Fugra Banks

[Source.]

Oh, Miss Tyra. Bitchin' boots, you divalicious beweaved creature, but those formal shorts are a Miss J-sized mess. Not to mention the belt that's giving you square hips. And the blonde weave just looks dingy and sad, as if you're lightening your hair to hide the greys, except we all know that your real hair hasn't seen the sweet light of day since you wore it in a marvelous, resplendent afro (seriously, it was awesome) in cycle 3.

All in all, my judgment is this: If you were competing in a contest for America's Next Top Tyra Banks Drag Act, you wouldn't even make it past the casting special.

Phoebe Fugs

Few celebrities have escaped the wrath of GFY over the course of the almost three years that we have been writing this site.  People we like, people we don't like: All are at risk. There is, however, one group that we have, to this point, ignored.  Here in Los Angeles there is a group of people (mostly women) who attend almost every event, from premieres to charity functions to the opening of a shoe store. These women are photographed. And we have no idea who they are. Literally. They're not studio or television or music executives. They may claim to be "actresses" or "models" but they've never appeared in anything notable, nor do they have a string of non-notable credits. If they do have credits, usually they're consistently playing something like "Girl #3." Sometimes they appeared in Playboy once, but not necessarily. They're not married to any one notable, as far as we can tell. We really don't know how they're getting invited to anything, why they're being photographed, or how they're making the money that allows them to keep up with their Botox schedule. They are a mystery, that, until now, we have basically ignored, primarily because no one knows who they are. But the time has come for us to break our silence.

The leader of this group -- in our minds, since I don't even know that this mysterious group of taut ladies even know each other -- is Phoebe Price.  And while we have been silent on the subject of Miss Price for many, many months, at last she has broken us. We can keep our mouths shut no longer. Thanks to this:

"That's not even that BAD," you say. "Maybe she didn't know it was sheer!" Oh, sweet reader.  It IS that bad, and she DID know it was sheer. Let us continue to explore the Kinda Naked All Tacky world of Phoebe Price after the jump (some of these are only Moderately Safe for Work):

The back of the Outfit That Broke Our Silence:

Oh, you coy minx! WE CAN SEE YOUR ASS. That's just....listen, our views on underwear are pretty cut and dried. Wear underwear. WEAR IT UNDER THINGS. It's IN THE NAME.   Going out in a sheer cover-up over your THONG is just TACKY and DESPERATE.

However, this is a woman whose photoshoots (which she appears to release to image houses in case...we need them? I don't know) look generally like this one:

Who DOESN'T roll around in a crocheted hoodie scarf and nothing else? There's a reason that you can't spell "crochet" without "crotch."

And now that the floodgates are open, we can't stop ourselves from abusing your retinas with P Squared's heinous fashion crimes of the past. Like this one, at Cannes:

I enjoy how bemused the photographers appear.  They are all like, "Oh la la! Look at zees one! Her ass! You can zee it right through her drezz! Americaines! Zhey are so tasteless! Where iz my baguette?" Because that's how French photogs talk, don't you think? They wouldn't have been as surprised had they gotten a gander at this earlier look:

Awesome. A snakeskin jumpsuit accessorized with Ima Kill You, Bitch gloves. This is straight out of the wardrobe bin on Dynasty labeled "For Alexis's Tacky Rival (Waterproof)." 

While the following was out of the bin marked "Sexy Mermaids," a bin which is right between "Hot Medusa" and "Trampy Unicorns," all three of which are slated to go out with the next load of recycling:

My darlings, these are merely the tip of the iceberg. Look at what we have spared you! We care about your eyes and your souls, dear readers. We want you around for the long haul -- we want you to be able to procrastinate at work in good health! -- and we couldn't inflict these items on you in good conscience. Until now. Because clearly, with The Thong On Parade, this situation has gone from being something we could all pretend wasn't happening to a real crisis. And forewarned is forearmed. So consider yourselves warned: Phoebe Price is out there, and she is going to assault your eyeballs.

Fugsten Dunst

[Source.]

Yes, tights can help you feel more secure with wearing a short skirt. But when the minidress so heavy on the "mini" that you can see the tights change thickness and texture as they stretch over the upper thighs, a.k.a. the Highway to the Lady Zone, then you are violating the private social contract a woman has with her hosiery.

But at least Kiki's hair looks cute, or rather, shiny from something other than grease. It's just a shame her boyfriend Johnny appears sort of douchey and 14. And is it just me, or do his Vadar-gloved hands look disproportionately large compared to the reedy rest of him? If you look at her eyeline, and that of the man behind them, it looks like they both might be laughing at Twerpy McShaqHands. Who I'm sure is a very lovely young boy (whose fly does not, I've decided, appear to be open), but in this photo I can't shake the feeling that he's hoping he and his gigantic palms can steal third base before he has to finish his history homework.

Fug and Fugs

[Source.]

BECKS: Just keep your head down, babes.

POSH: Look, I really can't figure out why you suddenly have a cracking great rod up your bum, David. It was YOUR idea.

BECKS: It was not.

POSH: It was TOO.

BECKS: I was being SARCASTIC. When a person says, "Oh, I don't give a rat's bollocks what you wear -- wrap a garbage sack around your waist for all I care," they are not ACTUALLY hoping you'll do it. Get it?

POSH: Well how am I supposed to know that? I thought you meant, "You'd look gorgeous in a trash bag, honey."

BECKS: Certainly not. I'm not your mum.

POSH: Don't be a prat.

BECKS: Look, I was getting sick of waiting. It took you two hours to pick your shoes. Who spends two hours picking out shoes to go with pants that don't even SHOW them, Vic?

POSH: Oh, well, fine, if you don't CARE about the details. Although coming from someone who couldn't be arsed to tuck in his shirt before throwing on grandpa's cardigan...

BECKS: Pipe down, Simon Le Bon. I'm not ALLOWED to have closet time while you're still deciding, remember?

POSH: And I expect you're going to blame that hat on me, too, now.

BECKS: It's the only thing I could find that might help me hide.

POSH: Our reality show is going to be bloody brilliant.

With Fug

Now that Hilary Duff's new teeth are fixed -- or she grew into them, or whatever -- I actually think she's been looking really hot, especially with her darker hair.  Which is why this scrolldown is so very tragic:

It's like, casual, casual, casual,  an extra in the Love is a Battlefield video, the floor. And while Hilary is certainly quite cute, Pat Benatar she is not.

Fug Madness!

I am beginning to think that either Kristen Bell or her stylist or both of them are suffering from some kind of body dysmorphic disorder wherein they think she is way, way bigger than she actually is. Because Kristen Bell is a teeny tiny little teeny person and yet whoever picks out her clothes for her everyday seems to think that she's about ten feet tall. Like this:

I actually kind of like her top. It's so LOUD and retro and Palms Springs-y, and I have a weakness for loud, retro, Palms Springs-y tops. But MAN ALIVE is it overwhelming on her frame.  I think she's wearing it with slim jeans, and rightly so (it's hard to tell in the picture), but I honestly think she's just too small to wear something this bold in both cut and print, period. It's just not flattering and I can't really think how she could ever pull it off. If it were a solid color, sure, or had either the billowing cut in the body of the shirt OR the big sleeves but not both, maybe. But as it is, she just looks like a little girl playing dress up down at her grandma's condo by the golf course. Next, maybe Grandma will let her drink some General Foods International Coffee and pretend to smoke a cigarette out on the lanai!

This isn't an isolated incident, either. La Bell is almost always wearing something that looks far too big on her. Like earlier this week, at the Neiman Marcus event that's yielded so much material for us lately:

"I'm wearing a red sequined sack!" she says. "I fashioned my dress out of one of those old school sun-reflectors people used in 80s movies to fry their faces to a crisp," Melissa George says. "Together, you need sunglasses just to look at us!"

For serious, Kristen, you are just overwhelmed in that thing. Which is a real shame, because you can rock the red when you get the cut right:

So much better! And while I actually like the sequins on the first get-up (see: my secret love for clothing that might actually be costumes -- I'm not joking, I have a pink and gold lame brocade coat and I wear it. In my defense, the lame is pretty subtle. Okay, I know that's impossible. And yes, I know that I just lost what little credibility I ever had, but I think we'll all manage to go on. Maybe, now that I have destroyed said credibility, I shall go on in a turban of some sort!), this silhouette is so much more flattering to her body. Because we can, you know, see it.

