The Ghost Fuggerer

J.Lo.Hew is sort of growing on me lately, in part because I cannot get enough of her spectacular hair and eyelashes on The Ghost Whisperer, and in part because she's dating sweet, sweet Liebgott from Band of Brothers (whom I accidentally killed in one of my old recaps; I spent the rest of the 10-episode run feeling really guilty about it because not only was he alive, but in fact he was rather helpful at times).

Mostly, though, I have affection for her because I appreciate a girl who's not afraid to have curves. She's healthy-looking, and a little naturally bodacious back-and-rack could do a lot of starlets in this town some real good; also, J.Lo.Hew has never once made me to want to go find her mother, knock on her door, and give her what-for about her daughter's dangerous habits and lost youth. I'm sure her mother appreciates that as well.

However...

I do wish she would learn to CLOTHE her curves properly. More often than not, she's wearing something that makes her boobs look saggy -- or, here, all over the place; between what is spilling out of the bodice up top and how low it seems to be holding everything else, I can't figure out what's happening to her poor chest. The criss-crossing at her waist spreads just low enough that it's making her look like a spangly brocade pear. Unfairly, I would wager. What's more, the cut of the dress hits her calves at their thickest point, and the ankle strap on her shoes is having a slight cankle effect on them.

The whole thing is one big miss, and that's a shame, because she can rock what she's got and a lot of the time she just... doesn't. So snap to it, fair Liebgott. I mean it -- start snapping photos before she leaves the house, to show her what she'll look like on the red carpet. Don't make me ask you twice.

Fugeron Diaz

"Just stay cool, Diaz. Keep it together. I know Justin SWORE that it's not Britney who's been sending me those threatening letters with the words spelled out in magazine and newspaper clippings, which are signed, 'Luv, Britney,'with a little heart dotting the 'i', but I still think it might be her... He said she's not that dumb, but dude, has he SEEN her lately? She's practically writing her own Dumber and Dumbest movie with that Hilton chick, and I'm sorry, but she is NOT the type of person who can eat anything she wants and stay thin, which we all know I am, because any profile written about me between about 1999 and 2004 mentioned that, in addition to how often I like to belch. So he's better off without her and if she wants him back -- how did the letter put it? "I'M GOING TO HIT THAT, BOY-NAME, INFINITY MORE TIMES" -- she's going to have to work on her metabolism and all the burping, because Justin wants a REAL woman. But even though all the security guards know to watch for her, I'm still kind of nervous that she's going to run up and dump a vodka-Red Bull over my head. Maybe this was the wrong outfit. I can't run away in these pumps, and I'm not exactly hard to spot in this shiny gold fabric. In fact, I look kind of like I skinned two throw-pillows that I found at a Joan Collins Estate Sale and turned them into a dress. Why did I DO that? Why didn't Justin TELL me it was bad? Does he not CARE any more? Does he WANT to get back together with the Cheeto factory? DIDN'T HE SEE HER STUPID SHOW? I... phew, okay, Diaz, deep breath. Remember, we talked about staying cool. Just stick your hands on your hips and smile, and trust that one of those cops with tazers will zap her if she tries to get close. And, note to self: If everything goes fine, and you get inside safely, steal one of those tazers to use later on Jude Law. You know it's gonna come to that."

The Talented Mr Fugly

I was watching a commercial for The Holiday last night -- you know, the movie where Cameron Diaz and Kate Winslet switch houses, and romantic shenanigans ensue? -- and it occurred to me that I don't particularly buy Jude Law as a romantic lead anymore. I don't know if this is because I know too much about his real-life predilection for nannies and Sienna Miller, or if it's because he's morphed from being this guy:

To being this guy:

I don't really want that guy showing up at my vacation house and romancing me. I'm a little scared that that guy is going to show up at my vacation house and rob me. And while the suit itself is lovely,  this shirt/tie combination makes me want to show up at his vacation house and burn it down:

Something about him just gives me the wiggins, and the wee curly mullet doesn't help, either.  In the ad, there's a scene where he and Cameron Diaz are going somewhere in a car together, and they're all looking at each other coyly, and I am not thinking, "Aw, look! Those two are totally going to fall in transatlantic love!" I am thinking, "He is totally going to murder her and dump her body in some abandoned English field."  Which I am pretty sure is not exactly what they were going for.

On the other hand, maybe the movie is secretly about serial killers. What do I know? I just hope Kate Winslet makes it out alive. I love her.

Fugoes

Truly, I should just be thrilled that Hayden Panetierre of Heroes is dressing in classy, grown-up clothes that don't require us to pray she is a) wearing underwear; b) toting seat liners for when she sits down sans panties; and/or c) wearing a very tough-to-crack chastity belt, because she was born in 1989 and we can't abide the idea of anything born while we were in Algebra II deciding to flash some ladybits.

And in all honesty, there's nothing really wrong with this outfit here. But... doesn't she look distractingly like a campy flight attendant? Like maybe Jet Blue has decided to run a promotion wherein a star from a randomly selected NBC show of will start randomly working its flights, peddling peanuts and sodas and those yummy blue Terra Chips that I love so much? Granted, that would be a quick way to my heart, and certainly there's nothing wrong with being a flight attendant, but I'll wager if you asked any of them whether they'd enjoy wearing their uniforms for a big night on the town, you'd hear gales of laughter through which you could faintly make out the words "tight," "itchy," and "panty lines." (But they would NOT respond by stealing little bottles of booze from the planes and drinking themselves silly. Because if there's anything the hideous Gwyneth Paltrow "comedy" A View From The Top -- or as she called it, A View From My Ass -- taught us, it's that America is really freaking sick of Mike Myers. Oh, and also, that a good flight attendant with big hair and big dreams NEVER steals miniature bottles of booze from the aircraft.)

At any rate, I find it sort of unsettling that this dress makes me expect Hayden to chat me up and then charge me $5 for headsets so that I can watch Garfield: A Tale Of Two Kitties and ANOTHER $5 for wine because it's a domestic flight and even though LA to NYC is about as long as NYC to England, I still evidently have to pay to medicate any domestic unease with flying, which is a load of BULL, if you ask me, but nobody did, which is a real shame. And because she's not the evil overlord who made that rule, I'd rather she tried a different dress so that I don't inadvertantly get cross with her for it.

Besides, no offense to Hayden, but we'd rather have Conan O'Brien work our flight. Nothing like a little genial hilarity along with those microscopic bags of generic Snak Mix, not to mention that we'd get to ogle his towering cowlick -- which legend has it is propped up by an elaborate system of pulleys and a paste made from Easy Cheese and molasses. Also, he'd give us free wine. I know it in my heart.

Celebrity Skeeve Watch: Billy Crudup

This has been brewing for a long time at GFY HQ, but today, the Terror Watch squad would like to announce officially that Billy Crudup has been put on a high "orange" alert (see Appendix below) for his escalating skeeve factor.

Crudup has struggled mightily with facial outcroppings in the last two years, perhaps under the mistaken impression that his unlikely appeal in Almost Famous would maintain itself through whatever follicular configurations he debuted. But, he was wrong. Very wrong. It doesn't help that he and dreary-guts Claire Danes have had to spend the last little while as Those Cheating Pregnant-Lady-Leaving Bastards, but even without the taint of that nasty little situation and their ensuing collective frowning and aura of total boredom (like, "Uh... well, guess we'd better stay together, then, since everyone's watching... pass me my vibrator? Thanks"), we would still be completely grossed out by the amount of oil he's stockpiling in his hair. Not to mention the rust-colored moustache that, against every bit of my free will, makes me think of... look, I can't bring myself to use the proper term for this act on our site, so let's just say it's reminisce of the kind of painting party only South Park's Mr. Hanky could throw.

So, Billy, to borrow from your Mastercard commercials:

Shampoo: $5.99

A Gillette Fusion (you are going to need all 5 blades): $9.99

Shaving cream: $2.29

Not looking like Kevin Federline's older brother: Priceless (yet also a very affordable $18.27 plus tax, so why the haste?)

Additional Note: The GFY Terror Watch squad would also like to announce that Wilmer Valderrama has been ejected from the "Guarded" category for looking really rather presentable lately, and not at all as if he hasn't slept in three days. Congratulations, Wilmer. He has been replaced by Chad Michael Murray, who, while appearing relatively physically clean, is a Hilton-banging cheating douchebag pig-dog and therefore merits placement on the scale.

