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« April 2008 | Main

May 28, 2008

Sex Fug the City

You guys? I think I'm over the Sex and the City movie already. And I really liked the show. I mean, I'll totally still go see it -- if only for the clothes -- but right now I feel like I can not escape it. Its endless media onslaught is crushing the sides of my skull in a sparkly, pink vise and I am about to crack. I feel like I'm two minutes away from Kristin Davis showing up on the cover of my neighbor's copy of Bonsai Today, about 90 seconds from opening my door to find Kim Cattrall standing there to personally remind me to pre-order my tickets, a minute from Cynthia Nixon appearing as a vision on the back of my morning Pop Tart and approximately 10 seconds from Sarah Jessica Parker ripping open my shower curtain while I'm in the middle of deep conditioning to inform me that Carrie Bradshaw's story isn't over yet. I KNOW. I KNOW THE MOVIE IS COMING OUT. I SWEAR I WILL GO SEE IT. LEAVE ME ALONE. GOD.

It seems, however, that Giuliana DePandi/Rancic is feeling no such tiresome waves of ennui:

She was so stoked to find out what happened with Mr Big that she ran out to the premiere without even noticing that she's totally covered in toilet paper! I feel like that has got to go against all the tips in her dating book. Did you know Giuliana has written a dating book, by the way? I didn't either, but the internet has set me straight. Apparently,  it's called Think Like a Guy: How to Get a Guy by Thinking Like One and while I have not read it, Amazon has tagged it with, "Key Phrases: granny panties, Paris Hilton, Angelina Jolie, Ultimate Love Jams," so it has to be doing something right. I mean, Ultimate Love Jams are awesome. Very SATC:TM, no? 

Posted by Jessica at 09:26 AM | Permalink

May 27, 2008

Fug the Cover: Scarlett Johansson

This is just sad, I'm sorry. I mean, I guess I'm kind of glad to see her trussed up in something new -- even if it is pleather leggings and a vest and hideous lipstick and a painfully fake-ass pouty expression -- but COME ON. ScarJo. You are not a rock star. We all know that this album of yours is nothing but a vanity project.  Period. If it isn't, then why does the video to your first single basically seem to be about how depressed and truly pensive you are while people are putting eye make-up on you? Ooooh, poor  sad angel clown. Life is so hard when you're the center of attention. NO ONE UNDERSTANDS YOUR PAIN. There, there -- dry your professionally made-up eyes with a hundred dollar bill. It IS hard to be a beautiful, successful millionaire. You feel all ALONE, despite being newly engaged to someone totally dreamy.  You just sit alone and stare at your reflection in your black AmEx card and you cry cry cry in your lonely heart, I get it. But can't you just make these little videos and dress up like an erstwhile emo frontwoman and prance around with instruments in the privacy of your own backyard and leave the rest of us free to live in peace without having to likewise pretend you can sing?

Posted by Jessica at 02:00 PM | Permalink

Fugbe Price, Please Be in a Movie So We Can Call These Posts Something New

Don't kid yourself. Don't kid me. I know what you've been thinking. I know what was on your mind this entire weekend. It wasn't, "am I allowed to eat potato salad for breakfast?" It wasn't, "I wonder if that cute boy will call me." It wasn't even, "Oh my god, what am I going to do without Lost for the next six years or however long I have to wait for the season after this one." It was, "I wonder what that Phoebe Price person wore to Cannes?"  The good news is, dear reader, that I have answers to all those questions, and they are: yes, he better, cry, and this:

Not bad, considering her past, right? A little Most Expensive Gift Bag at The Container Store, but in comparison to her usual get-ups, kind of nice and understated.

But she was just warming herself up.

One of my favorite things about all these photos is how totally uninterested the photographers behind her are. If you look at pictures of like, Angelina and Brad, ALL photographers within a ten mile radius are screaming hard enough to induce a stroke. These guys are thinking about lunch. Or maybe just looking away from her kissy-face because they've heard the old French proverb, "If P-Squared thee kiss, thy wallet ye will miss." (How else do you think she affords the vast amount of patterned silk required for her Cannes wardrobe? It's all artful pickpocketry of one kind or another.)

