Fug Poets Society

Here at GFY HQ, we're constantly nagging Intern George to get off his firm, well-sculpted duff and do stuff for us: unload the crates of Lean Pockets and Diet Coke out on the dock, rub our feet, or work on the Go Fug Yourself Time TravelR 3000. Once that little number is up and running, we've got a whole list of things to take care of. I'm going to zip back to 1998 and tell myself that Dawson's Creek's Katie Holmes is going to marry Tom Cruise, if only to see the look on my face. Then I'm going further back, to 1996, to tell myself to STOP CUTTING MY OWN HAIR YOU DON'T LIVE ON A COMMUNE, GOD, and also not to go out with that guy with the soul patch in my Poli Sci class.  Then I'm going way, way back, to 1992, to tell myself that, one day, I will be mere feet from Luke Perry at the Chinese theatre, and if I can JUST HOLD ON, it'll be worth it. And finally, I'll stop off in 1997 to inform myself that this Dreamy Ethan Hawke:

Is going to turn into this guy:

YOU can cut your own hair, if you want to, Ethan. Just lose the mullet, for the love of little green apples. You're KILLING my adolescent fantasies. Just because you're a "writer" now, or whatever, does not allow you to disregard the Holy Covenant of Hotness, which says that if you are hot, you owe it to society -- nay, THE WORLD -- to UPHOLD YOUR HOTNESS so as to bring succor to the bummed out of the world.