Thank you, and remember: Practice constant vigilence.

Appendix: SKEEVE WATCH TERROR LEVEL CHART

SEVERE: Kevin Federline

HIGH: Brandon Davis

ELEVATED: Michael Madsen

GUARDED: Chad Michael Murray

LOW: Jake Gyllenhaal

Fug the Cover: Nicole Kidman

So, I have a long and tortured history with Nicole Kidman.  Or, more accurately, with her hair. See, I love her red Moulin Rouge hair. I spent a goodly portion of that movie thinking, "Man,  Ewan McGregor is cute. Her hair is FANTASTIC.  Ooh, he can sing, too! No, seriously, I want that hair to be coming out of my head." And so on. I mean, come on:

She's the prettiest consumptive ever! I would kill you to have that hair. I'm sorry,  I'm sure you're perfectly lovely and I do appreciate your readership, but I need to have long, shiny, wavy red hair.  When I have that hair, finally I will be happy.

And when Nicole stuck to that hair color (or an approximation thereof)  in real life? Oh, it was a delight!

Pretty!

Pretty! (Hi, George.)

Pretty!

Then, of course, we went through that long, painful blonde period. God, that was hard. Why, I asked myself, would someone with pretty, pretty red hair decide to wash herself out like that? Why? For one thing, what kind of example are we setting for Lindsay Lohan? (Remember when our biggest concern about Lindsay Lohan was her hair color, and not the fact that she NEVER WEARS PANTIES ANYMORE? I wish I'd known how lucky we were.)

So, when I got December's Vogue, my first thought was, "THANK GOD, WE'RE BACK TO THE RED!"

My second thought was, "ACK!" Because either Anna Wintour wants us all to stick our fingers in an electrical socket before we leave the house, or Nicole Kidman cut in front of Anna Wintour in the cocktail line recently and only now is Anna enacting her sweet revenge.

Listen, I can handle the kooky futuristic chain mail mini-dress because, you know, it's Vogue, and they go there sometimes, but if this is the future of hair, we all best sell our shares in VO5 and get ready to style our hair with those little blow torches they sell for creme brulee.

Paulina Fuggio

The first time I saw this photo, I thought that Virginia Madsen had suddenly and tragically fallen on very hard, very confusing, and unexpectedly incontinent times.

Then I realized it's just crazy old Paulina Rubio, wearing what look like the Wicked Witch of the West's version of ruby slippers and swaddled in bedclothes.

So, really, just another Tuesday.

Amy Fugling

Oh, no!

It appears that Amy Irving -- bored on a slow, chilly Tuesday -- decided to throw caution to the wind and join that cult that's always hanging around the Brentwood Country Mart.  What the heck! They've got these festive gold robes,  after all, and they keep promising her eternal life! And the outfits go with her favorite summer sandals! It's going to be fun.

Fuggis and Fugney

Dear Diary,

So, I totally have a new friend to tell you about today! It didn't really work out with Nicole when she was blonde (and between you and me, Diary, she is even less fun with the brown hair -- I mean, what's the point of having dark hair if you aren't hiding weed underneath it?), and, like, oh my GOD, dude, Kimberly Stewart was really NEEDY. She called me ten times a day until I made her cry that last time, and I SWEAR I caught her rooting through my bathroom trashcan, picking out my old extensions and taping them to a hair clip. Which, EW -- it looked EXACTLY like a hair clip from a drugstore, and not the FUN kind of drugstore, so GROSS.

Anyway, so I found this new blonde person now and I think it's going to work out because even though she kind of already worships me, she attracts WAY better photographers than Kimberly did. And, she's going through a totally rough time right now because she's getting a divorce, so she wants to party and dress up and stuff and get really dirty and freaky, which is my FAVORITE THING EVER to do. Like, this one time, I put on my favorite red party dress of that week, and she got out this old thing she used to wear when she and her husband played that weird Ice Dancing game where they were at the porn Olympics, and we decided to go out and party. And it was, like, TOTAL sisterhood, you know? And it was SO SWEET because we were really cold, and she remembered that her ex-husband had a bunch of old pieces of panty-hose in his drawer from the olden days when he would stick his head in them and then throw over a 7-11 (she used that word -- "throw over" -- I don't really know what that word means but it is so Law & Order I can't even STAND IT and I think I'm so good now at saying the word that I should probably order up a part on one of the episodes, right? Do you think they deliver?). But anyway, so we had these pieces of panty-hose but there were only two, so we each wore one -- me on my right leg, and her on her left leg, which I swore was her right leg, but she kept telling me it was her left and that she would know what her own left leg looks like since she was BORN with it, DUH, and you know what? I don't know what her left leg looks like, and maybe it looks like it's on the right -- there ARE people who are born that way, I'm pretty sure, and if she's one of them, then maybe we should start some sort of charitable manicure program that benefits the Righty Left Children or whatever. It's a good idea.

Anyway, it was soooo fun -- she's like the sister I never had! Sometimes we sit up all night and drink vodka from baby bottles and talk about boys and divorces and our music careers -- apparently, she had some albums and shit, but I don't REMEMBER Pamela Anderson having a record or anything, do you? But she got all mad and screamed that she did too have more hit songs than I did, and she didn't seem to like it when I called her out and said I'd never heard of any of her songs and that she would need to PROVE it. In fact, she ALSO didn't really like it that much when I called her Pamela, but dude, I KNOW Pamela Anderson when I see her -- like, those things are KIND OF hard to MISS, you know? They're bigger than Nicky's head! So anyway I told Pamela to shut up and finish her Zima and she kind of got upset again but then once she was done chugging it and then shotgunning her Bud Light (she said her mom calls it a Trailer Martini -- how kicky and retro! Also, does Pamela Anderson HAVE a mom? Wicked!) and then everything was fine again.

Can't wait to see sister Pammy tomorrow! We're gonna get tattoos that say P&P Music Factory (even if she IS lying about having all those albums) and it's going to RULE. I talked her into it after the third bottle of Jagermeister. She said it would be even better because Kevin would hate it ("Kevin" is how you say "Kid Rock" in Michigan speak -- they are so funny up there!). Whee! Paris and Pammy!

Sloppy kisses,

P

AMA Fug Carpet: Sarah Silverman

Okay, Sarah Silverman:

Just as long as you don't start aping Paula Poundstone's ACT, too.

Kate Fugler

I should probably just relax and be grateful that it's former Big Brother UK winner Kate Lawler in this outfit, and not Lindsay Lohan, given the latter's recent predilection for looking like a metal groupie, or the daughter of a Hell's Angel who's working overtime to prove she's badass enough to get her own Hog. But, for once, this isn't about LiLo -- it's about Kate, who should consider herself bloody lucky that the minutiae of her life are no longer subject to national votes of approval or distaste, or else I'd call 100 times to register my shock and horror. This thing is at that hideous crumpled necktie, and the way that random strip of leather looks as if it's chaining together her arms (which are being thoughtfully cuddled by some old legwarmers) in some sort of homage to bondage. And the booties! Look, unless you're an infant, or you're displaying a collection of noteworthy derrieres, you should never, ever wear anything that requires the deployment of the word "booties." Trust me.

Perhaps she's trying to pitch her own reality show. Entitled Leather Daddy, it would entail Kate visiting different disgruntled house-husbands who are desperate for a dash of naughty spice in their otherwise bland lives, and taking them shopping for some mad-hot cowhide couture. See Nigel try and cook spaghetti with his chains on! See Gavin pick up his kids at school while wearing his hood! See Alfie's wife try and take him seriously when he hooks himself into the Brazilian love-swing! It'll be a hit.

A Whole New Fug

Let's face it:  if there would be one item that we would lash out against, unilaterally, it would obviously be shiny pleather leggings:

And yet, loathe as I am to admit it, Katie "Jordan" Price is kind of pulling them off. I have no idea how she got them ON -- baby powder? Vaseline? Prayer? -- but she's kind of working them.