So, get thee to a tailor, little Miss Mars.  Start getting things taken in and up, so we can all admire your cute little shape. Then we'll go out shopping for floral print muumuus together and we can discuss why YOU think Veronica Mars is so much more annoying now than she used to be. I have some theories I'd like to get your thoughts on.

Como Fuga Una Mujer

"Sequined chain mail? That's what you think of my shirt-shawl-drape-dress-poncho-thingy? Are you KIDDING me with that, estupido? Tonto, tonto, tonto, tonto, tonto, you are being GLIB with me. If you start talking about chain mail, you have to read the research papers about chain mail, which is what I have done. Chain mail is a pseudofashion. You do not know the history of chain mail. I do.

"Also, I don't know WHERE you got the idea, but there is NO TRUTH to the rumors that I am becoming a Scientologist. Nada. None at all."

Back to Fug

I had to actually double check the date on this picture to make sure that it wasn't from Those Dark Days when Christina was running around with the ass cut out of her chaps.  It's so sad to see someone who's been looking so awesome lately slide back into the world of tan-colored pantyhose:

There's GOT to be a reasonable explanation for this, right? Like...she was just on a long, long flight, and these are compression hose designed to prevent her from having a  deep vein thrombosis.  Or she's on her way to the ice skating rink to practice her long program, and the hose keep her legs warm, while that bra acts as an air bag if she falls on her face. Or she and Jordan had a bet and she lost it, which would also explain why she looks so cranky. Let's just decide that's it. 

Fuglie de Ravin

Perhaps wearing better shoes would have saved Emilie de Ravin from looking as if she had been styled by a pinata salesman. As it is, though, she couldn't hope to sell that outfit with the way she's venturing down the dangerous path Kirsten Dunst blazed -- the one where are forced to assume that ten seconds after this photo was taken, Bea Arthur beat her over the head with a cheesecake for stealing her sandals.

I wonder if that's why Emilie looks so confused and unhappy here; it's possible she saw, in the distance, a blur of loud fabric shooting toward her and knew she was headed for trouble. Brings new meaning to the slogan, "It was a Chico's kind of day."

The Fug

You know that part during the Oscars pre-show where one of the Nancy O'Dell-types asks all the actors what they ate before the red carpet, thereby continuing society's fascination with the eating habits or lack thereof of the rich and famous? And Cameron Diaz is usually like, "I ate a 4 x 4!" and Beyonce is like, "I had a Big Mac!" and Jessica Alba is like, "I inhaled a Whopper!" because part of the problem in Hollywood is not only that no one eats ever, but also that no one eats and then totally pretends that they eat ALL THE TIME and they never have to work out, really, even though they have their picture snapped rolling around with an exercise ball with a trainer all the time and then everyone in the real world is like, "Damn, she eats cheeseburgers all the time and looks like that? WOE IS ME,"  when the truth of the matter is that it takes a lot of work to be as trim as most of those girls.

So when they got around to E! host Debbie Matenopoulos and she said, "Oh, I don't eat," I was kind of like, "oh, honesty! How refreshing! Will someone please pass the bucket of wings? Oh, and the Oreos. An some cream cheese, if you've got it." But now that I've seen some recent pics of La Matenopoulous, it's kind of clear that she really wasn't kidding, nor did she mean, "I haven't eaten in two weeks so I can fit into this dress."

The trouble is, she seems so pleased that she doesn't eat, from announcing it gleefully on television, to aping the dress Keira Knightley wore that prompted everyone to scream "EATING DISORDER." It didn't work on Keira and it scares me a bit on Debbie as well.  And while Keira was like, "listen, bitches, I've always been skinny," I kind of get the impression that Debbie's reaction might be, "oh, you NOTICED! I'm so glad."  And, honestly, that's kind of f'ed up. Not ever eating isn't really, you know, awesome. It's just no fun.

So here's yet another in our long line of pleas to the ladies of the world: we were not all built to weigh 90 pounds. Being healthy is a good thing: being HUNGRY just makes you really crabby and then your face starts to look prematurely aged, and while some people believe you can never be too thin, there's no cliche along the lines of "you can never be too cranky and gaunt." 

Apparently, cheeseburgers can help. Get on it, Debbie. Your body fat really misses you.

Fugley Shelton

Actress Marley Shelton learns the hard way that when you're attending a fashion show that primarily involves sitting, satin is your most deadly, dastardly enemy. I am stunned no one attacked her with a steamer.

Fug Pointe

So often in fashion, it all hinges on the tailoring.

Unfortunately for the delightful Lindsay Sloane -- so great in the Tori Spelling role when she was on Grosse Pointe, the WB's show-within-the-show takeoff on 90210 -- the tailoring of this dress appears almost exclusively to have involved a stapler and a hot glue gun, as well as a brisk amount of vodka. Martha Stewart would not approve. Well, except for the vodka part.

FugHouse

Witness actress Laura Cayouette at the Grindhouse premiere:

This is what we, in the Fug biz, call "a lot going on," also known as  "a bit much, don't you think?". While I applaud her...bravery, and her self-esteem,  and her apparently ability to rig the back of her dress on a rope and pulley system to shorten and lengthen it at will, this is the sort of dress that....well, there's something to be said for leaving certain things to the imagination and I fear that a good gust of wind will destroy all of our imaginations forever.

Fug Months

"And so I thought, what the heck? It looked great on the runway!"

"Unfortunately, it turns out that it makes ME  look a little bit like a sofa.  But what are you gonna do? Am I right?"

Fugga Mendes

[Photo by Daily Celeb.]

Eva Mendes is not a particularly dowdy, shapeless person. And yet, she looks to be both of those things here. Why the unflattering wide-legged jeans that gobble up her shoes in their toxic denim sea? Why the cardigan that cuts her at her widest point, swallowing her curves? Was she dragged here? I'm all for casual wear -- hell, I dashed to Sav-On yesterday in my slippers to get cold and flu medication and some restorative Gatorade -- but I feel like you can be comfortable at an event without looking as if you had been laying around the house in your too-big lazy-day jeans before realizing you are out of Diet Coke and Jif, throwing on a shawl to go run a really fast, "I don't care what I'm wearing because I will only be outside for two seconds, so it doesn't matter that I don't have any shoes that go with these pants" errand , and then spontaneously deciding to drop in on Quentin Tarantino for some fun face time.

I don't blame her for eschewing skinny jeans, but there is a happy medium between those and what amounts to floor-length culottes. Also, is it just me, or do those pants make her legs look freakishly short? I mean, I'm staring at the fade in the wash and wondering if that's supposed to be where her knee is, but it can't be, because factoring in that she's presumably still with both her ankles, that would leave about three inches for her shin.

Sigh. Maybe that's just the TheraFlu talking.

Adventures of a Teenage Fug Queen

Originally, our little LiLo had planned to wear her Shakespearean get-up to the premiere of The Tudors, but realized that perhaps she was being a bit too literal.  So she went for a deconstructed homage to the chainmail of Henry VIII's knights instead:

This pit-chain also has the benefit of acting like a de facto leash, in case she runs into anyone at the party that she'd like to have lead her around by the boobs. You never know: those Hollywood parties get KEE-RAZY.

[Insert obligatory statement about how at least she's wearing cute shoes here.]

Fug's Next Fug Fug

Pop quiz, darlings! This will count for ten percent of your grade in Fug 101: Fugology Basics.

America's Next Top Model runner-up Melrose Bickerstaff:

a) was so overcome by the trauma of her loss that she finally surrendered to the dark side and allowed herself to become a child of the night,  feasting on the blood of humans and occasionally turning -- when appropriate -- into a bat. The upside to this, of course, is that she's finally stopped the aging process.

b) really finds, you know, inspiration in the story of Little Red Riding Hood, and likes to imagine that she is the titular heroine, while Tyra Banks is the Big Bad Wolf whose stomach she will eventually get to hack through in order to rescue someone innocent who Tyra has eaten (probably Twiggy).

c) is just really into Superman

You have ten minutes to complete this quiz. Extra credit will be given for anyone who can trace, in three paragraphs or less, the connection between Melrose's cape and the absence of Janice Dickinson from the ANTM judging panel. If applicable, place a special emphasis on the spoken word poetry of former contestant Jade, especially her work "Leftover Lady."

