poor, unfortunate, and crudely evocative choice of language?

Well, I'm here to tell you: Yes to the latter, and as for the former, she is going through something of an unfortunate Steven Tyler phase.

Get a hold of yourself now, Kim. This is a slippery slope. Save yourself before the jacket suddenly gets replaced by something shinier. Then you're a mere bender away from finding yourself strolling around shirtless, covered only by a large flapping vest, some tattoos, and some sort of necktie; then, quicker than a Diane Warren key change, you're suddenly staying home nights to stretch your lips out with a complicated assemblage of pulleys and forceps, while counting the pennies in your  Tyra Bank to see if you can afford those horse-teeth implants.

So... be careful, is all I'm saying. I mean, if Tyra and Mr. Jay thought you'd look good as a Kentucky Derby winner, they'd have taken care of it already.

Posted by Heather at 10:48 AM | Permalink

October 26, 2006

Fugshambles

Historically, Kate Moss has managed to avoid our wrath, mostly because she is one of the few people who can pull off pretty much everything she attempts.  Until now:

It's the visible Hanes Her Way panties that have pushed me over the edge.

But what's really alarming about Kate Moss right now is not this sheer taffeta monstrosity, but rather her male accessory.  We haven't mentioned Pete Doherty on here, ever, I don't think, mostly because this site isn't called Go Drug Yourself.  But I have just about had it with these two.

Listen, we've all made bad choices in the romance department. I once dated a man who had no refrigerator because "it was too loud next to [his] head."  But does ANYONE ANYWHERE think Pete Doherty is a good bet romantically?  He has -- and I think I can say this without using the "allegedly" -- drug problems.  His teeth are a mess.  He's often bleeding from the head.  He falls down a lot. He's sweaty. He seems like it would be hard to have a conversation with him between the hours of 4 pm and noon. He's a total f'ing mess, and he's the sort of boy who,  should you be dating him, prompts a lot of concerned conversations with your girlfriends including the words "loose cannon," "kind of greasy," and "your daughter's well-being." He's like the dating equivalent of wearing acid-washed short-shorts to your grandmother's funeral:  totally inappropriate to the point that people begin to wonder if you've had a head injury.

And that's not chic at all.

Posted by Jessica at 04:06 PM | Permalink

Chrystee Fugris

Chrystee Pharris used to be on Passions. And although at times Passions is the best show on television bar none, we can understand how being on a soap featuring the floating head of Adrian Zmed in a tri-corner hat, a living doll, a monkey-nanny named Precious, the huge unrequited crush of Precious on Luis The Hot Cop (Precious has good taste) that featured numerous fantasy sequences -- including a Dynasty-themed one -- in which Luis and Precious are thwarting their oppressors in order to be together while drinking banana smoothies, tittering faux-clowns who kidnap a pregnant woman and throw her in a basement hole and then taunt her, and mystical talking candles that warn people to remember The Shed (actual, horrified response: "I could NEVER forget THE SHED") could addle your brain and cloud your judgment.

I would mention the mermaid and the Da Vinci Code knockoff story that featured an army of angry lesbians, but that was after Pharris left.

At any rate, though, given all that unusual experience, we should probably look upon the following outfit/contraption with understanding.

Well... probably.

But the thing is, I cannot understand. I can't even wrap my brain around it. What... is it, exactly? How is that not the world's most annoying item to have on one's body? Does she have it rigged to rise and fall like a window shade? Is she a string fetishist? Is she selling three different price-levels of ad space? Is she in costume as Pokeahotass: Street-Walking Princess Of The Night? Or has playing the daughter of a rageaholic former tennis pro -- whose life was ruined when he got hit by a car that ended his tennis career and caused his father to die of heartbreak, and who as a result has kept the aforementioned Car of Doom locked in a shed to foster his obsession with the man he thought hit him, leading to him snapping at his daughters, "I thought I told you NEVER TO ASK ME ABOUT THE SHEEEEEED!! I don't TALK about the SHED" -- actually, really, truly tuned her a tad deranged?

I'm practically speechless here. I feel so cold, suddenly. Lost. Confused. Somebody please hold me. And get that girl some scissors. I think there might be some in the shed.

Posted by Heather at 01:28 PM | Permalink

Mary-Fug Olsen

Every so often in a girl's life, she goes out and she stays there too late. We here at GFY like to call that experience "college." And also, "The summer of 2003." But let's focus on the college part.