Of course, it's entirely possible that I am feeling particularly charitable toward her because I just watched the video she and Peter Andre made for their cover of "A Whole New World." If you have not yet seen this, do yourself a favor and indulge. As Celine Dion sang so memorably in "It's All Coming Back to Me Now" -- a music video which looks like a three-minute advert for minimalism compared to Jordan and Peter's effort, by the way -- "there were moments of gold, and there were flashes of light. There were things I'd never do again, but then they'd always seemed right. There were nights of endless pleasure. It was more than any laws allow." Truly, the six minutes of black and white deliciousness that is their music video WILL provide you with endless pleasure. More than any laws allow. Enough, in fact, to make you accept black pleather leggings topped with a superfluous belt (because last time I checked, leggings don't have belt loops). It is that powerful. Consider that my gift to you.

Periodically, as their busy spa and Spider Club schedules allow, celebrity experts will join us to answer your questions about how to fug up your life as thoroughly as they do theirs. This week's expert calls himself Peggy Post With A Penis, priding himself on his encyclopedic knowledge of etiquette, the history of social behaviors, his posture, and his immaculate sense of personal hygiene.

---

Dear Aunt Fugly,

I'm at a loss. I hosted Thanksgiving for my in-laws, and when we asked if they wanted any leftovers to take home, my mother-in-law said yes... and then took everything. The turkey carcass, the mashed potatoes, the stuffing, even the leftover pies. She packed it all up in shopping bags and sailed out the door promising to bring the dishes back washed. I was shocked! We cooked the meal, paid for everything, and then didn't get to have any of it the next day. Worse, my husband doesn't understand why I'm so annoyed and thinks I'm overreacting and being selfish. And that's why he really wasn't impressed when he had to come bail me out because I TP'd my mother-in-law's front lawn that night and got booked by the Beverly Hills PD. But seriously... she deserved it, right? What should I do? Who's right?

Sincerely,

My Turkey Done Left Me

Yo, Turkey,

Sounds like you GOT PLAYED, Playa.  Some people might call your mother-in-law a freeloader, but I call her a hero.  Is she single? Tell that bitch to hit me up: 1-800-FOR-KFED.  I will be all over her popozao.

But tell your husband to shut his damn mouth: chicks with records are hot, and you sound feisty. Maybe you and your mother-in-law and me can all get together sometime, if you know what I mean. You know, just the three of us and some PBR, chilling at my studio in Van Nuys. The dude next door has a hot tub. We can totally hop the fence.  It'll be SWEET. Blow up my cellie, girl! Holla!

---

Dear Aunt Fugly,

So... God, I'm nervous even writing this. Okay. Deep breath. See, I am a newlywed. And we're having our first Thanksgiving together. And his... traditions... are a tiny bit different than mine. For one thing, he doesn't want to have it on Thanksgiving because he thinks that's not what the Pilgrims would want, and whenever I try to explain that having Thanksgiving on Thanksgiving is kind of the whole POINT, he tells me that I haven't done my research and that he has and I should just let him handle things because he's a pilgrim expert. Also, believes that if we just leave the turkey on the counter overnight, Xe --  uh, I mean, some kind of cosmic force that he thinks is all-powerful -- will stuff it with good fortune. But I always thought it was sort of unhygenic to do that. He then wants us put on robes, rub our daughter with truffle oil, and read aloud passages from Battlefield Earth, because he says it's some kind of special auditing ceremony for babies who can't speak yet to confess their sins. Also, I like to say grace before we eat, but he likes to stand on his chair and throw his arms up to the sky and shout, "PURGE OUR THETANS, O GREAT ONE!" And then he starts laughing and clapping. Which, let's be honest, kind of weirded out my parents the last time so I told them it wouldn't happen again, but I'm not actually sure I can stop it. So I guess what I'm asking is, how the Hell did I get here, and yes, HUSBAND, I did say "Hell," because six months of your stupid free classes is nothing compared to a lifetime of being Catholic and I STILL BELIEVE IN MY OWN THING AND THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT THAT OWWWWWWWWWWWWW I think the chip he put in my brain just zapped me. What was I saying? Oh yes -- have you ever taken a Personality Test?

Sincerely,

Everything Is Fine And I Am Fine And My Baby Is Fine And We're All Just Fine Here, Thanks!

Dear EIFAIAFAMBIFAWAJFHT,

Bitch, I have no idea what you're even talking about.

---

Hiiiiiii Aunt Fugly!

Y'all, I am having an AWESOME THANKSGIVING this year! First I lost weight... to be exact, 180 lbs of STANK-ASS HUSBAND! THAT'S RIGHT CAMERON BOY-NAME, you had better LOOK OUT FOR MY ASS NOW! Especially because I totally went and partied in Las Vegas with Paris and danced around in my tights because I don't NEED pants because I'm not KNOCKED UP any more and I'm not ATTACHED any more and I have all this money and all I want to do is smoke and drink and NEVER LISTEN TO ANY MORE RAP MUSIC EVER. And THEN when I got home my mother totally threw herself at my feet when she saw me and started weeping that she is the most thankful for my brain this year. Y'all she has NEVER said that to me before -- last year she drank all the cooking sherry and then threw the bottle AT my brain and, like, I'm not sure what she was talking about exactly . Something to do with peas, maybe? But she knows I don't eat green vegetables, like, HI, they're the color of GRASS, which my ex husband REALLY LIKED TO SMOKE IN MY HOUSE EVEN WHEN I TOLD HIM NOT TO, so she should know better than to think I would eat anything that color. Maybe she was just sad we're at war. But not this year! We ate like KINGS and my ex ate at DENNY'S and I hope they SPAT IN HIS CRANBERRY SAUCE... which I totally did last year (sssshhhhh, don't tell).

So I guess what I'm asking is: Don't you think my ex should SUCK ON IT? And aren't you glad I'm back? And do you know any guys? Hot ones? Who sing and dance? And were the lead in a boy band? And have ugly manly girlfriends I can SNAP LIKE A TWIG?

Kisses,

B-Train To HOTVILLE

Dear HOTVILLE,

I strongly suggest you check yourself before you wreck yourself. Maybe your ex has a KILLER PLAN to make YOU suck it. No one breaks up with K Fed over text message, especially when you KNOW I can't READ real good. Damn. That was harsh, yo.  I'm writing a slow jam about it right now. It's called "You Have a Text Message from CheetoLover21" and it is a total panty-dropper.  But not YOUR panties.  You can leave those suckers on, beeyotch, because K Fed isn't interested anymore. YEAH!

And you can tell your MOM to stop calling me and laughing and then hanging up. I KNOW it's her, dude. God. It totally ruins my buzz, like, EVERY TIME.

So,  in conclusion: BITE ME, and I want the weed I left under that rock by the pool filter back within the next three days or I'm calling Child Protection Services and telling them that you don't recycle bottles OR CANS. Good luck with the custody battle when they find THAT out! YEAH THAT'S RIGHT. I'm playing with fire! Federline is on the OFFENSIVE.

BOO YAH!

Happy Thanksfugging!

Although most of our time here at GFY HQ is spent thinking of synonyms for "ew" and playing drinking games, today is Thanksgiving. And so we set aside everything we've been working on -- a blueprint for extracting Katie Holmes from the Cruise compound once and for all, which we would have put into action already, except we're waiting for a call back from Josh Jackson; a scheme to send Lindsay Lohan several pairs of pants; and a very competitive Scrabble game -- to put on our buckled shoes and Native American headdresses while our cups runneth over with gratitude, and perhaps also rum.

We are thankful:

1. that Nicole Richie finally canned Rachel Zoe
2. that Britney finally canned Kevin Federline
3. that the Coca-Cola Company still cans Diet Coke
4. that our tireless Intern George is finally getting the recognition he deserves
5. that Courtney and Ashley Peldon have a plan B
6. that SoapNet is about to get back to The Brenda Years during their twice-daily dose of 90210. Three cheers for bodysuits!
7. that Suri Cruise turned out really cute.  Seriously, we can't help it: we think she's adorable.  And that kid's going to have enough problems without having to add "Years of Emotional Angst About Appearance" to her list
8. that we've managed to kick and scream our way through another year without being attacked by dogs, crocodiles, piranhas, birds, venomous snakes, or Dina Lohan
9. that, in this year of Traumatic Celebrity Break-Ups, Posh and Becks are holding it together
10. that we've got such lovely readers. Thanks for your support this year, guys. Have we mentioned that you look really hot in those pants?

Happy Thanksgiving from Go Fug Yourself! Go forth and consume carbs with great abandon.