The Fugs of Malibu

Linda Thompson isn't someone we'd generally feature here on GFY, because -- despite her storied past dating Elvis and, um, appearing on Hee Haw -- she's primarily working behind the scenes these days as a songwriter. However, her Wikipedia entry identifies her as an "actress," and the woman did agree to appear on a reality show (the very short-lived  Princes of Malibu, which also unleashed her son by Bruce Jenner, Brody Jenner, upon us. That said, I secretly think Brody Jenner is very cute. On the other hand, I really wish Lauren on The Hills would stay far away from him. I think he's using you, LC! His friends are so douchey! You don't need that in your life! Date some guy who doesn't want to be on television. Now, I live in Los Angeles, too, so I know how hard that can be, but you deserve better. And seriously, you can't have a mother-in-law who dresses like this. Okay, end of Hills-related sidebar). Ergo, I think she's fair game. Also, clearly she's not shrinking from attention:

Lady, you have a great body, but I don't need to see your bra OR your panties. Ever.  You appear to be wearing a formal swimsuit cover-up of some sort, which isn't appropriate unless you're actually going to a formal pool party, or you're J. Lo. Which you are not. Although J. Lo probably would have dated Elvis if the timing had worked out.

The Fug and the Fugliful

"Hi. I'm Ridge Forrester.

"You might remember me as the, ahem, young fashion magnate from the reality show The Bold & The Beautiful, a decadent half-hour of dead-on documentary honesty about the dog-eat-dog fashion industry and the sex-crazed people who run it from their lush offices in L.A. while their wives die and then come back to life a few times. I am rather sure I represent the 'beautiful' side of things on this docudrama, what with my chiseled cheeks and the daring bandanna that's cutting off my oxygen supply. I mean, I've married eight times, seven of them to the same two women (hey, I'm consistent! And loyal... ish!), so I must be pretty foxy, right? Especially since I'm still with one of them even though I inadvertently raped her last year, which... look, it happens, okay? Sometimes you trip and fall, and in it goes, and, well, awkward! But we're fine now, and I'm ensuring us a happy ending by previewing here my newest collection, which is going to make us millions of pennies. It's called Lounge Lizard. We're targeting karaoke competitions and a few off-strip Las Vegas casinos, as well as any place that has a hot dog stand inside, like most mini-golf venues, because you can spill all the toppings on some of these shirts -- like mine! -- and no one will ever notice. So don't worry about ol' Ridge Forrester, Fickle Love Whore, because I have got it ALL under control. I am young, SO VERY YOUNG, and I'm in love with the blonde one, or at least I think that's the one, and I'm about to slither around on top of a grand piano singing 'Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You.' Life is perfect."

Fugarina Witt

Katarina Witt has got to step outside her Ice Capades comfort zone.

Does she think we won't recognize her if she's not wearing glitter, or something conducive to pitching in just in case a raucous skate-off breaks out at the party? Honey, you're Katarina Witt! You are the beautiful East German goddess who won six European skating championships in a row and two consecutive Olympic gold medals! You captured our hearts so much that we weren't even really rooting for poor ol' Debi Thomas of the U.S.A. (sorry, Debi; it's nothing personal) because we wanted to be tall and graceful like you! And you won an Emmy for, I kid our readers not, Carmen On Ice in 1990! I promise we will recognize you. Or, more accurately, that we in particular at GFY will recognize you. Which means you can run but you can't hide, so maybe look into broadening your shopping experience, okay?

Unless you are at a gala for the ice version of Anne of Green Gables and you are playing the inspirational, uplifting schoolteacher Miss Stacey, in which case, hooray, and go forth and eat dinner at Marilla and Matthew's house. But, a word of advice: Don't eat the dessert, because Anne accidentally lost a dead rat in it, although she'll scream that at you herself in a minute. I guess I kind of scooped her on that one. Whoops.

The Fuggers

I have registered my concerns about Nicole Kidman's hair before,  but my feelings are even stronger now:

Oh, Nicole. I know you lovely natural redheads tend to see your hair fade over the years, but GIRL! This is what your friend Miss Clairol is for. And you should know that the last time we spoke about your hair in this space, we got some emails claiming that you've worn a wig for years, to which I say: if this is true, you need to scurry down to the Wig District and upgrade, because you look a bit fried.

But listen, who amongst us has not woken up with frizzy hair and decided, "screw it. Today, I am frizzy!"?  So I do understand. Almost every woman alive has hated her hair at some point. Right now, the left half of my bangs are standing out at nearly a right angle.  If that look didn't go so well with what I'm currently wearing -- I call this look Pajamaist. Watch for it in all the chicest bedrooms -- I would consider a jaunt to Wig Alley myself. What I am more concerned about is your habit of matching your hair to your skin to your outfit. Everything you're wearing is fine, but all of it -- and you -- is beige, and it washes you out. You're too delicate a flower to fully work this.  See if you can trade shirts with Keith at intermission, hmm?

Fug The Cover: Kirsten Dunst

Oh, W magazine. It's been a long time since Kirsten Dunst played a vampire; it seems unfair to style her for this cover to optimize the illusion that she's spent all her time since then sleeping in a coffin. You've also managed to give her a wonky eye and a wig that looks like something Ken Paves scraped out of a gutter and then rejected for looking "too cheap." Well done! Here's hoping the article within does not reveal that she found herself at your photo shoot.

Fug Design

I don't know how she manages it, but every week, Top Design judge Kelly Wearstler manages to out-fug herself. Even the Bravo Web site features her photo with the caption, "What's she wearing now?" And that's often what I say to myself when I'm watching the show, except with a lot more expletives, gleeful cackling, and a touch of evil Mr. Burns-esque finger drumming.

This week, during the episode in which the designers try to piece together a chef's room for guest judge Tom Colicchio -- whose presence was a painful reminder that I wish I had been watching Top Chef instead -- La Wearst actually took my breath away, and not in a wonderful way. The screen cap won't do it justice, but here's a peek at her glories.

[Pic from BravoTV.com]

Dare I say she puts the "worst" in "Wearstler"? I dare. Oh, do I dare. It's not that I'm super enamored of Jonathan Adler's sockless charms, although I do find him totally delightful as a person/character. But seriously, just LOOK at the lass in the middle! Behold the wonder of that pseudo perm, the ultimate light-socket coiffure! And the puffed sleeves! Whenever there was a close-up of her (why did I delete the episode before snapping a series of pics? WHY?) she and her crimson mouth looked like a wicked stepsister kicking ashes in Cinderella's face, or a bitter Victorian spinster who was systematically locking up the town's nubile lasses in her subterranean chamber of horrors in an attempt to scare the improper impulses out of them.

I can only pray that next week she descends upon the judging panel in an enormous muumuu and a mohawk.

Sisterhood of the Traveling Fug

Maybe the reason that Amber Tamblyn looks so cranky here is that she just realized that her outfit is really unflattering.

And, Amber, I'm concerned. You seem like you might be fun to hang out with. I suspect that you're the sort of girl who does shots with glee and then gets all rowdy and mildly violent, but in the fun way that involves shoving handsy guys and then yelling at the rest of the bar patrons to mind their own business, not the scary way where you eventually have to get bailed out of the drunk tank. Which begs the question: where are your friends? At some point, I imagine you tried on this look for someone. And that person should have said, "Hmmmm. I don't know if I would wear those TOGETHER." And you would have looked at yourself in the mirror again and said, "really?" And your friend would have said, "Yeah. I think you need a tighter top with that skirt. Or a slimmer bottom with that jacket." And then you would have said, "are you telling me that I look fat?" And your friend would have said, "You don't look FAT. You aren't FAT. No. But these two sort of puffy items kind of hide your waist in a way that isn't super flattering. Do you know what I mean?" And then you would have changed, and while you were in your walk-in closet looking for a tighter top/slimmer bottom, your friend would have thrown those shoes out the window, because three people can wear an ankle strap that thick and all of them are walking on a runway somewhere right now. And because none of this happened, obviously, I am worried about your peeps, Amber. They need to step up and help a girl out sometimes. That's the beauty of girlfriends.

Fug Up, Now Fug Me

Because when you think about the celebrities who are unlikely to be able to negotiate a long, ruffled scarf, fairly high heels and knickers without getting the scarf wrapped around the heels, falling knickers over tea kettle and accidentally getting strangled Isadora-Duncan-style...well, Paula Abdul is kind of on the top of the list.

Seriously. She's at least in the top three.

