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July 27, 2007

Fugs of Queens

Dear Leah Remini:

Perhaps you should consider getting a new make-up artist. Unless you want people's reactions to your face to be, "WHOA. Did she get some work done? Oh....I think it's just her make-up."

Unless, of course, you DID get some work done, and this is a very sly ploy to distract us by using 12 tons of eye-makeup. Either way, I can barely look at this photo, so badly do I want to run up to you and fix those clumps of stray brow hairs over your left eye.

Posted by Jessica at 10:09 AM | Permalink

The Fug Donnellys

I know Olivia Wilde is married to a prince (Wikipedia tells me that he's "an Italian documentary filmmaker, photographer and flamenco guitar player of  aristocratic origin," which sounds very dramatic and romantic and like one of those relationships where you get divorced and then remarried five or six times, and have multiple arguments that include the phrase, "you love your guitar more than you love me!" accompanied by the smashing of plates and followed by passionate love-making).  Maybe that's why she's paired her jeans with what looks like one of Guinevere's rejected costumes from a community theatre production of Camelot:

I wonder if the prince is wandering around in a suit of armor.  That would make it harder to play the guitar.

Posted by Jessica at 08:37 AM | Permalink

July 26, 2007

The Fug Identity

JULIA STILES: I'm so miserable.

MATT DAMON: I'm just looking at my wife over there.

JULIA: All these undergarments -- count them, Matt! I'm wearing like TWELVE OF THEM.

MATT: I can't...I don't think I should do that.

JULIA: And you can STILL see my underwear.

MATT: And...other stuff. Maybe. I'm not looking.

JULIA: What are you talking about?

MATT: I mean, maybe it's just a really big freckle. On your boob. Not that I looked. At your boob. Let's just get this over with, okay?

JULIA: YOU CAN NOT SEE MY NIPPLE.

MATT: Maybe. I'm not looking. But the whole thing, it's pretty sheer. I'm just saying. It might be happening. I don't want to stare at your boob to make sure.

JULIA: I can not BELIEVE this is happening.

MATT: It is pretty awkward. I hear nude, lined undergarments can help.

JULIA: Where did you hear that?

MATT: I read things, okay? Sometimes I like to read InStyle while they're doing my make-up. If Ben's in there, I can make fun of him for weeks.

JULIA: And now you're making fun of ME? THAT'S JUST GREAT.

MATT: I'm not making fun of you! I'm trying to help.

JULIA: That's it. I'm retiring. Effective immediately.

MATT: Come on, now. This can't be nearly as embarrassing as Down to You was.

JULIA: You have a point.

Posted by Jessica at 12:30 PM | Permalink

Do You Think I'm Fugly?

This is one of those looks that I'm going to try desperately to forget, and just when I've convinced myself that I've succeeded, it will come wailing into my brain like the visual equivalent of a fire engine, interrupting my transcendental meditation or leg waxing or whatever I'm serenely doing at the time:

Kim Stewart, you fool. I know you're dating Tommy Lee, but that doesn't mean you ought to wear pants last seen on Vince Neil circa 1986. Or a twee, wee leather bolero. It's like you can't QUITE commit to a full-on leather jacket, but you still want to look a teensy bit rock and roll.  Unfortunately, the overall effect is that you stole this from an extremely cool toddler, and it's a miracle that you've managed to shove your arms through the sleeves without ripping them. Which is less rock and roll and more totally deranged.

Posted by Jessica at 11:33 AM | Permalink

Pushing Fuglies

SWOOSIE KURTZ:  I can't believe she went ahead and wore that dress after I told her I was going to wear THIS one. THAT BITCH.

ELLEN GREENE: THAT BITCH. I can't believe she wore that dress when she KNEW I was going to wear THIS one. We  look ...COORDINATED.

SWOOSIE: I hate working SO MUCH.

ELLEN: I played Slyar's mother on Heroes and battled a blood-thirsty, psychotic plant in Little Shop of Horrors. I can take her, right?

SWOOSIE: She better sleep with one eye open, is all I'm saying.

ELLEN: This is going to be a fun set, I can tell.

Posted by Jessica at 09:02 AM | Permalink

July 25, 2007

Fugged!

I just wrote, "Heather Matarazzo is great in Big Love," and then I realized that I was thinking of Tina Majorino. They don't even look alike, really -- I must have just been seduced by the similar rhythm of their names. I guess this is what they meant when they said the rhythm is gonna get you. I thought that was a more sinister reference, actually, so I'll take it.

Anyway, Heather Matarazzo:

I actually think all the separate parts of this are good/cute/reasonable/orange, it's just that, as a whole, she looks like she woke up after a work-night one night stand and couldn't bear to put on the pants she'd worn the day before (because they're covered in beer/lost in her standee's apartment/too obviously the pants she'd worn the day before, totally walk-of-shame style) and so she dug up the cut-off jean skirt she left in the car after wearing it to the beach over the weekend and threw it on and just airily pretended like she totally meant to wear her Ladies Who Lunch Shoes and Bag with her I Wear This to the Farmer's Market on Saturday ratty jean skirt.