AMA Fug Carpet Scrolldown: Chris Brown

Chris Brown seems like a nice kid, even if he did show up wearing the exact same thing the red carpet wore. Awkward.

But I do think this is an excellent cautionary picture against the perils of cuffing your baggy pants, particularly when done with wanton disregard for proportions. His torso looks nine feet long; his legs, by comparison, seem like three feet with a possible lack of knee. Those are practically South Park proportions. And if eloquent animated epics like "Woodland Critter Christmas" and the shocking yet stirring tale of Lemmiwinks the Gerbil King's crusade through the Ass of Doom have combined to teach us anything, it is this lesson: Bad, strange, often calamitous things happen to people with South Park proportions. Oh, and also, a catata fish in a feathered helmet can be a powerful ally -- but that's really more of a creed.

AMAs: The Lonely Fugherd

At what point did Gwen Stefani decide to become the cheap Halloween-costume version of herself?

Between the outfit that looks stolen straight from Serena Williams' tennis bag of misguided on-court couture to the aggressive Gucci-logo knockoff on the belt to the $4.99 wig from Dr. Boo's Costume Emporium and Terror Barn to the tinted Elvis shades that aren't actually blocking any light (and therefore are only there because she actually decided they look good), I am overall disappointed in Gwen's post-pregnancy return to the red carpet, toned gams notwithstanding.

Her on-stage getup wasn't much better.

Yes, she has traded in the Serena suit, but she's replaced it with those omnipresent offensively odd footless tights, some sort of space-Cleopatra jumper, and a gaggle of Stefani clones in ridiculous children's pajamas and wrestling boots.

All I can surmise from any of this is: Lucy Liu finally woke up and realized she accidentally starred in two Charlie's Angels films, and has hurriedly given her part to a big-screen-hungry Stefani. Her first film in as part of the trio, Charlie's Angels 3: Engage The Thrusters, sends our three jumpsuit-crazy wingnuts into the outer realms of the galaxy to retrieve a devastating universe-exploding weapon, while also engaging in intergalactic shenanigans with karaoke, mime, a cooking class, a stealth jet dogfight, and an actual dogfight, all wrapped up in the tawdry bow of another plot so poorly rendered it appears to have been translated into English from its native Martian.

So I guess congratulations are in order... to Lucy Liu. As for Gwen, well, listen up, lady: This is what you get for dragging The Sound of Music's poor, unsuspecting "The Lonely Goatherd" into your maddening repertoire. You have only yourself to blame.

AMA Nonfug Carpet: Well Played, Nicole Richie

It's terribly appropriate that the day after she fired Rachel Zoe, Nicole Richie shows up at the AMAs looking like the proverbial million bucks:

I've long held that Nicole actually really benefited from Zoe's influence at the beginning of her make-over, and she was one of the only starlets Zoe dressed who I thought could actually pull off the boho thing.  But the general disdain that we here at GFY HQ have for Zoe is no secret -- there's the fact that all her girls began to look exactly alike, and exactly like her, and then there are, of course, those nasty but widespread rumors about how, exactly, Zoe allegedly gets her clients so slender -- so there's something schadenfreudelicious about Nicole ditching her in favor of  "more positive influences."

Whatever positive influences she's surrounding herself with now, they've certainly had a positive influence on her appearance. I covet her dress, I love her make-up (thank god she's ditched the fake-and-bake), and her dark hair is very becoming.  Also, not be indelicate, but...nice rack, Richie. We're glad to see that your boobs are back.

But most heart-warming thing of all -- sorry, it's Thankgiving, and around the holidays the cuddly sweethearts inside our crusty and evil exteriors occasionally make a break for it -- is that she looks happy. Who knew that firing Rachel Zoe would turn out to be the best beauty treatment she could get?

AMA Fug Carpet: Nelly Furtado

Am I the only person baffled by how Nelly Furtado insists on stomping around with her face twisted into such sour contortions that it appears she is plagued by a foul stench?

Tight cheeks, pursed lips, squinty eyes, tense jaw... something's amiss. What's the whiff, Nelly? Whither the pong?

Is it that your InstaBangs still smell like the bag they came in? Is the carpet moldy? Is the girl behind you looking away because she did something of which she is now a bit ashamed?

Maybe you just forgot to take off your WhiteStrips -- or, tragically, never remembered to put them on in the first place. Perhaps you're sucking on a sour Jolly Rancher. Holding a lit cigarette in your mouth that you're trying to hide from prying lenses. Secreting a razor blade that you can spit out lightning-fast at your enemies once inside. Trying not to cry because you just bit your tongue, or your shoes hurt, or somebody just shouted out, "And what will you be skating to tonight -- the theme from Ice Castles?"

Or ... are you just naturally a teeny bit smarmy?

Please advise.

AMAs: Fug The Alarm

Poor Assica. So unprepared was she for the exertions of being The Favored Simpson, she completely forgot to wash her hair and have Ken Paves rip out her ratty extensions. Which is why Joe should never have allowed her to stand next to somebody who probably has two shampooers, three professional weaveologists, and six personal hairbrushing lackeys on her staff.

Ms. Knowles, on the other hand, has made the intriguing style choice of borrowing her pumps from a West Hollywood impersonator named Beshlongce, who we imagine croons tributes like "Bootyvicious," "Humpin'," "Saliver," and "Rim the Alarm" while dancing on top of a Cadillac parked outside Rage.

She is also apparently beginning to see some advantages to gallavanting around town in buttock-length skirts:

This awards season, make it The Year Of Never Having To Lift Anything Up Over Your Hips When You Need To Use The Restroom.

Indeed, thanks to this helpful poster-worthy photo, we expect that in 2007 all the various academies, societies, groups, clubs, and Elks Lodges will launch a campaign to install latrines right into the auditorium seats themselves. Think of it: No more televisually inconvenient seat-fillers; no more awkward Christine Lahti moments where the recipient is accidentally (or just pessimistically, I suppose) spending his or her category's precious air time as a chance to visit the facilities.

AMA Fug Carpet: Tori Spelling

Just yesterday, I was talking about how cute I think Jaime Pressly looks now that she's got a wee Presslyette percolating. I do wish I could say the same about Tori Spelling at the AMAs last night.

I hope this isn't a Donna Martin Original, because that company is never going to get off the ground if it is:

Judging from the expression on her face, I think the woman standing behind Tori is thinking the same thing I am: "Damn, Donna! That dress is too short! The lingerie-inspired overlay ain't fooling anyone! You can't sit down in that thing!"

And truly, unless this super short number is actually a clever homage to the mini-skirts of Amanda Woodward -- in the sense that we're pretty sure that if Amanda Woodward were to be impregnated (which, of course, she was, but it was tragically an ectopic pregnancy, which was quickly followed by such stressful events as having her apartment blown up, getting cancer, having a lamp thrown into a hot tub in which she was canoodling, and having to shove Antonio Sabato, Jr. off a balcony), this is the sort of look she would go for. Roots included. (We know: Tori isn't coloring her hair because of the BABY, while Amanda didn't color her roots because she was too much of a bad-ass to care. Play along anyway!) -- I can not condone it. It just makes me nervous. It's so short. It looks like it's riding up. Every time she sits down, you know she has to pretend that she's just demurely setting her hands in her lap, when what she's actually doing is pushing the fabric of her skirt down so that no one can see up it.  (A lesson I learned with the Short Demin Mini of July 2004.) And shit's going down with Tori right now, with all the drama with her mother and a new baby and a new reality show and a husband that could very well be trying to get Britney Spears's number, now that she's on the market again. Doesn't she have enough to worry about without worrying about flashing the world?

Take this time to be good to yourself,  Donna Martin. Reject the Hoochie Maternity Wear. We'll all be so much more comfortable.

AMA Fug Carpet: Carrie Underwood

American Idol winner and Faith Hill arch-rival Carrie Underwood made the classic rookie mistake of adopting one look during the Red Carpet Arrivals segment of her evening...

[i.e: Demure! Age-appropriate! Debutante-y! Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth!]

...and an entirely DIFFERENT look during the show itself:

Wow. The kid's got great legs, but we can't imagine she went into this event purposely planning to invoke comparisons to The Worst Award Show Outfit Ever:

Don't they teach children history anymore? They must not, as we seem to be repeating it.