The Dukes of Fuggard

You probably know April Scott from such meaningful, touching roles as Model #14, Girl in Bikini, Model, Model, Vegas Girl, or -- my personal favorite -- Runway Model. Verily, Los Angeles Fashion Week truly does attract the upper echelon of the celebrity crop. Okay, so she also took over the Jessica Simpson role in the straight-to-USA Network prequel to The Dukes of Hazzard, Dukes of Hazzard: The Beginning, and while I have not seen this program, I am QUITE sure that she is better in the part than poor J. Simp was. I mean, for serious: I've never heard a worse Southern accent on an actress and JESSICA IS FROM THE SOUTH.  Just TALK, you moron. God. But this was not meant to devolve into a diatribe against poor Simpson The Elder who -- as long as we're talking about her -- looks pretty cute as a brunette, I must say, and who has been pleasantly low key lately.

But yes. April Scott. For those of you keeping score at home, the IMDb keywords for her Dukes TV effort are: Prequel, Sequel, Buxom, Cleavage, Underwear, so I'm advising a certain portion of our reading audience to set their TiVos, and don't complain I never did nothing for you. Much as this rather unfortunate dress does nothing for Miss Scott: 

Why, it's camouflaging all her keywords!

Well Played, Liv Tyler

I have long held that, even though her mother is a model, Liv Tyler (and her sister Mia, also, in fact) still got very, very fortunate in the genetic lottery when you consider the identity -- and face -- of dad Steven. She's got the kind of grin that lights up her entire face, the prettiest skin and eyes, and what's more, she didn't starve herself after having her child with Royston Unibrow or whatever his name is, which is admirable and healthy. Mostly, she seems pretty regular and nice -- again, quite possibly something of a miracle. I just think she's intriguing overall.

And she certainly looked lovely the other night at the Reign Over Me premiere.

I've always struggled with looser-cut dresses like this because I feel like they're hard to pull off without looking a bit like a balloon; they seem to swallow everything. But here's Liv wearing one with as much confidence as if it were figure-hugging, and it looks completely adorable on her. I suspect I really need to take her shopping with me, especially for accessories -- the shoes and the handbag and the bracelet are wicked. I'm not a card-carrying passenger on The Chunky Bang Bandwagon, but even that's working for her on this night. As are her legs.

Sigh. Now I have a sudden urge to watch That Thing You Do! Unfortunately, the movie-channel gods apparently would prefer I caught Liv again in Armageddon, but I can't bring myself to do it, because not even coveting her skin can outweigh having to watch Steve Buscemi randomly go nuts so that the otherwise divine William Fichtner has to utter the line, "Oh my God. He has SPACE DEMENTIA." Yeesh.

L.A. Fugshion Week: Hayden Panettiere

Hayden Panettiere of Heroes is so cute, and that is an adorable apron she's wearing. But ... what gives, cheerleader? Did the hot, mysterious Haitian secretly pluck all memory of the concept of shirts from your brain? That seems awfully pervy of him.

L.A. Fugshion Week: Nicky Hilton

Dear Nicky Hilton,

You're in the front row at L.A. Fashion Week, and you're related to that drippy suckmaggot Paris -- she who blithely did her makeup in the middle of a Max Azria show in September -- so we shouldn't be surprised that you have a short attention span yourself.

And we were even willing to give you the benefit of the doubt that, mid-show, you were merely idly clutching your BlackBerry because you didn't have anything else to do with that hand -- perhaps Brandon Davis was on your other side, for instance, and you were trying not to catch anything via accidental contact. That's certainly completely understandable.

But then we saw another photo.

Bitch, please. Now, I'm sure you're not the only one who does this, but that doesn't make it right. Fashion shows are, like, 10 minutes long, once they get going. I know L.A. Fashion Week doesn't quite have the cachet of its New York cousin, but seriously, whatever it is couldn't wait? You couldn't be polite, having been given a prize spot by the runway, and refrain from gazing at your BlackBerry for a few minutes? What was the emergency? Had one of the items in your clothing line accidentally turned out attractive, forcing a last-second redesign? Did Paris forget how to use a zipper and need you for advice? Where are your manners, child? Surely Paris didn't borrow them; she wouldn't know what to do with them if they came with instructions.

Oh, and, er, bringing it back on topic about the clothes... actually, you pretty much look fine. WHEN YOU ARE NOT BEING RUDE.

Sheesh.

Carla Fugino

We've been so busy trying to battle leggings and formal shorts with our verbal light-sabres (which, when I was little, I always thought were called "light savers," which made no sense to me since they emitted colored light; I guess I should have trusted George Lucas, but then again, look where that got us with the prequels) that it just didn't occur to me to stay vigilant about trouser length. I just assumed people had already learned the lesson.

Apparently, I had forgotten never to assume, because you know what they say: When you assume, you make an ass out of Uma Thurman. Or something.

Behold the lovely Carla Gugino:

Beautiful woman, cute shirt; it's a shame the pants make her look like she's treading the carpet on her bloody stumps, having lost her feet in a tragic ankle-strap accident. Either Carla needs to explore new and exhilarating heel heights, or she needs to find a good seamstress. Or figure out how to use a sewing machine. I don't know how to do it either. Come on over, Carla! We'll learn together. Over martinis.

Minor Burps

The server with our masthead and half our photos on it is having a small tantrum today, but fear not -- once we're able to wrestle it into the corner to have a good, long think about what it did, followed by a time-out and a possible spanking, it'll be back up in no time.

The Upside of Fugger

Oh, honestly, Joan Allen:

I so enjoy your work in The Bourne Whatevers, and I really am glad that the severe botoxerexia you suffered from previously has relaxed so I can find you pleasantly recognizable once more. (Seriously, I feel like actresses who fall into the I'm No One's Bimbo, Mister Category -- like Joan Allen, or Meryl Streep or Cate Blanchett or even Reese Witherspoon, women who may occasionally play the bimbette onscreen but who we never doubt to be sharp and interesting in real life -- should have some kind of limit placed on the amount of plastic surgery they have done. Your faces are interesting, ladies, and most of the time,you seem to know that, so it's particularly alarming when one of you veers off the rails hanging onto the back of a syringe of deadly poison).

HOWEVER (and don't pretend for a second you didn't know this was coming), you seriously look like you were in the middle of making a carbonara when you realized that you were out of bacon, so you just threw on the first jacket you found in the hall closet and ran down the street to the mini-mart for some Farmer John's.  But then, on the way home, you realized that your pasta was totally overcooked now anyway, so screw it -- and, hey, what's happening at the Chinese? A movie premiere?! Awesome, they always have food at those things! We'll just pretend this super casual, kinda mismatched, I'm Just Going to Stay In Tonight, Make Dinner for My Boyfriend And Then Settle In For an Hour of The Pussycat Dolls Present The Pussycat Dolls' Search For the Next Pussycat Doll look was totally on purpose.  When, really, you know that the Dolls would have been the smarter choice. Because that show is secretly the funniest show on television, and this outfit is just kind of a joke.

L.A. Fugshion Week: Fug 'Em Up (Style)

Blu Cantrell is the Old Faithful of fuggery, not in the sense that she is old -- she's a year younger than I am (allegedly) and therefore is a mere spring chicken about to burst into bloom. Or something  -- but because she can be counted on, like the famous geyser, to erupt into something noteworthy roughly every hour and a half. We haven't seen much of Blu lately, so this eruption was overdue. And it did not disappoint:

It's like she's gone to Los Angeles Fashion Week for the express purpose of finding a shirt to wear that very night.

Milena Fugich

I've often thought it'd be fun if my life were a musical -- perhaps a beautiful cross between Chicago, Annie (except without my parents having orphaned me), the roller-skating parts of Xanadu, The Sound of Music, and the parody at the end of Blazing Saddles; that's not too much to ask, is it?-- but I've stopped short of dressing in anticipation of a song-and-dance number spontaneously erupting around me at any given moment. For one thing, that requires a lot of spandex and glitter that I don't generally have on hand, and for another, it would be kind of pointless; a massive chorus number is probably not going to break out tomorrow night at, say, my accountant's office.

At any rate, all that rambling means that at first, when I saw this photo, I thought, "Wow, Milena Govich is way more of an optimist than I am."

Then I realized that she was at a "Broadway Cares" event, and as a scheduled performer, she probably did run inside and instantly deploy her very best jazz hands with a high-kick or five.

Still, this is a fairly specialized case of actually needing to belt out a song at a moment's notice. I applaud Milena's preparedness, and her pedicure (and her figure, and her red lipstick -- she looks pretty hot, if slightly disco in that thing). But I wouldn't want anyone else to get any ideas -- Lindsay Lohan is in a fairly impressionable stage of her life, for instance, and it would be greatly alarming if she started costuming herself as if she's the lead in her own bio-musical, Red Death: How They Killed My Innocence. Ergo, maybe this leotard dress should have come with a warning sign for use on the red-carpet: "Functional Costume: Do Not Try This At Home."

