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January 25, 2008

Fugice Combs

Sometimes I think that if I were at Sundance -- or if I could afford to be more fabulous at February's frigid Fashion Week in New York -- I would go all the way down the road to Campville and get togged up in exactly what Janice Combs is wearing.

Then I tear myself away from the furry splendor of her turban and jacket, and realize Diddy's mother is wearing A JUMPSUIT made of COTTON SPANDEX -- like the unholy spawn of leggings and unitards  -- and that I have become suddenly delirious.

Posted by Heather at 10:36 AM | Permalink

The Fug Fuggerer

Friday is FINALLY here. We are thrilled; it’s been a long week for us – we’re currently traveling for work and blogging by candlelight in the wee hours, so thanks for putting up with our often hugely slap-happy ramblings, which for us feel scrawled on the back of our hands with a sinister blood quill a la Dolores Umbridge's torture method in the fifth Harry Potter book. Anyway, the net effect is that, in addition to getting behind on other things -- like sleeping, and eating vegetables -- I am lagging on a post I’d been meaning to do all week about Ghost Whisperer.

I know, you guys are probably sort of sick of hearing us yap about cheesy television shows you likely ignore but we love for inexplicable -- well, totally explicable, but maybe only to us -- reasons. But hear me out: I was way behind on my episodes, so I didn’t realize that back in November, their rogue costumer struck again.

[Photo: My TV set and a digital camera]

Ahoy, Jay Mohr! First of all, what are you even doing on Ghost Whisperer? Don't you usually play a fast-talking jackhole, as opposed to the fast-talking family-friendly academic you're playing here? Granted, your snarky comments are becoming the show's only bright spot, but it’s still really jarring to see you doing gentle weekend television and spewing stuff about the occult and the spirit world and Chinese takeaway instead of cussing out some poor schmoe. Second, please do tell us how you managed to avert your eyes from Jennifer Love Hewitt’s insane shirt. It looks like her elbows are wearing a wedding dress. They are the brides of Fuggenstein. And third, are Jennifer Love Hewitt’s arms actually that freakishly short, or is it just an optical illusion? It reminds me of the Seinfeld Puffy Shirt. If she's going on the Today show tomorrow to hawk it for charity, I will feel bad. But not as bad as if I'd been forced to wear it. I'm beginning to understand why actresses become divas -- it's to stop stuff like this from happening to them at the hands of other people who don't understand how long a human's arms are supposed to look.

However, this was not the most grievous offense of Rogue Costumer. That was merely the icing on this chewy, billowy, trouser cake. With apologies for the quality of the photos, behold:

When she hopped out of the prop car in these pants, my friend and I quite seriously started yelling, “PANTS! PANTS! PANTS!” and had to pause the TV to stare at each other, frantically gesturing our amazement because we had completely lost the power of speech. They are, in a word, bad. So, so feet-munchingly bad.

Why would you put a curvy girl in those? For one thing, they don't fit -- she's in the middle of a scene, she's wearing a belt, and she's STILL desperately hiking them up a bit. For another, they are so wide-legged, you could fit an extremely impressive arsenal of weapons up the legs (a rifle here, a bazooka there), perhaps for use against the next person who tells you, "NO,dude, wide-legged pleat-front jeans are SO HOT RIGHT NOW."

And finally, because it bears repeating, they look dreadful on her. Camryn Manheim is putting on an effective game face, but she also appears to be holding the "Sold" sign firmly away from the vicious trousers in question, so as not to imply to readers that she is in any way sold on them as a garment. Those pants destroy poor Jennifer's hips, and I can't help but hope that she marched into the costumer's office and threw a full-on fit.

Okay, fine, I can't blame the costumer entirely. Lady Lo.Hew should've stuck up for her figure, or else she wouldn't be in this mess in the first place. I just can't believe this show sucked the joy out of Melinda finally being dressed in seasonally appropriate garb -- usually, in this scenario, Camryn would be in a wool coat and Jennifer would be wearing a strapless sundress. Frankly, I'd take that if it meant these pants would be buried forever, somewhere that not even the most skilled conversationalist with The Great Beyond could attract their demented, bloating, hip-mangling spirit.

Posted by Heather at 09:04 AM | Permalink

January 24, 2008

Fug House

Okay, I know we haven't talked about this yet, but we just HAVE to:

What is Stamos doing? I stopped watching ER, so maybe this is one of those A Character's Downward Spiral Is Reflected In His Facial Hair beards, or perhaps he's growing it so as to donate it to Beards For Bros, a charity I just invented which benefits college dudes who try desperately to grow facial hair but totally fail and instead lope around campus scratching their ill-seeded, patchy cheeks, wondering if their tragical bread configuration means something bad about their testosterone levels.

Posted by Jessica at 12:19 PM | Permalink

Fugdia Schiffer

It was so thoughtful of these men to hustle Claudia Schiffer so quickly out of Valentino's Paris haute couture show.

One simply can't expose one's supermodel self to public scrutiny when one is evoking the most famous fought-over, virginity-surrendering Spring Dance gown of all time. Kelly Taylor would claw her nose off, Brenda would promptly slam the door in Claudia's bloodied, pulpy face after screaming, "I HATE YOU BOTH. NEVER TALK TO ME AGAIN," and Dylan would be stuck cooing, "Relax, Bren, you know the drill -- I don't start digging blondes until you go to Paris," while David Silver busts a convulsive groove in his loud silk shirt. Somewhere, six feet under, Aaron Spelling's body is twitching with yearning for this missed reunion-movie opportunity. And Valentino is wondering how he ever got mentioned in the same sentence as Beverly Hills, 90210. You're welcome, V.

