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

« Letter of Fug: Part Wig | Main | Fug Love »

April 06, 2007

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


E-mail #1

Subject line: is this website for real

I cant believe you guys have nothing better to with your time than put every one down. All the celebreties are either to thin or to fat, to ugly, dressed wrong according to you, ( the fashion experts,) or just not good enough. It would be interesting to see what you all look like. You just add to the insane vanity of this society. If we all looked the same then mabey we would be acceptable. Good thing we dont or you have have nothing to bitch about. Life is to short. Get a life. We are all just going to end up 6 ft under anyways so what the hell does it matter so much what we look like. Did you know that the way we look does not determine our character in full. Beauty is only skin deep. If you look good, your a bitch and if you dont look good your a loser. Who wins. No one wins. Under the skin we all look the same.

Dear Friend,

You cut me to the core, and I mean that literally. Except without any cutting, because we've all learned -- thanks to Lifetime Television For Interns -- what happens when we abuse ourselves thusly. But, you have caused me to peer within, for underneath this manly, complex skin and warm eyes lies a man as red and squishy as any humble specimen. I am you. You are me. If you cut me, do I not bleed? If you crack my chest, do I not ooze the juice of sexy life? If you root around therein, do I not start flatlining? It seems we are as one, both brimming with the sacred Kool-Aid. I will take that with me into the jacuzzi tub on this eve and ponder our crimson connection, wishing I could wrap a vein around you and massage your vessels with the kind of passion only a hot-blooded George could provide.

Squeezes,

Blood Type G


E-mail #2

Subject line: bitchiness

Janet is the queen, can I get her diet?

Dear Friend,

Often I have gazed upon her abs and wondered whether six-packs grow on trees. For a while I tried, hoping that cross-breeding a lemon tree with barley plants would yield some Corona. Then I realized that the only way to achieve that kind of divinely cuddly muscle definition was lifting some heavy weights. If you have a one hanging around, I highly recommend a Pig Press; it used to be our most special time together. Oh, how he would giggle and snort! I miss him. I... sniff ... collect yourself, G-Spot, collect yourself...

Ahem. I'm okay. Now that he's gone I just do a full lap around my villa every few days for maximum cardio, although if you want the truth, the best way to burn calories and bulk up your biceps is to play TV Tag with a Fug Girl or two during the Passions commercial breaks, or until her martini glass runs dry -- whichever happens first.

Your Lemon Drop,

G


 

E-mail #3

Subject line: (no subject)

im looking for pics of rosanna arquette in a swimsuit

Dear Friend,

Get in line! Why, her work in Desperately Seeking Susan knocked me to the floor. So sultry! We had a long conversation about that the other day in GFY HQ, as a matter of fact, in which we agreed that her work as a French villainess in The Whole Nine Yards was good but not nearly as befitting her talents as that signature, seminal role as a Madonna-obsessed amnesiac with no facial expressions (what a brave creative interpretation!). We then tried to outline a screenplay we could pitch her for a sequel entitled Desperately Seeking Salt & Vinegar, about two women and their quest for a healing back of Kettle Chips. Hey, they say to write what you know! And I'm an Oscar winner, so I have important things to say on that subject.

What were we talking about? Swimming? Personally, although the mad thrashing of the butterfly will always entice me, I'm a breaststroke man myself. And I give demonstrations that are not for the faint of heart. Why, we'll be streaking across the pool in no time!

In Speedos We Trust,

G


 

E-mail #4

Subject line: why are you necessary?

apart from you being the argument against freedom and all, why are you necessary? What's that? People like to hear and see gossip, rumor, and innuendo? They're the same vapid-minded spastics who like you stake out positions of ersatz superiority. Why don't you post your pictures on the net and let me comment on them? I'll bet most if not all of you look like something that crawled out of a lemur's asshole!

Dear Friend (?),
If only you would take a minute to get to know me -- really know me. If you did, you would find that I would only ever put myself on a pedestal if it meant I could clutch a person of great height to my soothing man-bosom. In a free world, we need people like me with open arms and hearts for rent. We need huggers, not fighters.

Plus, my picture is on the Internet. Here. And in magazines, and in homes, in frames; in your hearts and dreams and hope chests. I don't mean to toot my own Georgiehorn, but it cannot be denied that I am as dapper as a fluffy puppy in a blanket (timeless, warm, huggable, dignified yet youthfully excitable). So if I came out of a lemur's anal cavity, sir, well, I would certainly like the Guinness Book of World Records to see that lemur. You know, it's really bringing a tear of grief to my coffee eyes to hear you speak in such a way, because all I've ever done for you is throw wide my wingspan and offer you sanctuary there. For while I would never close my embrace to you, angry Friend, you have closed your heart to me. Woe! Curse my innocent heart! The only remedy for such profound sorrow is to sit on a Fug Girl's knee and lay bare my soul. So off I scamper. Good day sir! I SAID GOOD DAY!

Fug is my Kleenex,

G

Posted by Heather at 08:41 AM in Intern George | Permalink

 

eXTReMe Tracker