L.A. Fugshion Week: The Janice Dickinson Fugging Agency

According to TMZ, my beloved Janice Dickinson has been banned from several shows at Los Angeles Fashion Week, following some shenanigans of some sort.* (Janice? Shenanigans? Shut your mouth.) While I was sort of surprised to read that Janice had actually been barred from any event -- seriously, have none of the event organizers read her books? They are hilarious. She is a national treasure. A probably drunk, definitely unpredictable trainwreck, but a treasure nevertheless -- I wasn't surprised to hear that she was in the news thanks to her LA Fashion Week behavior, as I had already seen the pictures.

This is the week that Janice demonstrated why a dress can be dangerous if you've been [ALLEGEDLY, POSSIBLY, MAYBE, PERHAPS] imbibing:

Don't do that in a dress! Especially in a wrap dress! Those are tights -- not leggings, not trousers, not jeans, not shorts. They have a visible cotton crotch. I don't need to see Miss Janice's cotton crotch.

OR her ass:

Look, at least the girl knows how to enjoy herself, and both of these dresses, on their own merits, are really cute. But this is taking the danger inherent in a wrap dress (every time I wear one, I worry that it's going to flap open and expose me to the elements) and just gamboling all over it. I wasn't aware that I had to actually say this, but KEEP YOUR DRESS DOWN OVER YOUR ASS IN PUBLIC.  Yes, even you, Janice.

*We've since heard from Janice's peeps that this rumor is not true, and thank goodness. LA Fashion Week is already kind of a snore. Banning La Dickinson would have been the nail in the coffin.

L.A. Fugshion Week: Fug DJ

I am totally a fan of Robbie Williams, and I've often wondered why he hasn't done better in the United States. He's so talented and charming and funny: the episode of Cribs where he passes off Jane Seymour's house (well, manor. Castle. Whatever) as his own is particularly brilliant. However, all that being said, I do wish he would wear a proper shirt when he leaves the house:

Because this is less Sexy Insouciant Pop Star Out On The Town and a little more Transient Out In Your Alley.

L.A. Fugshion Week: Well Played, Winnie Cooper

Okay, maybe it's not totally fair to call Danica McKellar by her Wonder Years alter-ego's name, as if she has never achieved anything else in life, but seriously, it's a compliment. Who didn't love Winnie Cooper and her pretty, pretty long hair? We all hoped she and Kevin Arnold would get it together, because -- to mix references for a second -- they were clearly each others' densities. Plus, the trivia that half the reason the characters ever had a falling-out was because Danica's growth spurt came faster than Fred Savage's and they didn't look right together is really kind of hilarious.

But then Danica McKellar decided to do something unusually ambitious: She dropped out of the public eye and went to college, and not only turned out to be some kind of math genius but actually helped prove a new theorem that now is named after her. Suck on that, Good Will Hunting. There aren't too many ways to top that, unless NASA decides to rechristen one of its shuttles "Danica," or somebody discovers a new constellation that clearly depicts her image. Me, I'd settle for having Diet Coke rename itself after me, but since "Diet Cocks" isn't really all that appealing-sounding (and yes, that is how you spell my last name, for real, and no, I was never a man) I can't see it ever happening.

At any rate, apparently Danica McKellar came from a blessed gene pool. Because aside from all that mathematical excitement, and her robust brains, she also grew up very lovely.

Normally, something about this dress would scream "lingerie" at me in an annoying, high-pitched wail, but Danica looks fantastic in it. And those shoes! I covet those shoes. I'm sure that's one of The Next 10 Commandments -- "thou shalt not covet thy fuggee's footwear" -- but, for one thing, I'm not fugging her per se, and for another, shove it. Those are fantastic. And Winnie is a knockout. Just imagine if the show were doing a reunion movie, and all the long, longing glances she and Kevin would exchange in order to make room for the pages and pages of yearning voice-over Daniel Stern would need to provide. I kind of wish it would happen, but I don't know if I could really cope with it emotionally because I burst into tears during the finale when it was revealed that Dan Lauria's Mr. Arnold died soon thereafter -- his gruff but lovable character, flaws and all, was the one that wrenched my heart the most whenever his kids got all uppity with him, and it always made me want to go give my dad a huge hug.

Not that this has anything to do with how hot Ms. Cooper-McKellar turned out to be. I'm just saying, I'm a giant softie, and also, I just checked and thank GOD, Dan Lauria himself is still alive. And I want her shoes.

The end.

L.A. Fugshion Week: Maria Fugita Alonso

Why is Maria Conchita Alonso on the floor?

Her dress might be sort of cute, if she weren't busy obscuring it by genuflecting to the photographers at L.A. Fashion Week. Perhaps she's trying to prove the girls are legit, or perhaps she's suggestively trying to see just how deeply one dandy lensman's zoom can penetrate. Either way... we really just wish she'd get up, because it seems a bit needy and sad, and also, we're sure whichever random starlet she borrowed the knee pads from could really use them back.

Fugothy Hutton

Many of our readers e-mailed us last week to tell us that we are crazy, and that the bedraggled, elderly Kris Kringle-in-a-world-without-Christmas-looking man we fugged on Monday is not Tom Hulce but in fact Timothy Hutton.

To those readers, we were forced to say: 1) You're right, we are probably crazy, but not for that reason*; 2) that's a very nice compliment for Tom Hulce, in some ways; and 3) lock the doors and hide under the bed, because Timothy Hutton is going to cut you.

Indeed, as if understanding on a deep psychic level the need to prove he looks nothing like Latter-Day Tom Hulce, our own Mr. Timothy Hutton stepped out this weekend to the premiere of what might be the worst-named movie of all time: The Last Mimzy. (Sidebar: I know it's based on a short story about time travel and children and genius-making toys, but seriously, based on the name, it sounds like a movie about a world in which sweet, harmless grandmothers have been totally eradicated from the face of the Earth by a race of cruel Hollywood agents -- but for one lass, hopefully played by Betty White, who survived the purge and is living in a mud hut Somewhere Outside Los Angeles, is discovered by curious children who've never seen a wrinkle before, and emerges to show society that aging is not toxic to others. Which... actually, I might have just convinced myself that I'd see that movie.)

Ahem. At any rate, for the abeyance of all concerns that he's aged before his time, I give you Mr. Timothy Hutton.

He could stand to comb his hair a little, and I'm not sure if those are velvet pants to match the furry jacket, or if they're just made of slickery material, but either way they scare me a little and could benefit from a nicer shirt pairing. And Joely Richardson seems so brittle you could build a bird's nest out of her, but we're sure that's just because she's exhausted from all the finger-numbing work she's done in order to graduate summa cum laude from the very prestigious Ellen Pompeo School of Dressing In Figure-Obscuring Floaty Things That Tamp Down Your Breasts And Fasten Around Your Neck And Threaten To Cut Off Your Airway.

But, other than the fact that he's quite possibly the only thing holding Joely upright, Timothy Hutton would like you to know that he's doing very well, thank you, and that he hopes The Great Tom Hulce Controvery of 2007 will come to an end with this very stirring, incontrovertible proof that he's still using his "Just For Men #112: Chestnut Fury."

* Thank you for all the reader concern that we had doubted ourselves, but rest assured (everyone, especially Mr. Hutton), we always knew it was Tom Hulce.

Random Fug

Sometimes things are so crazy that they stop being crazy and swing all the way around to being SPECTACULAR. Like the outfit on (the extremely pretty) Miss Poland, Marzena Cieslik, here pictured at the Grand Prix Ball in Melbourne. I do not know why Miss Poland is kicking it in Australia, but I guess that it probably has something to do with the weather.  Anyway, this dress takes Pageant Fashion and kicks it up to the proverbial 11:

Tulle! Sequins! Illusion netting! Contrasting colored boobs! AWESOME. This is so over the top that I must embrace it. It reminds me of one of my favorite scandals from my past: when I was in high school, we had a Latin teacher who was sort of quirky and interesting, but in a very... sort of scholastic-seeming way. Well, I guess she had some kind of crisis, because she left the school under a cloud of mystery, but not before donating a huge box of clothing to the school's drama department, which I was involved in (I know, big surprise, right?). In the box were several elaborate beaded, ruffled, neon gowns, all of which were cut to the navel. We later learned that Lady Latin had been a nationally ranked ballroom dancer until she had been BANNED FOR LIFE from the National Ballroom Dancing Association -- or whatever the national ballroom dancing association is called -- for behavior not befitting a ballroom dancer. The rumor, which was naturally immediately accepted as truth, was that she had been caught in a particularly shocking and perverse orgy, corrupting her fellow dancers, probably so as to throw them off their dance-game, but my guess from the adult perspective is that maybe none of this actually happened and she just decided she was tired of nude t-strap sandals and high school girls and quit ballroom dancing and teaching, in that order, and ran off to somewhere more interesting to do something else.  But I'm still pretty sure that Miss Poland's night is going to tragically end in her being banned from Miss Universe for doing something inappropriate that this ballroom-dance-inspired gown forced her to do.