Fuggie Cornish

In Abbie Cornish's defense, it is REALLY HARD to figure out what to wear out to a premiere when you know that America a) now knows you exist,  b) but only because you're allegedly the girl Ryan Philllllippppppe was hooking up with when he was supposed to be keeping his Man Area only for Reese Witherspoon. You don't want to look too sexy, because then people are going to be all, "WICKED TEMPTRESS! This VILE HARLOT clearly LURED Ryan into her WEB OF DEVIANCE with an UNHOLY PARFAIT of BOSOM and BOOZE!" But if you go too demure, you get, "I find it HARD TO BELIEVE that THIS prim prudette could tempt a man from the WHOLESOME DEMURITY of AMERICA'S SWEETHEART. CLEARLY HE IS GAY OR ON DRUGS!" (People shout a lot, in our experience).

So, this is what she came up with:

She could have just had a tee shirt made that said, "I SWEAR I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH IT. PLEASE DON'T LOOK AT ME."

Well Played: Jaime Pressly

There are some actresses who just look so lovely when they're pregnant that we hope they choose to have a whole passel of kiddies (see Witherspoon, Reese. Although we understand if she's not really in the mood right now).  It appears we can add Jaime Pressly to the list:

How cute does she look? Jaime is hilariously trashy on My Name Is Earl, and while I know she's, you know, an actress and all, there have definitely been times in the past when she's shown up places looking a little bit like a her character: blonde, shiny, and a little bit hard. But she looks amazing right now -- natural, and comfortable and, actually, really happy. And the dress is classy and understated but not boring. Well played, Jaime:

Yeah, give the kid some credit already!

Deja-fug

I think all this talk of deja-vu has Denzel Washington's brain addled and working backward.

To be on TRL, not historically known as a bastion of old-world class and formality, he donned a sleek pin-striped suit. He looks suave. He looks distinguished. Slick. Instead of just being Denzel, he looks like "Denzeeeeeeeeel," which is how Oprah used to say it when she'd talk about him on the show, at which point women in the audience would start shrieking, grabbing each other, jumping up and down, and fanning off their loins before swooning.

And yet, to the actual movie premiere of Deja Vu, he went a slightly different direction.

To be precise, it's the "I just came here to see a movie tonight with my kids and didn't know you craven Hollywood types were having one of your expensive and pointlessly frivolous events, and I'm pissed because now we have to go find ANOTHER theater that's showing Happy Feet and I'm just trying to feed my kids candy and break in my blindingly new orthopedic sneakers and get some wear out of this ridiculous shin-length thing that used to be one of Shaq's sportcoats that my kids bought me at an auction and gave to me last Christmas and I look idiotic in it and do I REALLY EVEN SEEM like I want to be out trying to watch a singing-and-dancing penguin movie in the FIRST PLACE? NO" direction.

Maybe he's cross because his assistant mixed up the two events on his schedule, and didn't fix it with him because when she walked up to him all trembly and embarrassed and asked, "What would you do if you had to tell someone the most important thing in the world and you knew they wouldn't believe you?", his response was not, "I'd try," but instead, "I'd go get my boss a sandwich."

Fuggirls

Jamie Foxx:   Don't touch me when you're wearing something you stole from My Size Barbie. You're totally harshing my cool.

Beyonce: I have to touch you, Jamie. If I move my arm at all, my boob will pop out. I can't have my boob pop out on Oprah.

Jamie Foxx: Didn't I see that outfit at Stars on Ice? Tara Lipinski was playing a tulip.

Beyonce:  Seriously,  Jamie. Don't move a muscle.  You're the only thing standing between me and endless humilation on YouTube.

Jamie Foxx:  Sorry, kid. That's what you get when you come out dressed like one of the cocktail waitresses at Disneyland's Tomorrowland Stage. Speaking of, can you bring me a g & t?

Fug Ling

We didn't want to worry you guys, but we were getting kind of concerned about Bai Ling. We hadn't seen her out and about since late summer. Any number of things could have happened to her:  she could have been hit by a bus leaving her waxer's, she could have tripped over one of her platform shoes and conked her head on her coffee table, she could have suffocated in a tragic Wig Closet incident. The good news is, whatever kept her occupied for the last three months doesn't appear to have been fatal:

The bad news is -- tacky red lace cut-outs and the fact that this is pretty much a nightgown aside -- and comparatively speaking,  she doesn't look that bad.

Fugbute: The Many Flavors of Posh

Sure, the focus of this past weekend's Italian production of I Know Mothers Cry At Weddings, But Should Mrs. Holmes Be Wailing? was probably supposed to be Kat(i)e's dress. But you don't invite Victoria Beckham, the glorious spice blend known as Posh, and expect her to be wallpaper. No, much like what we think went through Brooke Shields' head when she accepted her invitation to the TomKat Contract Fulfillment Ceremony, you include Posh at your formal occasion because you say to yourself, "THIS I've got to see." And also possibly because she befriended your comatose bride during several shopping sprees and some Paris fashion shows, but mostly, it's because you want to look at how hot her stilletos are while also wondering what new glories she'll pull from that den of wonder known as Her Wardrobe.

Mercifully for us all, Posh did not disappoint, stringing together a buffet of delights more filling for the fug fan than any solid that's passed her lips in three months.

You have to admire her versatility. In the span of one weekend, she showed up as:

1. A crabby school teacher: This strumpet of academia's affection for lip gloss is matched only by her companion's addiction to raiding his grandfather's closet. Bonus: The sweater at least comes with its own lifetime supply of Werther's Originals, so he can toss them into her mouth at her appointed snack times, since she wouldn't dare eat any of the apples left by her trembling students (too much chewing).

2. A yeti. Fear not, PETA, for the jacket is not yielded from animal cruelty -- it's in fact woven from the silkiest, most bountiful man-fur in the Western world: shavings from Alec Baldwin's chest.

3. A cranky pseudo-royal surprised and a little peeved to learn that she is not, in fact, attending a state funeral. Just the death of a family's hope.

And finally:

4. An insane arts-and-crafts fetishist. This one is fantastic. Now, granted, she didn't wear this to the wedding itself; just to some of the paparazzi-baiting festivities beforehand, whatever those were (the official blessing of the pre-nup, perhaps, or free Scientology classes). But there's something so magical about the fact that she ever even put this on at all. She does know the difference between decolletage and decoupage, right? Not to mention that the dress underneath the I-Had-To-Use-All-My-Paste-Or-Else-Ralph-Wiggum-Would-Eat-It sjirt-jacket appears to be sized more appropriately for the closet of Isabella Kidman-Cruise. From several years ago. When she had a ballet recital.

But maybe Posh can use that to her advantage -- perhaps she could use it to push for a starring role in, say, Center Stage II, in which she would arrive at the stodgy American Ballet Academy as a new teacher and try to shake up the stale air by taking her five pluckiest students on the road as a roving band of dancers -- each with their own personalities, outlandish costumes, and hilarious nicknames -- who bring ballet to truck stops, dive bars, and casinos across the country. Peter Gallagher would of course return as the Academy head: "How do you expect to have 1,000 truckers watch you tell us what you want, what you really, really want, if you Don't. Do it. Without UNDERWEAR?!?" And David could get in on the action as the supportive, shockingly virile costumer who teaches her to use a hot glue gun and so much more. 

In all seriousness, though, we can't fathom why Posh hasn't rocketed to larger stardom post-Spice. I mean, if we can allow Jessica Simpson to roam the earth with copious paychecks -- seriously, if I have to see her ONE MORE TIME in that DirecTV ad where her head spends 30 seconds wobbling like a Weeble as she tries to Daisy Duke her way through two insipid lines, I will furiously theaten to cancel my subscription, and then secretly never actually do it because I can't live without the NFL Sunday Ticket -- and if we can anoint Fergie as the comically misspelled Dutchess of the Billboard charts, and if the staff of Studio 60 is actually still getting paid to make that terrible, awful, no-good, very bad program that is snuffing out even Matthew Perry's light, can we not move over and make a little room for Posh? Who cares if she can actually do anything? Outings like this are enough.

A.J. McFug

A.J. McLean has faith.

Faith, plus some moths in his closet, an overactive liquid eyeliner, and a raging case of temporary blindness. Other than that, though, he's doing just fine.

