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April 24, 2008

Fucghel Zoe

I like to think I don't actually scare that easily, but I admit to being afraid of a few things here.

One is that Rachel Zoe is contemplating how to tear the flesh from my skeleton, and the other is that her overwhelming animal-print caftan might turn out to be a bit see-through. I mean, am I crazy, or do I spy a thigh? That might actually frighten me more than the prospect of her making steak tartare out of my face.

Posted by Heather at 01:41 PM | Permalink

Fugga von Fug

I know that, instead of a treatise on the stumpifying, frumpifying effects of exactly the wrong dress, what you've REALLY all been hankering for is a terrible, horrible, no-good, very-bad pun. And I am nothing if not made of cheese. So behold:

Jenna von Oy? Jenna von oy.

There. Just throw me in a pan and grill me until golden brown.

Posted by Heather at 01:03 PM | Permalink

Fug or Fab: Gwyneth Paltrow

As previously mentioned, I am suffering from a wee bit of the jet lag, which forced me to hallucinate that Kelly Osborne was wearing some wack-a-doo detached hoodie thing. But this -- though awfully Spawn Of Marion Cottilard And Fishnet Stockings -- looks kind of great, right?


Posted by Jessica at 12:34 PM in Fug or Fab | Permalink

The Parent Fug

Okay, so I'm sure there are way cooler things to love Natasha Richardson for, but mine is her part in The Parent Trap, a.k.a. the Crossroads of Lindsay Lohan's career -- you know, the flick that's hard to watch because she was so cute and innocent then and you had no idea she was going to fry the red out of her hair and turn into a leggings-wrapped hellchild. Natasha plays her mom, and she's really endearing in it, and what can I say? I'm a sap.

Don't you just LOVE when there's a "however," though? And there is one.

I'm not denying that she's got great gams, but is this not a tiny bit lingerie-influenced? By which I mean, straight out of the Trashy Lingerie storefront? I would expect Lindsay's ACTUAL mother to cavort around town in her skivvies, because she's awful. Natasha Richardson, though, seems more normal and low-key than all that -- certainly not the type to stoke the fires of her primary breadwinner's problems (allegedly, etc.) and then allow her other, younger daughter to look 14-going-on-34 so she can exploit her on a reality show.

How did this fug become all about how I think Dina Lohan is gross? I'd better finish this before it becomes a treatise on the emotional glories of The Biggest Loser and the various taste differences between Diet Coke and Coca-Cola Light. Suffice to say that this outfit, despite her fab figure and general bodaciousness, looks as if Natasha thought she was walking into a grand romantic gesture by Liam Neeson and not, in fact, a film festival party. Unless they were killing two birds with one venue. Hey, whatever keeps the home fires stoked.

Posted by Heather at 11:22 AM | Permalink


Maybe it's the jet-lag talking, but is Kelly Osbourne wearing a dickie with an attached hood?

That matches her dress? She is, isn't she? And there's a face on her crotch? And two tiger heads (or something toothy, anyway) right beneath her boobs? Right?

Actually, let's just blame this on jet lag. Never happened. Never saw it at all.

Posted by Jessica at 10:42 AM | Permalink


And we're back! Hope you all had an awesome week, full of smiting your enemies, unexpected gifts, and brownies.  We're slowly getting back up to speed -- honestly, for all we know,  Britney might have run off with Vladimir Putin in our absence, though we  imagine someone would have texted us -- but you can catch up with our latest NY Mag.com piece, in which we once more look to the "fashion" of The Hills:

" Say what you will about Lauren Conrad's collection — we called it tragique — but at least she studies fashion; when Heidi attended FIT (tellingly, for a day, before quitting), it was to learn about PR, making Heidiwood the equivalent of having once typed up a recipe and auditioning for Top Chef. Naturally, we had to investigate — the kind of up-close and terrifying recon that can only come from trying Heidi’s wares on our brave, implant-free selves."

Learn exactly how bad it was here.  You guys, we're talking one-inch inseams. FOR REAL.

Posted by Jessica at 08:41 AM in NYFug.com | Permalink

April 17, 2008

Fugcation, All We Ever Wanted...

The other day, we got an e-mail from a kind-hearted soul who informed us that he'd read a story about an overworked blogger who keeled over from the strain and died. He fervently hoped we were not pushing ourselves to the limits and in danger of having a similarly fatal coronary, and expressed the hope that we make sure to take breaks. We were touched.

And he was psychic: We'd already scheduled a tiny break for, well, right now. Intern George finally coughed up the keys to his Lake Como villa, so we're off tomorrow, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, but will be back posting anew on Thursday, April 24.

Not that any celebrities should use this as an excuse to leave the house in leggings with, like, Axl Rose's face on them (LINDSAY). We WILL find out, and we will not spare you just because we happened to be relaxing with a fruity beverage at the time of the crime.

Posted by H & J at 01:30 PM | Permalink

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: who is this?

whose email is this? I don't know how i got it.

Dear Friend,

Did it ever occur to you that maybe your aura reached out and brought it to you? Sometimes, ours is not to reason why -- or how, or when, or where an e-mail address came from -- but rather to allow destiny to cradle our Inbox. If every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings, then maybe whenever the divine holy chorus of "You've Got Mail" quickens a person's pulse, it's because a lost soul has gotten some George. Today, that soul is you. Fate opened my arms and wrapped them around your quizzical torso, and we will find the answers together. And when we're not sure what the answer is on the multiple-choice test of life, we will guess "C," because that's usually right. Ask yourself: It any coincidence that "C" is for "Clooney"? No.