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 has an advanced degree in psychotic behavior with a minor in alienating one's family, and is fresh from a spiritual experience in the slammer that has resulted in him pursuing a career as a minister.

---

Dear Aunt Fugly,

I have this great wife -- she's smart, she's exotic, she likes to talk about really obscure books while walking around the house naked, and she enjoys traveling and drinking beer. All my friends think she sounds fantastic but because she lives in a different part of the state for work, they haven't met her. But they're doubling the pressure lately for me to introduce them. There's just one problem: She doesn't exist. I totally made her up and it's been three years now, including a successful stint in couples counseling that I couldn't stop talking about, and I'm worried it might be a little bit too late to confess to my friends that she's fake. Apparently I am kind of a douchebag. What should I do? Should I admit to my friends that I lied? ... No, really, give me an actual good idea.

Sincerely,

Screwed By My Fake Wife

---

Dear Screwed,

I don't see why this is such a big deal. The solution is so obvious: Hire a hooker to impersonate your wife, introduce her to all your friends, and then "divorce" her. Or kill her off. And then you can just murder the hooker if you need to produce a body.

Wait. No, don't do that. If there's anything I learned in the joint -- other than how to be a better father to my daughter -- it is that killing someone will earn you some hard time and while I emerge from prison a better man, fully qualified to resume managing my child star's finances, I can not recommend you doing anything that might land you in the Big House. Also, maybe it will turn out that the hooker you hire will be awesome and hot and freaky and you can really marry her and I will be happy to broker the deal you make when you sell the rights to that major feature film for a low, low percentage of your gross. Say, 65%.

---

Dear Aunt Fugly,

My parents SUCK. I know all young girls say that, but seriously, mine REALLY DO. My mother thinks she's 19 and hangs around a bunch of nightclubs getting messed up -- and she's, like, the world's most annoying person when she's buzzed --  and she won't stop wearing my clothes and trying to sleep with all the guys I'm trying to sleep with, and it doesn't make sense because she TOTALLY has crow's feet and I can see it and I don't know why they would want to NAIL a woman who could HIDE THEM in her WRINKLES. And my father's, like, totally an ex-con and I hate him for ruining my childhood. Except my mother is ruining my adulthood -- should I hate her more? Seriously, HAS NO ONE NOTICED that I am celebrating being out of rehab by hanging out at a bunch of clubs? And that I  was IN rehab before I was the legal drinking age? And that I keep changing my hair color and losing weight? ME! Pay attention to ME! Stop shooting your stupid "I'm out of prison and I want to help children BLAH BLAH BLAH" reality show and stop nailing people who are younger than me and START FIXING MY PROBLEMS.

So my question is, should I stop wearing slouchy boots?

With ANGER IN MY TRAGIC HEART,

Big Red Brown Blonde

---

Dear Blonde,

Your mom sounds hot. Why don't you give me her number, so I can talk to her directly about how to be a better parent to you -- maybe over a couple of ice-cold Buds?

---

Dearest Aunt Fugly,

I am the victim of a sad misunderstanding. Recently, I was having an intimate chat with a dear friend of mine -- we'll call her Foolia --in front of some TV cameras (I know, I know, but it was a favor to another friend of mine; let's call her Doprah). Anyway, in the course of this verbal embrace, which was otherwise laden with warm personal truths, I made a joke about getting plastic surgery done on my eyes. See, Aunt Fugly, my wit is dry. It's arid as the desert but thrice as jolly. And unfortunately, now everyone thinks I was serious. Nobody can stop teasing me about my eye job. My friend Bark Smallberg called me up and was all, "Yo, I hear you got jobbed," and then started cackling. Even my bosses, two of the fairest souls you ever see across a crowded room and long to cuddle their worry-lines away, can't resist poking fun at me (although they can't resist poking at me in general; I'm a ticklish and highly touchable piece of man flesh). What should I do? I crave a hug of reassurance. If you could even donate one arm of your time to a half-squeeze, I would be forever in your debt.

Yours,

G. Whiz

---

Dear Whiz,

While I would love to hug it out with you, I am trying to teach my daughter how to be a better person and part of that includes not throwing her limbs around men she hardly knows. Instead, I suggest you consult my forthcoming self-help book, Turning It All Around, which will help you learn how better to own up to your mistakes, whether your mistake is: getting an eye job, joking about something as serious as an eye job, not getting an eye job when you need one, securities fraud, being a terrible parent to impressionable teens, inspiring a really crappy pop song, aggravated unlicensed driving and attempted assault, or Solaris. I wish you luck, my good man, and suggest you practice patience. Surely someone will do something scandalous eventually, like run over a paparazzo with her car, and that will draw the attention away from your plastic surgery imbroglio.

The Talented Mr. Fugly

"Oh, YOU!"

"It's just a faux hawk, silly! Since I'm somehow not aging as well as everyone would have predicted five years ago, I decided to throw caution to the wind and make Maddox Jolie-Pitt my style icon. He's the youngest, hippest person I could think of!  With any luck, Brad and Angie will scoop me up and raise me, too. They seem so nice, and I clearly need some discipline."

Fugs & Becks

[Source.]

"I don't know what that bloody smirk on David's face is for. I'm going to rip off his bollocks and he knows it. I can't believe he told me my hair looks like I'm wearing a bloody old man's combover. It's TRENDY, you slag-shagging bastard! I don't CARE if the last person with hair like this was a member of Duran Duran. America is going to go PIG WILD for me and THEN who'll be smirking at the person down the row? And THEN who'll have people lining up to have a fling with me, eh, David? THEN who'll be so jealous he's having rage blackouts? ... Oh, don't be cross, David, I'm just taking the piss. I love you and I miss the mad passionate love we make when we're together, because we're in mad and passionate love. In fact, maybe that's what I'll call my show. Me & My Golden Balls: Mad, Passionate Love. Right, David? Right? We're okay, right? ... Dammit. Fine. I'll book myself in for some extentions tomorrow. Want to have another baby? Think about it, okay? Because we're in love. Love!"

I Wanna Be Fug

Singer Willa Ford had, oh, about one hit: the sensitive 2001 paean to romantic idealism "I Wanna Be Bad." She also, I hear, did fairly well on Dancing With the Stars, though her very appearance on that show proves that sometimes they're not so much "stars" as, you know,"people who used to date Nick Carter and did some other stuff you might have heard about." (No offense to the current cast, of course, as I have am quite seriously thrilled to see Steve Sanders on my television again. You guys know how we feel about Steve Sanders.) But I wonder if the best way for her to reappear on the media scene once again is....well, wearing this:

I am a big fan of her nude shoes -- her legs look nice and long. EXCEPT THEY'RE COMING OUT OF A SHORTY JUMPSUIT. I know, I know: these are supposed to be in for summer, but WHO can REALLY pull off a shorty jumpsuit? A toddler. That's all. Frankly, they're not particularly flattering - this one gives Willa what Heather calls "a polterwang," in which it starts to look like...well, you know. I just wonder what it looks like from behind. I feel like a shorty jumpsuit is nothing but a recipe for an ass that is not flattered to its best advantage. Which, as human beings, is something we should all band together to fight against. We all need to look after our own asses, you know?