Fug Kids

Yes, child stars grow up. I know this; I do. But I can't look at Alexa Vega without automatically picturing her from the first Spy Kids film -- which my older sister and I might have rented at Blockbuster a few years ago, but not without being embarrassed of our choice given our age, which led to a loud conversation at the register about whether "little Emma" would enjoy it, or be a brat about it, because "Emma" could be such a pill sometimes, like when she'd had that tantrum where she threw her Legos out the front door. We're not sure the employee believed us, but we were pleased with our chicanery.

At any rate, Alexa was 13 then; she's 18 now, and things happen when actresses hit that age (see: Lohan, Lindsay, The Leggings Obsession and Dilated Pupils Of). But that doesn't mean I have to like it.

And so, I tend not to like it when I see Alexa proudly showing off her baggy, oversized Mickey Mouse tank that would expose boob WERE HER BOOBS NOT APPARENTLY COVERED IN A GOLD LAME BRA, which is peeking out at me cheekily just so that I get hives. Seriously, that belongs on somebody at Spearmint Rhino. Not on her. Don't grow up so fast, Alexa. There's plenty of time for stripper clothes once you're in your twenties!

Full Fug

Let's get one thing straight:  I actually don't dislike what either one of them is wearing.

The long hair and the flowing sleeves and goth-y eye make-up and impenetrable expressions make them look like priestesses in an arty film set in the Middle Ages, during which one of them  would spend a lot of time flitting around a turret holding crystal breakers full of mysterious and possibly dangerous potions. She would wear shoes lined in fur, and a crystal around her neck. The other would play a sort of charismatic, seductive temptress who sleeps with men in order to get a sample of their DNA so as to help her sister create a potion that will allow them to rule the world.  She would spend a lot of time naked, and carrying a serpent. Men would know that she was likely to kill them after having her way with them, but they would take off their capes and doublets and submit to her wiles anyway. It would all be very dramatic, and the absolute opposite of what you would expect from Michelle and Michelle Tanner.  I kind of like it, even though I can think of several reasons why I shouldn't.

However, I DO have a comment: Ashley's new hair color has thrown me for a loop. Newly Brown Olsen IS Ashley, right? It took me twenty minutes to figure that out.   Give us a smile, Brown Olsen.  It can't be that bad.

Fugdan

Oh, Jordan.

Of course you're dressed like a bride as envisioned by the cast of Strictly Ballroom.  I expect you to start tangoing dramatically at any moment.

You know, there are celebrities who are so over-the-top with such regularity that their campiness becomes a delight -- like Cher -- and Jordan is one such celebrity for me.  As much as we mock her -- and as easy as she is to mock -- imagine how disappointing it would be if she showed up looking modest and understated. In fact, I challenge her to go bigger! Start wearing live birds in your hair, Jordan! Wear a skirt stitched together with Christmas lights that you can turn on and off with the flick of a switch attached to your right boob! Invest in a bodice made entirely of tinsel woven together with baby hair! Go big or go home!

Well Played: Jamie Lee Curtis

There are a lot of reasons to love Jamie Lee Curtis -- she's the original scream queen, she did that funny striptease in True Lies, she was in Trading Places, she's married to Christopher Guest and he's, you know, fairly talented himself -- but for me, it was A Fish Called Wanda that yielded unconditional adoration of her. I love that movie. Love. There's something about her delivery of the line,  "KEN! SOMEBODY just CALLED!" that kills me. Plus, the giant red glasses she wears are kind of amazing. If you can look hot through those, you can do anything.

Anyway, the reason I'm opening up to you in this tedious manner: I wanted to be up front about it. Full disclosure. I love Jamie Lee, always have, always will.

However, that all said, I'm still pretty sure I'm being unbiased in suggesting that she looks, to  put it bluntly, freakin' awesome these days. Maybe even better than ever.

Okay, so I'm not sure if the leg blotches are self-tanning errors, or birthmarks. I understand birthmarks -- I have a large, opposite-looking one on my knee where, apparently, all of my entire body's available skin pigment went -- but given that I've never noticed these before, I have a sneaking suspicion they're tanning-lotion snafus. Which is really too bad. I'm not a fan of self-tanner in general, but she's in front of blinding camera lights and that can make a girl look ghostly, so ... honestly, it kind of makes me love her more. In the imagined words of Us magazine: "Stars -- They're Just Like Us! They bungle self-tanner!"

But, who's focusing on her legs, anyway? I can't stop staring at her face. She's radiant! Her skin looks fantastic. The short gray hair suits her terrifically. And her figure looks incredibly sleek in this dress.

See, starlets? This is how it's done. [Well, aside from the tanner thing. Maybe don't do that part. Your skin looks perfectly lovely in its natural state.] She is not wearing leggings. She is not wearing formal shorts. She is not layering twenty different things in the vain hope that the rest of the world will see it and decide to copy. She is not spilling out of her top, not wearing Uggs to a premiere, not peering at the cameras through pupils that won't focus. And every time I re-read that sentence, my eyes play a joke on me and process it as, "She's not peeing at the camera," and although that concept is ridiculous, I'm thrilled to report that she's not doing that, either. She doesn't look as if she smells like two days ago. She doesn't look desperate; just devastating. She's a 48-year old hottie who isn't trying to run away from her age, nor is she giving in to it.

Well played, Jamie Lee. Well played indeed.

One Fug Hill

"Hey, dudes, I'm Chad Michael Murray.  Or,  as my friends call me, CHAMM.

Listen, it's been a rough couple of years for me. There was all that to-do when my wife and co-star left me after only a few months of marriage because I might have been fooling around with Paris Hilton, or someone like Paris Hilton. I didn't really come out of that looking very good, I guess.  And then I randomly got engaged to a 17-year old extra I knew from the set of  the show I work on with the ex-wife.  I know, but it's cool, it's cool -- she's 18 now, and she's going to graduate from high school any day. Everything is great.  Ratings for my TV show are totally up, and I like to think it's because of my work as the sensitive teen basketball star with the heart problem whose mom is having his dead uncle's baby, after his dad -- Kelly Taylor's date-rapist John Sears, like, that guy is NEVER cast as the nice one --  shot his uncle dead on the day that his school suffered a Columbine-esque incident. Or maybe people just respond to the well-rendered realism of the show. We'll never know. But what I'm here to talk to you about today, dudes, is how to use accessories to rehabilitate your public image.  Last week, we talked about how the well-chosen man-necklace makes you look like you might have musical talent, or at least know how to surf. Today's topic of discussion is: the scarf.  Even worn indoors,  for no practical purpose, the right scarf -- tossed nonchalantly over your shoulders -- makes you seem sensitive, and probably cuddly, and totally reliable and faithful. But because my scarf has a skull and crossbones on it, I  also seem like I might be a little bad. But not in a cheating-on-you-with-Paris -Hilton kind of way. No! In more of a...hey-sometimes-I-forget-to-recycle kind of way.  And what lady doesn't like a little bit of that every now and then? That's right. So pick up a manly -- yet cozy! Can't forget the cozy! The cozy is what draws them toward you -- scarf today, and soon, you too will be shackled a teen for all eternity. Ah, I'm so lucky.

Next week: Is that a friendship bracelet I'm wearing, or a scrunchie? The all-important difference."

Fugga Green

I'll say this for Eva Green -- you have to admire her flair for the dramatic. Given that she's not prodigiously well-known in the U.S., I can see why she pulled out all the stops to get noticed at the Casino Royale premiere.

First, she arrived on the red carpet in this little doozy:

I'm not sure what the fascination was with psuedo-strangulation at this event, but between her and Daniel Craig's fiancee, I'm beginning to wonder if The National Society For The Promotion of Auto-Erotic Asphyxiation sponsored some of the fashion.

Apparently they dropped out of the after-party, though, so Eva ditched the noose-chic outfit and replaced it with ...

... her very best wizarding robes. Which she's thoughtfully paired with some hair and makeup that are faintly evocative of a consumptive revolution-era French prostitute. Now, I'm not entirely clear what Dark Arts she's invoking here, but I am pretty sure they haven't case Narcissa Malfoy yet for Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, so maybe she's just trying to make a compelling case for herself.

Camilla Fug

First and foremost, a hearty congratulations to Intern George, named -- again! -- the Sexiest Man Alive. But we knew that already. Hoo boy, you should see him stuff envelopes.

And in honor of this auspicious day, starlet Camilla Belle illustrates for us the danger of waist-less frocks. Comfortable? Yes! Trendy?  Somewhat. Flattering? Not always.