Posted by Heather at 11:32 AM | Permalink

Eva La Fug

Have you ever won a ribbon for a special achievement -- say, a cook-off,  three-legged race, or perhaps a consolation prize because, while you were not Best In Show at the county fair, you were at least Zuckerman's Famous (and Humble) Pig? And have you ever admired said ribbon for approximately 20 minutes before stuffing it into a box, never to be seen again, despite your secret yearning for excuses to remind everyone you were named Best Socks -- Men's Over-20 Division at your country club's annual Geek-Off? Well, no longer. Eva La Rue might have an avant-garde answer for you.

The way she's preening about in those sleeves, I wouldn't be surprised to learn one of those wacky embellishments actually says on the back, "Best Straight Face In A Role That Requires You To Look At Disgusting Fake Corpses Without Barfing All Over Your Expensive Loaned-Out Shoes." That might also account for how huge they are. Big honor, big words, BIG ribbony ruffles.

Posted by Heather at 10:19 AM | Permalink

Cashmere Fug

Dear Lucy Liu,

Bjork you are not. Just thought I'd let you know.

Cheers, Jessica

Posted by Jessica at 09:37 AM | Permalink

January 23, 2008

Randy Fugd

Oh, Quaid. You are many, many things. Talented, yes; robustly bearded, clearly. Possessed of a last name that's really fun to say, and that I recently wished very much would count as a word in Scrabble? Indubitably. Thanks to things like Vacation and, let's face it, Days of Thunder, you were already a double-word score in my heart, but creating a part of speech from your last name so that I could reap the rewards would've made you a triple. [Maybe I can help in that regard: "I totally quaided my audition" could mean that one brought husky, somewhat slurry humor to it; "Those shoes are totally quaid" might recall the white shiny loafers your character gave Clark Griswold; "That quaid over there totally checked me out"... well, that might get a little confusing, thanks to Dennis, so let's just work on the noun a bit longer.]

So as I said, you are a whole lot of good. But one thing you are not...

[Photo: infdaily.com]

... is Sharon Stone. So tread carefully and don't let yourself get so Stoned -- yeah, yeah, I know, but lousy puns are my specialty -- that you further mold yourself in her kooky, lukewarm-diva image. I mean, the last thing we need at this point is you getting arrested in Park City when, during a copycat rejection of knickers, you leave your quaid out in the wind while uncrossing and recrossing your legs. Although yours did just inadvertently help me find that noun I was looking for, so thanks for that. Never thought I'd find it in your trousers, but what can I say? It's Hump Day.

Posted by Heather at 12:38 PM | Permalink

How She Fug

Rutina Wesley here stars in the new movie How She Move, the IMDb description for which reads like a Teen Movie Mad Lib: "Following her [SIBLING]'s death from [TERRIBLE THING], a high school student is forced to [DO SOMETHING UNPLEASANT THAT WILL PLACE HER DANCING-ADJACENT] where she re-kindles an unlikely passion for the competitive world of [KIND OF DANCING]."  But what [TERRIBLE THING] has placed her [ROMPER-ADJACENT], I wonder?

Whatever it was, I hope it kept the receipt.

Posted by Jessica at 11:18 AM | Permalink

Alice +Olivfug

Alice + Olivia designer Stacey Bendet Wienet certainly designs extremely cute, Gossip Girl-y dresses, many of which I covet:

So you'd think someone would be nice enough to tell her she's spilled Orange Crush all down her front.

Posted by Jessica at 10:28 AM | Permalink

Fug Paves

"Dear Jessica and Ashlee: You never call. You never write. When you text, it's always, ' I LUV PETE 4EVA,' or 'ROMO ROX,' or 'WHAT'S A TOUCHDOWN?' or even, 'REFS IN VERTICAL STRIPES SO CUTE!!!!' No more coming to my salon to pour your heart out while photographers snap pictures outside; no more going to lunch, or shopping, or to the movies, and pouring out your heart while photographers snap pictures of us walking. No more hawking those "HairDo Clip-In Blah Blah Blah And Ken Paves" extensions that are our love child. And no more asking me if I miss your old nose. Is that how it's going to be? Were you two USING ME? Well, ladies, I have news for you: I DON'T NEED YOU ANY MORE EITHER. I have this other blonde person with wavy hair hanging off my EVERY WORD. I can comb my OWN chest hair, I can peel my OWN grape for lunch, and I can smear my own self tanner all over myself for HOURS without you whining about how it makes me smell like a beach sewer. I'm like Marc Anthony meets Jay Manuel meets Renee Zellweger's hair and I have NEVER FELT BETTER. Instead of sleeping, I bathe in a vat of orange juice. So don't come crying to ME the next time Pete steals your eyeliner or Tony Romo gets frustrated because you asked him to take you to his father's rib joint and throws his helmet against the wall. Because I MIGHT BE BUSY MARKING OFF ROADWORK ON THE HIGHWAY. That's right, bitches, I'm giving back to the world. You snooze you lose."

Posted by Heather at 09:10 AM | Permalink


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