This one is just eye-crossing, but I must applaud her artful use of the bikini top at a red carpet event. Clearly, she's avoiding the bottoms due to recent bathing-suit-related traumas:

But this -- though she clearly should be commended for artful recyling of Steven Tyler's old mic stand scarves -- was just the warm-up for the P-Squared Cannes Pièce de Résistance:

She's blossoming! Like a deadly nightshade or a hungry Venus flytrap! 

The best part is how she clearly just tossed her clutch aside to go for the dramatic pose. I have to admit her commitment to the cause. The "cause," of course, being  "shameless self-promotion and the continuing effort to perplex society in general as to her purpose." And full-time support of the sale bin at Joann's Fabrics, of course

Posted by Jessica at 12:06 PM | Permalink

Who Fugged It Up Most: Mischa, or... Mischa?

Apparently Mischa Barton had a busy night this weekend. She started off in this:


The head-to-toe matchy brown thing doesn't really ice my cake, particularly, but the dress might be cute and the cut of the jacket is really flattering to her waist. If I changed anything, I think it'd be the tights.

Mischa disagreed with me, evidently.

[Photo: INFDaily.com]

Apparently this was what Mischa was wearing when she returned to her London hotel the same night the other picture was taken. Which begs the eloquent question: Huh? Where did she have the other dress? Was it balled up in her pocket? Was her boyfriend keeping her spare moccasin-pump-hybrid shoes in his pants? Did someone dump a beer onto her head and force her home to change? Did she stand behind someone in line for the ladies' room and suddenly burst forth with, "If I could just please borrow your peacock-print sheath in a Warm Urine palette, then I'd FINALLY know what it means to be happy"? Does she remind anyone else of the Crunchy Frog sketch by Monty Python, where the owner of the Whizzo Chocolate Company explains that his gourmet Ram's Bladder Cup confection has been lovingly garnished with lark's vomit? And is any of it really an improvement? I must know.

Posted by Heather at 10:05 AM in Fug or Fab, Mischa Barton | Permalink

Dare To Fug Me

I'm pleased Lindsay Lohan is apparently booking a few jobs that give me headline material for whenever we want to feature her. And I think I'm supposed to settle for being pleased that she is not wearing leggings here.

However, I'm distinctly NOT pleased that she's forsaken the Spandex Scourge in favor of looking like somebody dug her out of their attic, shampooed her, and then brought her to Antiques Roadshow to find out if Marie Antoinette ever sat on her at a state dinner.

I would suggest that maybe her mom could stop gallivanting around being gross and trying to turn her youngest kid into a new meal ticket, but alas, I'm pretty sure Dina's influence would only cause Linds to streak on some leg bronzer and throw on some even CLUMSIER makeup, all part of the Lohan Matriarch's effort to make sure her kids look so prematurely old that she could pass as their younger sister. Sigh. Maybe Lindsay learned her lesson about unflatteringly short skirts when she wasn't allowed to sit down anywhere without a cater-waiter performing a panty check; however, in the wrong hands that could be interpreted as a dating strategy, so I should probably just give up hope and go meditate on lunch.

Posted by Heather at 09:04 AM in Lindsay Lohan | Permalink

May 23, 2008

Happy Fugging Birthday, Joan Collins (And a Lovely Long Weekend to the Rest of You)

Today, dear readers, is a very special, precious, glorious day. Not only is it the kickoff of Memorial Day weekend here in America, and thus the official beginning of summer, it is also marks the 75th anniversary of the birth of one Ms Joan Collins, a woman from whom we have learned everything there is to know about dramatic entrances, giant hats, cutting remarks, and blackmail. In celebration of this glorious event, we leave you with the following instructional photographs:

1) When forced to wear hideously twee earrings and giant puffy sleeves (perhaps at a wedding), the best way to keep from screaming is to grit your teeth and throw your champagne flute at the help.