To wit, observe Camilla waistless:

Versus Camilla, waisted:

These photos were snapped a mere two weeks apart, so I doubt both that she's gotten herself sprogged up, or that she's developed an appetite for bacon so overwhelming that none of her clothes fit anymore in between these two events.  Camilla Belle is really a lovely girl, with a great body, as evidenced in Picture Two.  And while we are fully supportive of ensembles which allow us to drink heavily and eat plenty of hor d'oeuvres without worrying about popping out of our gowns, there has to be a happy medium between Can't Eat Can't Breath Can't Sit and Check Out My Tent! Don't you think?

Fug Stone

Wow, Channel 4 must have been really desperate to get Joss Stone if it was willing to relocate this entire event to her gynecologist's office.

Speaking of which, Joss, you might not even need to hit the stirrups, after all -- anyone within ten feet of you can probably let you know with certainty how your ovulation is coming along.

Casino Fugale

We understand that, after the world whined and whinged when Daniel Craig was chosen as James Bond, studio execs felt the need to excite people anew about Casino Royale through gimmicks and publicity stunts with a Bondian flair for the hyperdramatic. But really, this is taking it too far -- it just seems needlessly cruel to rig the dress of Craig's fiancee so that it throttles her more and more intensely with each successive time anyone a) gets up from his or her seat during the screening, or b) utters the words "Pierce Brosnan." I mean, where was this technology when the world REALLY needed it -- on Britney's wedding day? Are you telling me the success of a Bond reimagining is MORE vital to the foundation of our society than a clean, toned Britney Spears, unmarred by the greasy maulings of the world's leakiest sperm bank? Please.

No Fug But Today

Daphne Rubin-Vega, still royally pissed about being pretty much the only member of the original cast of Rent not to be cast in the film, decides to go on the offensive. Her weapon of choice? Her abs:

Take that, Rosario Dawson! Those are some firm abs. Tragically, we can not sign off on the rest of the look, as it includes the following GFY Crimes Against Humanity:

1) Visible thong
2) Image of another person's face  rising out of your  ribcage (this is  not,  however, as  serious offense an offense as having the image of your OWN face rising out of your ribcage)
3) the overall aura of being about 20 minutes late for her Fly Girl audition in 1993

The Fug

Exclusive! A secretly obtained excerpt from The Secwet Diawy of Baba Wawa:

Nov. 13, 2006: Twuly, I'm at my wits' end, Diawy -- sometimes, I want to scweam with bottled-up wage! Have you ever twied going to an event with Opwah? The woman does not STOP wunning into people's photogwaphs! It's all I can do not to THWOTTLE her. It's a GALA and I'm wapped up tighter than a Cwistmas gift in twenty-thwee layers of hot-pink taffeta, stwiking my most distinguished pose in fwont of all these people with camewas, and WHAT DO YOU DO but sneak in and upstage me with your Cwayola-colored makeup and EVEN SHINIER clothes? Don't you WESPECT who I AM? I am BABA fwickin' WAWA, Winfwey! Wosie and I could fold you up and fit you into ONE of my EXTWAOWDINAWILY MASSIVE SLEEVES. Do you hear that? So DO NOT CWOSS ME, or else you will take a little time to enjoy the view, all wight... the view of my DEATH PINCH. MAYBE THEN YOU WILL WEGWET THIS!

Random Fug: Keisha Buchanan

Okay, so this fug significantly less random to our friends in the glorious U.K., as Ms. Buchanan fronts a band over there called Sugababes, and is notorious within that collection of fine young ladies for being the only founding member still sticking with the group.

Which may or may not be a good idea, considering that one of the duties incumbent upon carrying the glorious title of "Sugababe" is showing up in public wearing tragic and problematic trousers.

She's looking down, all, "Daaaaamn, were these armpit-rise when I bought them?" These square waist-eaters make Mom jeans look positively trampy, like they've been out all night until a sleazy 11 p.m., sitting in a parked car with a boy inhaling second-hand smoke and sharing a bottle of soda without using a second straw. In fact, it's entirely possible Keisha's jeans are actually Chastity Capris, with the buttons doubling as a complex combination lock for added security. Tragically for Keisha, nowhere on the note subtly taped to the floor does it say, "Step 4: Run, Keisha. RUN, FOR THE LOVE OF PANTS, RUN!"

Of course, there is hope. If she sticks with it, the sisters Peldon have a scent custom-made for the likes of her. [You must forgive us our renewed obsession with these "actresses" and junior entrepreneurs, but since they've been with us here since the beginning, well, we're far too delighted by this turn of events in their lives to look away now.] Concocted by Brown and with the prose description winningly written by our favorite cherubic blonde mascot -- whom I saw with her sister and mother out in the wild on Saturday night! At the movies! Imagine! -- the perfume is called The Pop Star, and Courtney makes it come alive for us thusly: "In between musical acts she snacks a white chocolate chunk shortbread cookie nut cookie with macademia nut pieces, cookie crumbles, and a kiss of vanilla bean frosting!"

If that doesn't say "Sugababe," I don't know what does. So if Keisha can't escape the prison of these trousers, at lease she can smell like she sleeps on a dessert cart.

Hit 'Em Up, Fug

Like a treasured lifemate, Blu Cantrell just keeps on surprising me. Even when I think I know her inside and out, she comes up with something new to awe and amaze:

This time, it's black and white stripped knit leggings.  Jailbird longjohns, if you will. Blu, it's fashion choices like these that keep our relationship evergreen, and for that, I thank you.  I wouldn't be surprised if you ended up with a big, expensive present on November 17th -- Salute Your Fug Day -- chosen and wrapped with love, by me.

Inside it will be a stylist.

Fug and the City

Sarah Jessica is finding out the hard way that the one Halloween costume that's tough to recycle into your daily life is when you go as Lady Vader. Further, I don't think the Empire's dark lord would have approved of her defiling the rubberized shrine by pairing it with a flimsy gray tee and a visible bra.

That said, even the cockles of Darth's charred heart would be warmed by Sarah J. wearing that glittering bandanna around her neck, presumably as a tribute to fallen drag queens -- the fashion equivalent of pouring some out on the curb for your homies. I mean, it's an iron lung, people, not one of stone. He still feels. Deeply.

Fug is Magic

We're pretty sure this particular carpet wasn't always red. No: Sarah Silverman was all kitted out in her very best faux-hipster grunge duds, once again straining to prove to the world that she, like, totally doesn't care, when Hollywood's most vicious foot-fetishizing monster swept through and relieved her of all ten little piggies. The vile beast's rampages are as frequent as ever; you'd think somebody would make some sort of pesticide that would rid the celebrity world of this rapacious gobbler.

Maybe that's the true, secret genius behind the Peldon sisters' perfumes: They don't just aim to make the entire population smell like they just had a wicked carnal romp on a dessert cart, but have in fact actually cooked up a cunning pedal-parapheliac repellant so that no one else will hobble around this unclean town on raw, open wounds. Bless their little entrepreneurial souls.

Well Played: Tara Reid (!)

I know, we can't believe it either. But seriously, check it out:

We don't know what prompted the Tara Reid Tour of Contrition and Sobriety, but we'd like to take whoever convinced her to pull her shit together out for a drink. Heather and I wondered -- while she was hosting The View -- if maybe she'd had some work done on her face when she got her boobs fixed, and it's hard to say. I think it's possible that maybe she just finally got a series of decent facials and stopped smoking. No matter what she did, it was well done, because she actually almost looks like the last five years didn't even happen, like Taradise was hosted by her skeezy twin sister. This girl looks like someone you could conceivably see starring in a romantic comedy.  So never let it be said that we don't give credit where credit is due. That is an impressive change from this:

Seriously. Nice job, kid.

Fug and Away

Last night, at a Hollywood Function:

Tom Cruise pretends to listen to Alicia Keys, but really, he thinks, "her bangs. They're so smooth and even, yet so long. They're glorious. I wish mine would do that. How ever does she manage that? Would it be rude to ask? I wonder."

Little Fugs in Fugly Boxes

COURTNEY: Forget being engaged to Crispin Glover! I've finally found what will make me famous! PERFUME! WE ARE GOING TO MAKE PERFUME!

KAJ-ERIK ERIKSEN: I have finally found what will make me famous -- this t-shirt!