Top Fug

So, I don't know if any of y'all are watching Top Design. It's one of those shows where every week I think to myself, "I don't know if I'm going to keep watching Top Design," but it shows up on my TiVo and I do watch it and there's at least one small moment that delights me and I can't cut the cord. Like a few weeks ago, Jonathan Adler squealed that he loved paint swatches and I was back in for another week. I ALSO love a swatch! The other good thing about it is that the judging is really sort of bitchy, which I appreciate. We want judges talking shit about cast members behind their backs! It's the whole point of competitive reality programming, shit-talking is. The other thing that is awesome, and by awesome, I mean crazy, are the outfits of one of the judges:  designer Kelly Wearstler. Now, this woman has designed some great interiors in her time and there was a spread on her in Vogue about two or three years ago in which she was photographed out by her pool with her kids and she was wearing this amazing Eres swimsuit and I read the article and I was like, "this woman is so chic. I love her."  So I know she has taste. And yet she keeps showing up in things like this:

[Photo via Bravo.TV]

Do I need to tell you which of these four people I am referring to? We've got a strapless gown last seen on one of my Barbie dolls, probably before I shaved her head (my Barbies led dramatic lives overly influenced by the daytime television I shouldn't have been sneaking. One of them threw a rival for Ken's affections down the elevator shaft of the Barbie Townhouse, for example, and I also remember telling my mother that the Barbies' smiling faces were inappropriate for the Barbie funeral I had to have after two of them jumped off the side of my bed in what seemed like a suicide pact, but which was actually just them faking their own deaths. My mom kindly gave me some black lace fabric scraps to make them veils for the funeral, and then cut off my access to All My Children), over jeans and a tee shirt. Seriously, just don't do that. Last week, she had all this crazy crimped hair, like, CRAZY, like CRAZY crimped, and prior to that, there was an incident with leg warmers. It is really kind of awesome, but in a way that is at best moderately deranged, and I spend a lot of time looking at her the way that fellow judge Margaret Russell is in this photo. The look says, "Girl, what are you doing?"  Because, seriously, girl, what are you doing?

...Other than keeping me tuning in to see your crazy outfits. Is this all some kind of elaborate plot to hang onto viewers? Damn it! I hate it when I am successfully manipulated by the media!

Fugga Knightley

[Source.]

It's been chilly in London lately, according to the weather reports. Does Keira Knightley really have enough body fat to trot around in tights under baggy shorts and not be freezing? And by asking, I'm being polite. Which is unusual for me. Because no mistake, I can see her legs. I could pick my teeth with them. I could stick one of them in a baking cake to decide if it's done. I could use them to jimmy open a car door. There's a box in my kitchen that contains a frying pan wrapped in newspaper, and it is better insulated.

In her honor, I am going to go make and eat a delicious sandwich, full of carbs and other flesh-wooing goodness. I wish she would do the same.

Only In My Fugs

"I feel like wearing something literary-inspired tonight," Debbie Gibson said, as she rifled through her closet. "Shall I wear my Anna Karenina train-tracks jumpsuit? No -- too casual. What about my Great Gatsby outfit, with the seven Oxford shirts all worn on top of each other? That will be too hot. I know! My Lord of the Flies Salute to the Conch Shell!

Although last time I wore this, my driver called me 'Barnacle Boobs.' I didn't like that very much.  But what the hell! I feel a little fish-y today!"

Mr. Fugs

DANE: Hi, guys! Hi! It's me! Hi!

KEVIN: Sigh. Looks like you owe me $10, Demi.

DEMI: Wait, I thought you owed ME -- wasn't I betting you that he'd show up looking kind of greasy and smarmy, like normal?

KEVIN: I thought that's what I bet you.

DANE: But it's not normal me! Today I'm classy! See? I have artificial hair grease and a striped suit and I had my manager sew a stick in the back of it so I'd have good posture.

DEMI: Huh. Somehow it's still smarmy and oily. You still look a bit like you need a good smack upside the head, preferably with a copy of the Employee of the Month DVD. Except that no one would be caught dead holding one.

KEVIN: Oh, man, I had to watch that on an airplane and I wanted to strangle you.

DANE: Dude, what? I'm ALL CHARISMA. I'm a RAKE! I'm a charming rapscallion!

KEVIN: You're no Ashton. That guy's a star. Did you see The Guardian? Oscar-quality, man. He was robbed.

DEMI: You don't need to kiss his ass, Kevin.

KEVIN: Well, he's going to be mad at me when I can no longer stop myself from staring at your thigh, which I am pretty sure I can see almost all of, because your skirt's kinda sheer. So I have to ingratiate myself.

DEMI: Yeah. I do look kind of hot, I have to say.

DANE: Wait, pay attention to me! I got all dressed up and adult for this! I'm a SERIOUS ACTOR now. In a SUIT. Does this mean nothing to you?

KEVIN: Chill out, kid. Talk to me when you're my age and you can pull off a suit jacket, jeans, boots, a major man-tan, bleached hair, and a soul patch.

DEMI: Let's not get too confident, Kevin. You're not pulling off the soul patch.

DANE: It looks like a rash, mofo! It reminds me of when I worked at BURGER KING, the BK Lounge, bitches, and I...

KEVIN: Oh, cram it, kid, your douchebag is showing. No one cares any more.

Well Played, Sandra Bullock

I'm always very happy to see Sandra Bullock looking good. Ever since she married burly, tattooed Jesse James, I've been rooting for those two crazy kids to make it because she seems quite charming and fun and he's probably a complete closet softie and they just look very happy. I once saw them at an L.A. Kings game -- sitting next to Kid Rock and some buxom blonde who looked like his younger, and more plastic, replacement for Pamela Anderson -- and she and Jesse seemed so sweet together. Plus, Sandra was really attentive to the two kids in the front who got beaned in the noggins by a stray puck. They ended up fine, perhaps in part because Kid Rock brought them a red ice bag three times the size of their heads, and in ten years will probably be horrified that a hot older lady like Sandra Bullock saw them sobbing. Maybe they'll sell their stories as a TV movie. Maybe this puck clocking them in the heads will send them on two very dramatic, divergent paths, and only Sandra Bullock can bring them back from their respective brinks of self-destruction. Maybe she'll play herself.

And then they'll have a fantastic premiere bash where the real-life kids will tearfully thank her for changing their lives and Kid Rock will bring them a box of Kleenex that's ten times larger than their hands can hold, and Sandra will show up on the red carpet looking as fantastic as she does here:

She looks fab here at the Premonition premiere. It's a gorgeous color on her, the makeup works, and I even like the sexy-sloppy updo. In fact, there's really nothing amusing to say about it, so I have to lean on the totally hacky, terrible quip.

Are you ready? Here goes: "Evidently, Sandra Bullock had a premonition that we would love this dress."

Sigh. Now I have to go wash that off.

Fuggifer Lopez

[Source]

To mi amor, Marc:

Gracias, my little neck-sucking husband, for everything you do. I love the way you start to cry when you're in direct sunlight and have to run away, because it shows me how deeply you feel things. I cherish how you told me the reason you never show up in any of the mirrors in our house is because you decided my reflection is too pure to share space with anyone else's, so you made special mirrors that will only show me. It gets me trembly with affection when you make me garlic chicken even though you're allergic to it and have to go lie down for 14 hours afterward with nothing but a raw piece of prime rib for company.

But, sweet tiny Marc, it touches me the most when you make me things with your own two hands. At first it was confusing when I walked into the basement and saw you shredding a moldy old rug with your teeth and screaming, "Who stole my stash of blood," but when you explained that I'd misheard and that you were actually saying, "Yippee, my wife will be so happy that I have made her this shawl for her next concert! Hooray! And if she doesn't wear it, my heart will turn to mud," it all made sense to me. You are so thoughtful, amor. You always care. And so even though this smells a little bit like something died in it a year ago, I am wearing it because that perfume of decay will always remind me of you. Te adoro!"

Factory Fug

You know, usually I'd be all, "I like that dress better when Carrie Bradshaw wore it on the side of a bus," and "Leggings? THEY'RE SO OVER" about this:

But honestly, I totally don't even care anymore.  Wear whatever you want, Sienna:  Wear leggings with formal shorts and Uggs, covered in a dress over jeans with your boob hanging out. I'm bored of you now.

I Want to be A Fugger

I wonder what Kathy Hilton and Bebe Neuwirth have to talk about:

Bebe appeared in a show set in a bar; Kathy's daughter lives in a bar. Bebe was in Chicago; Kathy has visited Chicago (Paris claims to like the shopping there!). Bebe is wearing a person; Kathy's children would wear a person out. Bebe attended Julliard and has won countless awards; Kathy....I have no corollary for that one. Stays in Hilton hotels free of charge? I'm sure raiding the honor bar without guilt over paying $16.99 for a bag of cashews is its own reward.