Harken back to the time you, say, went to a dance or a formal party in a cute dress, stayed out all night, did a few kegstands -- just like God intended -- and crashed out on somebody's couch because you didn't want to drive home, and also, you just sort of accidentally fell asleep on it. Then you woke up the next morning cloaked in the clammy chill of beer sweat, your hair so stringy and greasy from the evening's exertions that you could wring it out and fry a chicken. You had to get home. You had a paper due, maybe, or you just desperately wanted to rinse off in the comfort of your own shower shoes. But, what to do? Put back on the dress you wore last night, screaming to everyone that you're skulking home from an all-night rager? Or try to concoct a semi-plausible alternative -- say, by borrowing a flannel from one of the people who lives where you crashed, keeping the tights and shoes on under it, rolling up your dress and putting it in a shopping bag, and hoping that if you walk with enough assertiveness the whole thing will pass for trendy?

The answer, of course, is both. And neither. Because the thing is, it doesn't really matter what you do -- it's hard to hide a Walk Of Shame. It always emanates from you, to the infinite amusement of everyone who saw you that morning in college staggering back to the dorm with a nonchalant expression on your face, or wobbling through the dining-hall waffle line in boxers and heels.

But what I want to know is, why recreate Walk Of Shame couture as some sort of fashion statement? Why would you want to look like yesterday's Beer Pong tournament?

Unless this actually is a walk of shame, in which case... well played, Mary-Kate. Way to embrace college even if you're not attending it any more. But next time, may I suggest a hat? And perhaps fashioning a skirt out of some dishtowels?

Posted by Heather at 10:58 AM in Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen | Permalink

Sweet Valley Fug

This is  a difficult time for a Fug Girl.  With the resurgence of the fashion of the 80s, plus the fact that Halloween is less than a week away, we have an increasing number of moments where we see a picture like this, and wonder if it's a costume or not:

Give Brittany Daniel a hand:  she is, in fact, attending an 80s costume party thrown by VH1.

But, deep inside, don't we all know that somewhere,  someone is wearing this, and they mean it? And isn't reaching the point in our collective fashion consciousness where leggings under a belted man's shirt topped off with a mini-vest seems like it could potentially be anything other than a costume scarier than anything October 31st could throw at you?

Posted by Jessica at 08:50 AM | Permalink

October 25, 2006

Fugarosa Fugifug-Fugworth

We try to avoid Omarosa Manigault-Stallworth at all costs, lest we catch a nauseating whiff of her malodorous delusions of relevance. Undeniably, she and her ego were great reality-show contestants, but they do not combine to make her an appealing or interesting celebrity. Simply put, we don't care. We've had our fill, it was amusing, the plaster fell on her head in what we like to think was an act of God, and now we want to leave her in the past. And yet, she appears to be trying to draw out her 15 minutes with the use of a carefully manned stopwatch, or perhaps by misinterpreting the old adage as meaning, "Fifteen minutes... of every hour."

Ergo, this single-minded avoidance is probably how we missed out on her ginormous new breast implants, acquired in about March or April, if the photo galleries are to be believed. But if she's going to shove them in our faces, we might as well push back.

Here she is before the inflation:

And here she is after:

This just goes to show why genuine knuckleheads shouldn't be encouraged. Because idiots like Omarosa make a name for themselves as a colossal nutjob on TV, start racking up invitations to things, then take one look at Pamela Anderson and think, "When I am tumbling out of my cocktail dresses, then I shall know I have truly made it." She's the type of person who cracks open a fortune cookie, says that it reads, "Something big is about to burst forth from you," and takes that as a sign that her moment has come.

Then she cuts a skirt off a dress and sews an untailored hunk of translucent black fabric on the bottom, and takes everything out on the town again.

Sigh.

I just want her to put them away, along with the rest of her. It can't be a coincidence that her name anagrams to, "O worst amoral mauling! ... That's all."  And, indeed, that pretty much covers it. Go home, dunderheaded double-lumped troll.

Posted by Heather at 12:36 PM | Permalink

Celebrity Fug Club

When I told Heather I was going to be fugging Ant, she responded, "Those words are English, but I don't know what they mean.  Except the 'fugging' part." The best way I could explain the phenomenon of Ant was to tell her that he started out on Last Comic Standing (as a really annoying contestant), somehow parlayed this into a gig on Celebrity Fit Club (as a much LESS annoying host), and now both does that and also apparently hosted Last Comic Standing 3, which, if I am not mistaken, only aired on the Internet and at like 4 am on basic cable in Uzbekistan. (To his immense credit, it seems, according to our friends at IMDb, that he also appeared in the TV version of Sweet Valley High, and in something deliciously titled It's My Body and I'll Cry If I Want To.) Anyway, short version: He's now like the poor man's Mario Cantone.

He, however, didn't get the memo:

The memo HE got said he was the poor man's JESUS.