BROWN: I have finally found what will make me famous -- being the better-dressed Peldon!

KAJ-ERIK ERIKSEN: I mean, come on, I kind of even look like Justin, right? Or maybe, like, his distant Canadian cousin? There's got to be some nepotism I can milk from this shirt, because meeting Girl On My Right on Boston Public didn't really work out so well for me.

COURTNEY: It's going to be amazing when the whole world smells like me! All 45,000 different scents are based on desserts that I used to look at longingly on the craft-service table! Cake, icing, truffle, buttercream, cookies... it's all there! God, I can't wait until we win an Oscar for these. "President Courtney Peldon, accepting on behalf of her company." YES.

BROWN: I mean, it's so easy! I'm basically just wearing a green sailor's dress with a satin cummerbund, and I look totally chic when you stick me next to Ms. Mothballs over there and Erik-Erik Erikerik, or whatever his name is, wearing that stupid shirt he made on Cafepress.

KAJ-ERIK ERIKSEN: Although, you know what, I'm on The 4400, so technically, I don't need this appearance. I have work.

COURTNEY: It was so awesome of my mom to make me this sweater out of my old ballet tutu! It's so multi-purpose. I can use it as Kleenex, I can use it to mop up spills with extra absorbency, and I can reach over a lit candle and accidentally tragically let the flame catch on my sleeves the next time I want my own mortal peril to make the news... "Perfume Mogul In Near-Death Inferno." Imagine the flowers I'll get at Cedars-Sinai!

BROWN: When do you think I should tell Courtney that she works for me? I mean, nobody's around town calling her a perfume artisan, or saying she is already "the best smelling woman on the set," which you KNOW is true, because I am always standing very close to people and they wouldn't let me if I wasn't totally aromatic. I mean, it's nice enough that I'm letting Courtney even stand NEXT to me in that stupid rag. I can't BELIEVE I have to let her think she's, like, involved. Just the other day I caught her practicing some stupid speech where she was all, "You can't spell Courtney without 'CEO,'" and it was seriously all I could do not to go on her IMDb page and add really embarrassing trivia to it.

KAJ-ERIK ERIKSEN: ... Wait a sec, and what is up with the name of this company? "Starring...!" I know all the stupid scents are named after types of actresses or whatever, but seriously, it reminds me of the time I met with that agent and said, "I just finished watching this TV movie, Little Girls In Pretty Boxes, starring my friend Courtney Peldon," and the dude just looked back and me, frowned, scratched his chin and said, "Starring... ???" I mean, come on.

BROWN: Whatever. If I stick with these two, people are probably going to start beating down my door in no time, because I look pretty cool by comparison. And I smell like vanilla dipped in sugar and rolled in pie-crust covered in cinnamon and drizzled in truffled things. What more could a girl want?!?

KAJ-ERIK ERIKSEN: My teeth are rotting from whiffing these twits. God, adding it all up, what am I doing here? Just stay cool, dude. Keep it together... it's almost over... almost... over...

Gold Fug Winner Oksana Baiul

Dear Oksana Baiul:

Okay, fine. We're LOOKING AT YOU. Are you happy now? Sigh.

You are like the Lindsay Lohan of the skating world. You started out so sweet and adorable and lovable and clean, winning our hearts at a very young age, as did she. Your mother is dead; her mother is deadly. Your beloved coach tragically died;  Lindsay's handlers probably occasionally wish they were dead. You eventually turned to booze to dull the pain;  according to her own statements, La Lohan likes to party.  You crashed your car into a tree; Lindsay wipes out approximately three times a week.  You wrote two books, Oksana: My Own Story, and Secrets of Skating;  Lindsay has probably read a book, and if she were to write one, we would absolutely buy it. We remember your successes fondly,  and although we are very happy that you went to rehab, we wish you didn't dress like an addled cocktail waitress employed at a 80s Hair Band-themed bar called Poison's, although we do wish such a bar existed, because we would start working from there; we remember Lindsay's successes just as fondly, and know she would probably start hanging out at Poison's as well.  Which is all well and good -- and now we're kind of excited about hanging out at Poison's with LiLo. She would totally read entries over our shoulders and yell out which of our victims were "[insert expletive here]s," and then if we fugged her she's totally get mad and yell at us and write things about us on the bathroom wall, but eventually get bored and wander over with a plate of wings, and we'd make up -- but, really,  do you WANT to be the Lindsay Lohan of skating?

I guess it's better than being the Tara Reid.

Fugberly Stewart

Oh, Kim.

I'm not saying I don't like the color, because I do. It's great. I'm not even saying I don't like the shirt, or how it flatters her lovely long legs. But in the previous sentence lies the problem: This is a shirt. I am pretty sure I'm right about this (and so, I suspect, are you, given how you seem to be hunching over to make it longer) because I've been past a store that sells these, and even the mannequin was wearing it with pants. And, Kim, unlike you, those are not anatomically accurate dummies; ergo, they don't have functional bits to worry about covering, which means the pants are less about modesty and more about the fact that this is A SHIRT. As in, NOT A DRESS. As in, repeat after me, in the vein of McBain kneeling over the hemmorhaging body of his about-to-retire partner while shaking his furious fist in the air: "PaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANTS!!!!!"

The Fug Trap

Lindsay, dude. We know.

[Photo by X17, used with permission]

No need for an arrow -- we've all seen the crotch shots already.

PS: Would it kill you to buy some undies?

Fug The Cover: Kylie on Vogue

We weren't going to say anything about this, because Kylie Minogue has been through a lot and we are surprisingly soft-hearted when we forget to take our meds. But then we slowly realized that what has happened to her on the cover of Australian Vogue is not Kylie's fault. Therefore, we can show you the monstrosity without guilt.

Without further ado, except for the ado of adding another preceding sentence rather than just tossing it up:

What have those wizards of Oz done with the nation's favorite pert-bummed princess? Her skin isn't pale, it's pasty; her eyes are all askew, she's dressed like a warrior princess of yore who just discovered Like A Virgin, and they have gone to great lengths to enhance whatever innately rabbity qualities her teeth may have. In fact, overall, she looks completely hammered. Off-her-tree plastered. And I think a woman who just survived breast cancer deserves a little better, wouldn't you say? Something classy, something sexy, something that proves she's still every bit the bombshell she was before she grappled with the disease. Instead she got an audition photo for Terminator 4. And as much as I'd like to see her out there working, that's not exactly what I had in mind.

Desperate Housefugs

Hmm.

Okay. I am not at all opposed to the Ladylike Thing, as I'm sure I've mentioned here before.  I, in fact, have a complete weakness for vintage coats -- I have like seven of them, and I live in Los Angeles, where we wear coats about three months a year, tops.  And I don't really have an issue with the separate pieces of this outfit. The coat is kitschy, but that's not always a bad thing. And the dress and the gloves are fine. But together, and with her mumsy updo,  and the red lipstick and the hose and the choker, our Miss Eva looks like she's trying to make us all believe that she isn't the only woman in America who doesn't have a role in Bobby.

Then, of course, there's the other reasonable explanation, which is that Eva hit the chardonnay too hard last night while watching Back to Future, and cracked her head on the coffee table in the middle of the  Enchantment Under the Sea dance sequence,  and when she came to, the head injury caused her to think that she had been transported back to, say, 1963, and this ensemble is her desperate attempt to fit in, so that none of us realize that she's actually a starlet FROM THE FUTURE.

Katharine McPhug

We've had this photo of Katharine McPhee kicking around for a while, unable to quite put our fingers on what about this shirt isn't working. Because the theory of the cutouts around her neck is sort of cute; the buttons pulling apart, less so, and that idiotic chain is just plain fugly. But still, it's not an overt disaster.

But then, suddenly, I hit on why the experience as a whole is unsettling to me.

Focus on the shirt for a while (for some of you, I know this will not be an unappealing challenge). Just look at it. Stare, and let it stare back at you. Because, you know what? I think it is staring back at you. Doesn't it appear to be... grinning? Maniacally? Flashing its blinged-out grill while it secretly plots your grisly demise? So she's standing in front of the cameras doing her innocent McPhotogenic thing, and meanwhile, McMephistopheles down there trying to seduce you into forking over your soul for $10 and a Diet Coke.

And, now that the image is in your head, I bet you'll be hard-pressed to look at t