Rock me, Amafuggis

I will always have fond memories of Tom Hulce from the time he played the ne'er-do-well son in Parenthood, and of course from his seminal performance as Mozart in Amadeus -- a movie that brought us many wonderful things, but none so glorious as the Falco tune that encouraged him to rock us. I also enjoyed him in Stranger Than Fiction, and no one among us will soon forget that wrenching work in Shelley Duvall Presents: American Tall Tales and Legends: John Henry: The String of Colons That Would Not Stop: Nope, Not Yet: Okay, Now.

But his most surprising work lately has been his wacky achievements in cranial hair.

.

Not that there's anything wrong with getting older, or growing a beard. But it's hard not to look at this picture and think, "Wait, THAT is Tom Hulce? What happened? When did he become some kind of nutty professor being dragged to the premiere of a student film?" It doesn't appear to be for a movie, as we've been able to dredge up pictures indicating that he's been moving in this direction for a while now, and Jessica did just read something where he was complaining about his vast quantities of ear hair, so evidently Tom Hulce is having a bit of trouble finding an adept-enough personal grooming lackey. He could work it to his advantage, though, and hijack the Santa Clause franchise from Tim Allen. The fourth could be The Santa Clause: Dangling Participles, in which Santa teaches English at a small New Hampshire prep school and imparts lessons about love, lust, and language to a bunch of randy young boys while he makes them part of his secret toymaking society. Surely we can rustle up Haley Joel Osment for the Ethan Hawke -- er, "sensitive loner" role.

So come on, Tom Hulce. Don't fight the hair, if that's a losing battle. Instead, let's get it working for you and get you to working.

Fug's Next Top Model

An Imagined Tableau, Starring Grey's Anatomy Star Isaiah Washington, Fresh from Rageaholic Rehab, and Danielle "Dani" Evans, Past Winner of America's Next Top Model:

ISAIAH: I confess, I'm a bit nervous. I don't have a great track record at awards shows.

DANI/IELLE: You don't win?

ISAIAH: Well, that too. Mostly, I just have the habit of saying the wrong thing.

DANI/IELLE: I have the habit of WEARING the wrong thing. I mean, look at this. I look like a cocktail waitress at a futuristic-themed Vegas casino in 1971.

ISAIAH: You have the legs for it.

DANI/IELLE: Don't add sexual harassment to your list of problems, dude. Let's be honest: I look like I'm wearing the new version of The Infinite Dress, The Infinite Shorts.

ISAIAH:...you have a point. Also, I imagine Tyra would want to see more neck, and also would advise you to create some wind in your hair right about now.

DANI/IELLE: ...

ISAIAH: What? They show a lot of Top Model in Rage Rehab. It's soothing, and I believe it's also teaching me a lot about gay culture so I can better understand my homosexual coworkers and not call them names. I've also gained some important knowledge about not having dead eyes.

DANI/IELLE: Um....You know what? Let's just present this award.

Beloved Friends,

It is with throbbing arms that I thank you for all your support of Go Fug Yourself, which -- thanks to snuggly little nuggets like yourselves -- has won 2007 Bloggies for Best Entertainment Weblog and Most Humorous Weblog. Heather and Jessica weren't actually at SXSW in Austin for the announcement, but they decided to live today as if they were, mainlining margaritas from about 8 a.m. onward and then trying to hold a panel discussion called, "Why Steve Madden Shoes Don't Seem To Fit As Well Anymore, And Also, Yay Blogging." Then I clasped their hands, got down on one knee, and whispered the sweet words they'd longed to hear: "You should really eat some guacamole." And it was while they were delicately, sweetly shoveling that divine green goo into their mouths that we found out our happy news. I am so grateful for your votes, which brought such joy to GFY HQ that I dare say a wee tear squeaked out of my ducts before I dispensed hugs all around. The mailman acted surprised, but he went with it, bless his cuddly heart.

With a caring fist-pump to the sky and a hug in my soul,

Your George

P.S. The link is working now. I was just too overcome to focus properly before -- Heather and Jessica had just given me a raise by upping my daily back-rub quota to two! I've been begging them to let me provide more for them, so the news made me positively giddy.

Fug Break

An Open Letter to Dominic Purcell:

Dear Dominic,

You are a handsome, chiseled man and, by all accounts, a tall drink of water (IMDb puts you at over six feet).  For that, you should be sending the genetic lottery a thank you note and maybe some flowers -- personally, I like peonies, but I obviously don't work for the genetic lottery, or I would have given myself longer legs. Roses are always a safe bet. Or cookies! The people in charge of the genetic lottery can eat as many cookies as they like, seeing as they never get fat.  At any rate, you definitely shouldn't be taking what the good Lord gave you and and doing this to it:

 

Look how short your legs look, dude! They're not short! There's absolutely no reason for you to look so short and schlumpy when you've been given the material to look...you know, the total opposite of that. Your shoes aren't even tied properly. You're a grown-ass man with four children -- all of whom, I've learned, thanks again to IMDb, have totally lovely normal names, so way to go with that -- and you shouldn't be slouching around with baggy pants and untied (though cool-looking) kicks.  Even K-Fed's not doing that anymore, dude. Get with the program!

Also, I don't watch Prison Break, but I'm sure you're very good in it.

Love,

Jessica

Fugly Fughan

It's widely publicized that Todd Haynes is making a movie about Bob Dylan that features several celebrities playing the part of the gruff, grunty, nasal "Like A Rolling Stone" singer -- including the highly female actress Cate Blanchett.

We can only assume, then, that a jealous Lindsay Lohan is trying to bask in the glow of Blanchett's risky genius by garnering attention for a project she thinks will bring her similar acclaim.

[Source.]

It will be a biopic of Poison's Bret Michaels, starring none other than LiLo as the man who made 7th grade girls everywhere swoon over the romantic joys of "Every Rose Has Its Thorn," because it was a slow song and sounded so full of worshipful yearning that none of us bothered to listen to the actual words.

Now, the brilliance of her plan is: If, in light of his upcoming reality show, Bret Michaels is deemed too much of a sellout to be immortalized in an edgy movie of his life, she can easily segue it into The Sebastian Bach Story: 18 And Gilmore Girls To Go. Or perhaps a little something about the Nelson twins -- after all, she's had experience playing dual roles in The Parent Trap. Just get Dennis Quaid on board as the stern but lovable manager who had their best interests at heart all along and was heartbroken when they cut off their hair, and you've got some serious marquee value.

The Scrolldown: FugliDee Fuglish

CariDee, the most recent Ameica's Next Top Model winner, has to be very excited that she's actually getting to go out in public looking pretty. And she does look pretty in this semi-futuristic white minidress; it's hard to mess up that face and that figure.

Alas...

She appears to have stolen shoes off the feet of her Grandma Edna's chief bingo rival, rendering poor old Hazel underconfident and meek -- and reluctant to bother shuffling down to the cafeteria -- without the power of her lucky sandals. We hope CariDee is getting a cut of the bingo winnings in exchange for being seen in public wearing these plastic nightmares; after all, being an ANTM champion, she could probably use the cash.

Fugli Halliwell

There are so many things to love about Geri Halliwell. There's her red hair; her saucy Union Jack dress from the heady, loony Ginger Spice days; her grabbing Prince Chuck's bum; her autobiography that unflinchingly includes pictures from her "glamour modeling" (read: topless) days; the fact that I have read her autobiography, which includes dates, and I still think she's older than she claims to be and has somehow paid off everyone in the book not to squeal to the press; her alleged invention of the concept of the Spice Girls; her claims that she was innocent and misunderstood in the whole "Geri up and left the band" fiasco despite the fact that, essentially, Geri totally up and left the band; her scrappy battle with eating disorders, having finally come out the other side more accepting of her famous and sexy curves; and of course, the highly entertaining fact that she named her daughter Bluebell Halliwell, which sounds more like the name of a paint company than a child.

But, like with all coins, this one has a flip side. There is something to dislike about Geri Halliwell. And that thing, today, is her trousers.

[Source]

I'm thrilled she's gone back to her her red roots -- the blond thing just wasn't working for me (same goes for you, Lohan, you zombie loon) -- but I am extremely cross with Geri for perpetuating this burgeoning trend of high-waisted pants. Now, I'm totally fine that people aren't wearing their jeans so low that you can assess accurately the quality of a girl's bikini waxer, but these are so high they're practically overalls. Didn't we gravitate to lower rises in the first place because it was universally accepted that high-rise pants are HORRIBLE? Because high-rise pants give a belly where there is none, and gruesomely cradle one where th