Posted by Jessica at 11:08 AM | Permalink

Random Fug: Our Future Employees

Sometimes I think of the celebrity world as a carnival of fug. And then I start to daydream about starting a real Fug Carnival -- we'd hire somebody like Scarlett Johansson to run a roller-coaster ride evocative of her own up and down relationship with clothes; Jessica and Assica Simpson and their incredibly changing body shapes/faces would of course man the Fun House and all its manipulative mirrors; Fergie would run around as the bearded lady; Paris Hilton would be at the kissing booth, where you get a free antibiotic with each slip of the tongue; and we'd force K-Fed and Britney to sit in the dunk tank because that's the only way to guarantee that they get a real bath.

And then, I found this photo that inspired me to add a scary "It's A Fug World After All" ride -- even more terrifying than the original -- wherein you sail through a little waterway (made of vodka) and creepy dolls sing at you from the land on either side, telling you all about what's awful in celebrity fashion.

These are those dolls.

Imagine it: These two ladies in their frightening outfits, surrounded by a passel of crazy dolls and celebrity lookalikes waving spookily at you underneath some flags adorned with the faces of, say, people like Tina Knowles and Rachel Zoe, while all sing...

It's a world of leggings
A world of Crocs
It's a world of Bai Ling
And pants with frocks.
There's so much to abhor
Every day, there is more
It's a fug world after all.

It's going to be marvelous. Apparently, one of these ladies is Esperanza Aguierre, who is -- if my Spanish hasn't failed me -- potentially the President of Madrid (who knew? I'm very much looking forward to hiring her), and the other is Agatha Ruiz de la Prada, who designs children's clothes. Judging by her garb, regardless of which one she is, they are the kind of children's clothes where you would look at a young girl in them and smile in affectionate amusement to yourself, thinking, "Aw, somebody was allowed to dress herself today..." It's perfect for our menagerie of creepy dolls.

Oh, and, yes, the boats will come with ladles and glasses so you can partake in the vodka river. Trust me, you'll need it.

Posted by Heather at 08:27 AM in Random Fug | Permalink

October 24, 2006

Fugney Love

Since Frances Bean seems to be doing a nice job getting taken care of, either by herself, her relatives, or her mother, I feel like it's kosher to say once again that Courtney Love is such an entertaining mess. I mean, there's always something.

Ignoring the fact that her bra appears to be showing, this particular something -- the implementation of an unexpected hair-hook -- is utterly great. Think of it: If at the end of the night her handlers can't pry her out of that confusing gold lame jacket with fur trim, they can just give up and hang her entire body up in the closet. Maybe they've started keeping her in the wardrobe already, and that explains why her makeup seems a bit stale -- they forgot to chip it off last time and are trying to get at least three full uses out of each spackling before attempting to refresh. So economical!

Posted by Heather at 04:08 PM in Courtney Love | Permalink

Fuggy

SHARON: You know something, Dennis?

DEMI: It's not Dennis, it's...

SHARON: MIMI. Right, that's what I said. You know what, Mimi? Working with you and Ernesto was just such a REAL experience...

DEMI: It's not Mimi, and it's not Ernesto, it's...

SHARON: EMILY. I knew it. So, Mimi, this guy, Emily, the one right here... THIS is the guy, you know?

EMILIO: Give it up, Demi. She smells like a frat party. I think she was wearing that tie on her head not too long ago.

DEMI: I just wish she'd brushed her hair. And her teeth.

SHARON: I just couldn't be more proud to be in Bruno, you know? It's about time somebody understood him -- such a wonderful actor, such a tragic early death. People with whatever he had? They are the true heroes.

EMILIO: The movie's called Bobby.

SHARON: That's what I said! Bobby! So tragic, the way he died, and then poof, he was in the shower because it was all a dream that Pam had! Society needs this movie right now. We need to understand so that we can heal.

DEMI: That was a TV show... Were you even invited here?

SHARON: I think that Linus Lohan boy was so good in the part, too. He is dreamy, and I think he has a line on some Percocet. I'm single now -- what do you think? Wouldn't we be just deliciously randy together?

EMILIO: Linus wasn't... I mean, Lindsay... I mean, it's not Dallas. I think you did too many kegstands.

SHARON: That should be your next movie, Emily. Miller. The story of a man who created something legendary, who dared to dream of fermented hops and barley. Something we all just want to dive into and stay there, bathing and swimming in a wet coccoon of wheat, you know? It's important. I'll play the keg. You could put Mimi and her son in it. What's his name? Ashton?

DEMI: Well, yes, actually, but he's not my ... you know what? Forget it. That's close enough. Now I need a beer.

Posted by Heather at 11:41 AM in Sharon Stone | Permalink

 

eXTReMe Tracker