All of the above,


E-mail #2

Subject line: Fugly As Hell

I'm a good looking guy. I had this ass fugly girl who was

trying to get some meat from me. She used the lame ass

line "I'm rich", "My dad who works at a church works for the

CIA", Fugly ass bitch. I wanted to hit her with a fugly tree.

That probably wouldn't do any good though, because she

was already hit with one. Fugly Ass Ho!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dear Friend,

What fun -- a butcher who writes poetry! When your fugly tree's branches reach out and entwine me like this in so rough a hug, I simply want to crawl up and build a nest in your iambic wackameter. But listen, my relationships are built on honesty, and this is a touchy subject, but I must ask: You're not REALLY all that good-looking, are you? Please know that I cleave to people's souls and wingspans, not their faces, so this bravado from you is not necessary. Maybe you'd understand best if I tried to speak your rhythmic language? Here goes:

"My pulsing arms will hug without restraint, so drop your hate mask,

put down the tenderloin of fury and love yourself

enough to use trees and meat only for tender, warm

embraces. Do not waste energy reviling Reverend Spymaster's girl

until you can come to terms with your own self-loathing

and marinate in Sweet Georgie's healing glow."

Are we seeing eye-to-eye now? Heart-to-heart? Like Robert Wagner to your Stefanie Powers, I am chasing the mysteries of the world with you even when we're not together, and solving its spiritual crimes.

The butler did it,


E-mail #3

Subject line: girl friend

would you go out with me?

Dear Friend,

You intrigue me. What IS gender? It's more than anatomy; it's an aura. As manly as my chest-pillow is, as strong as the wands of testosterone known as my arms might be, I do sometimes feel like my soul is splayed open like a hot-dog bun waiting for its cylindrical meat cargo. Does that make me a girl? A boy? A man? All? Who can say. Let's go for coffee and discuss over cheese danish -- you to your favorite haunt, me to mine, together yet apart. We'll have to go dutch on the check, but not on the insights.

You latte my life,


E-mail #4

Subject line: (no subject)

I say to you, Harvey Levin...fug yourself!  You are a slimy skank and a disgrace to yourself, and the legal profession.  On second thought the legal profession is precisely where you belong!  Bite me!!!!

Dear Friend,

Is this like one of those therapy exercises, where you find a stranger and vent to him or her about your deepest fears, frustrations, and yearnings? I'm privileged to be the sounding board, and would wrap my burly plumage around you if only this assignment didn't demand confidentiality. I imagine Harvey would read this, sip his coffee, purse his lips thoughtfully, then draw a circle around you on the transparent whiteboard of his heart -- thus bringing you in for all eternity and feeding you with his joy. Or at least, that's what I would do if I were him. I fight fire with passion, you sweet ball of fury, so keep burning your hate-incense to the quick and you will only inflame my desire to love you right out of your anger pants. Together, we will take those exclamation marks you so cherish and turn them into parentheses. Why? Because they hug.

(imagine yourself here),


Posted by Heather at 11:32 AM in Intern George | Permalink

CMT Awards Fug Carpet: Nicole Kidman

We've been a little hard on Nicole Kidman occasionally, especially how she ALLEGEDLY seems to have jacked up her former face with so much paralyzing Botox. But I have to say, I am not one of those conspiracy theorists who believes she's faking the pregnancy, because a) that's insane; b) this is not Passions, as much as I wish it were and that Zombie Kidman would start showing up at events, although maybe she DID and that explains why Nic seemed a bit bodysnatched the last year or so; c) she looks pregnant in ways that are hard to fake, like her face; d) I can't think of a good reason why Nicole Kidman would need to go through all the rigamarole to fake something like that when she's adopted before, and also, again, NOT INSANE; e) she's got a glow lately, and it really suits her.

I don't really even care about the dress, although that ruby color is fantastic on her. What grabbed me was the loose, flirty, relaxed hair and what appears to be a genuine smile -- those are things she's been missing for a while, in favor of looking really pulled-tight and rigid and wan. Now if only she would get in line behind Nicole Richie at the Los Angeles Clinic For Looking Like Healthy And Lovely Like This All The Time And Not Just When You're Knocked Up, we'd be in business.

Posted by Heather at 10:18 AM in Misc. Awards Shows, Well Played | Permalink

Meh or Feh: Amy Poehler

Let's get one thing clear: No matter how much I love Tina Fey, and despite also mostly liking Amy Poehler's work, I will never see Baby Mama. No, really. I won't. I can think of a thousand things off the top of my head that, when I ponder doing them, bring me less anguish -- and yes, Do A Shot With Spencer is on that list, alongside burning off my own hair and going on Oprah wearing Crocs and leggings.

So it's fair to say that I'm grumpy with Amy Poehler these days for being part of that movie. And maybe that's why I'm judging her outfit here kind of harshly. But seriously, isn't it just a tad underwhelming?

Sort of a snore, right? Not splashy enough to be fug, not chic or tailored enough to be effortlessly fab. It's just so... I'm getting tired just staring at it for more than three seconds at a time. The semi-high-waisted, wide-legged pants don't seem to fit that well, and the waist detail almost gives off the impression that they're fancy chastity trousers -- like Will Arnett has to lock up the goods before she goes out on the town, in case she spontaneously runs up on stage and moons everyone or tries to kidnap Jon Stewart by stuffing him down her pants. That satin shirt she's got jammed in there is sort of frumpy and excessively shiny. The leather jacket with sweater-cuffs actually helps, believe it or not, but the whole effect evokes an ensemble Paula Poundstone might wear to a biker bar. And is that EVER the right direction for ANYONE?

Posted by Heather at 09:10 AM in Fug or Fab | Permalink


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