Posted by Jessica at 01:29 PM | Permalink

My Fug

Remember cute little Anna Chlumsky, from the Macaulay Culkin super-weeper, My Girl? I didn't either, until I found out that she's back:

Those shoes are making ME go into anaphylactic shock. I mean, I'm sure they're perfect if you're wearing them with trousers and dashing for the subway, or doing them with jeans and going into casual Friday at your really-not-that-casual job, or pairing them with a pencil skirt and running from a serial killer, but I can't figure out why anyone would choose to wear dowdy-ish black pumps with a whimsical white summer dress-thing when it's like ninety thousand humid degrees outside. Not to mention the fact that one of them appears to have a hole over the toe. I mean, I'm as big a fan of the peep-toe as anyone, but -- like tattoos or your pap smear -- that's so not something you ought to DIY.

Posted by Jessica at 12:08 PM | Permalink

I Know Who Fugged Me

There are many signs that you're having a bad week;  you end up shaving your head in a rage, for example, or your hosting service goes down for a couple of hours, along with LiveJournal, thus preventing you from discussing the finer details of Harry Potter with people, or you get word that Madame Tussauds  has undressed your wax figure in order to dress you like a prisoner of the long arm of the law -- before you've even been arraigned!

God, Madame Tussauds, ever heard of innocent before proven guilty? It's not like getting caught for a DUI and possession of cocaine, like, a week after getting out of rehab that was mandated by the last time you got caught driving drunk with cocaine in the car, while wearing an alcohol-monitoring ankle bracelet that you made a great big loud self-congratulatory deal about and chasing a woman in car is THAT BIG A DEAL, right? I mean, COME ON. And adding insult to injury, it's not even a NEW set of jailbird rags -- they're totally Paris Hilton's cast-offs.

Much as I assume Lindsay's tragic court-mandated sobfest will be. Lindsay, Lindsay, Lindsay. That you're reinacting Paris's sloppy legal shenanigans seconds is maybe the most pathetic thing about this entire pathetic mess.

At least Madame T's didn't make you wear sneakers.

Posted by Jessica at 10:50 AM in Lindsay Lohan | Permalink

July 24, 2007

You Know You Fug Me

Of all the new shows slated for fall, I think I might most be excited about Gossip Girl. The books are a delightful guilty pleasure - like an even soapier Sweet Valley High, but with way more sex and drugs and swearing and name-dropping and monkeys-- and everyone knows that Josh Schwartz can pull off at least one awesome season of a soapy teen drama, before devolving into meta-statements via comic books and cage-fighting (okay, the cage-fighting was kind of awesome).

The stars of the show look JUST as stoked as I am, no?

Hmmm. Maybe Taylor Momsen just looks cranky because her stylist decided to make her look as beige and monochromatic as possible, or maybe the panel has somehow gotten around to talking about how -- while she's obviously a really cute girl -- she's a very strange casting choice for the role of Jenny Humphrey, whose very (she feels overly) ample breasts, curly brown hair and intense adolescent distress at not being petite and blonde are mentioned about ninety times per book.  Momsen is adorable in her own right, obviously, but it's sort of like casting Britney Spears as Mother Theresa.

On the other hand, Blake Lively here seems like an excellent choice for blonde goddess, Serena, while the actress whose name I always forget (....Leighton Meester! Thank you, IMDb) looks just smug enough for the role of Blair, and seems as charmingly shifty and plotty as Blair is, seeing as she's somehow gotten her counterpart here to attach a miniaturized cream window treatment to her bosom:

I likewise appreciate that the actors playing the adults in the series are out of focus and in the background, as they should be in a teen drama. Remember how boring it was every time 90210 tried to get us to care if Cindy Walsh had an affair? Can't we learn from that?

I also can't wait until the series premieres, and I hate everyone I thought I'd love and have to eat all my words and end up starting TaylorMomsenIsPerfectAsJenny.com 

Posted by Jessica at 01:44 PM | Permalink

Fugged and Confused

Sure, sure, Parker Posey is very cool, what with all the independent movies and the moxie and all that. Which is exactly why it's so alarming to see her wearing a housedress that I am pretty sure my grandma used to putter around the house in, circa 1980:

While flats, leggings (the support hose of the younger generation) and a housedress are perfect for spying on your neighbors through the shutters in your dining room;  feeding the neighborhood strays; calling your granddaughter to dramatically announce that you're pretty sure you're not going to live through the week, and then sitting down with a pastrami sandwich to watch Young and the Restless;  arguing with your sister for twenty invigorating minutes, as you did every week since you were both born; or reading the National Enquirer while sitting in front of your window air-conditioner and eating ice cream, it is NOT so perfect for the red carpet.

Or the plywood box, I guess, in this case. Way to splash out for your summer party, FOX. I hope, at least, that it was open bar.

Posted by Jessica at 12:03 PM | Permalink

 

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