2)  If you suspect your ex-husband plans to attempt to choke you out, make sure your bracelets match your earrings for maximum accessorial impact during the big moment.

3) And, most importantly over the long holiday weekend: There is no lady-like way to eat fried chicken.

Have a good one, readers! See you on Tuesday. Bring your bitch pants.


Posted by Jessica at 03:29 PM | Permalink

Fugdoche, New York

Catherine Keener, taking one for the team and proving once and for all that there IS such a thing as too much houndstooth. And too-giant bell sleeves. And not enough lipstick. Thanks, Catherine! I think we've all learned a valuable lesson from this, don't you? Now, go back to the hotel and change before you knock someone unconscious.

Posted by Jessica at 02:03 PM | Permalink

Fuggity Fug Fugalamadingdong Oh My God I'm Out Of Ideas For Titles With Her

And what's more:

[Photo: Splash News]

YAWN. Check, please.

Posted by Heather at 01:02 PM in Paris & Nicky Hilton | Permalink

Cannes Fug-or-Fab Carpet: Natalie Portman

Much as Gwyneth got roughly to third base with her obsession with microminis, Natalie Portman has been doing heavy flirting with ruffles this year at Cannes. And I'm doing a lot of waffling on whether I think they're pretty and flirty, or kind of crazy. Don't get me wrong, I love waffles. Just not mind waffles. So you, dear readers, need to put on your special baby-soft clicking glove of judgment and prepare to be the jury.

Exhibit A for the prosecution:

The defense argues that this is quite pretty and elegant on her, and is an amazing color. But the prosecution wants you to know that the ruffle flipping up around her chest could have been a valance in another life. Or in this one, until twenty minutes before Natalie left her hotel.

Exhibit B:

The prosecution whispers furiously with each other -- one of them was heard to say, "You're telling me you wouldn't try that on if you had her figure? PLEASE" -- and then feebly suggests that a strong breeze would expose Natalie's portman to the world. The defense raucously chest-bumps each other and stars singing "Livin' On A Prayer."

Exhibit C:


The prosecutors are momentarily at a loss for words, because this is another really lovely color, but they're about to recover long enough to note that this is the sort of thing -- and, indeed, the red number as well -- would ONLY look good on someone as tiny as Natalie Portman. Anyone with an inch to pinch and real-woman hips would look like a very cold Christmas tree.  Meanwhile, the defense is making margaritas and toasting the fact that, really, who cares how it would look on a normal person if Natalie looks cute in it? The prosecution responded by passing them a note that said, "STOP LAUGHING AT US. It's sort of old-looking! Right? What if she's giving someone bad ideas? Also, can you pour us one on the rocks with salt?"

And finally, Exhibit D:

The defense stops licking salt off each others' necks long enough to wonder if five shots have caused some hallucinations. Gleefully, the prosecution screams that this could be considered the conceptual origami version of Bjork's infamous swan dress, and wants to know if it was created at a wedding shower with nothing but Angel Soft and some high-quality printer paper. When the defense warbles that it's still sort of dramatically effective and that it makes the notoriously short Portman look tall, the prosecution snorts, "Great, can you diagram the physics of that, please, and then FAX IT TO US ON PART OF HER DRESS?" The defense screams, "Fax THIS, desk monkey," and chucks a martini shaker at the prosecution's head.

Posted by Heather at 12:21 PM in Fug or Fab | Permalink

Fug Ranch

According to our friends at IMDb, our beloved Bai Ling here has completed photography on SIX FILMS coming out over the next two years, is filming another, and is in pre-production on yet another. Girlfriend works her ass off. When does she have time to create/procure the likes of this?

Wait! I want you to see the back (speaking of asses, especially):

Whee! It's like....a leotard with the human equivalent of saddle bags attached? At least she has somewhere to store her lip gloss, her house key, and her copy of The Interplanetary Guide to Human Interaction: Intrigue, Involve, Inveigle.

Posted by Jessica at 11:02 AM in Bai Ling | Permalink


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