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November 14, 2006

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.

Posted by Heather at 10:59 AM in Random Fug | Permalink


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