April 18, 2007
The Fugs of Hazzard
I'm going to do something we don't do very often around this parts, and fug someone despite not having the picture at our immediate disposal (for reasons both boring and technical). But, truly, you should be grateful that you can't see Jessica Simpson's new high waisted (PLEATED!!) pants.
Are you back? Can you still see? I'm so sorry for inflicting that on you. It's bad, right? All the fashion mags have been panting over the the high-waisted pant for the last few months ("Oh, they make your legs look longer! Oh, no, seriously! Seriously, they look awesome! We promise, you'll WEAR THEM. WEAR THEM. WEAR THESE $2400 HIGH WAISTED PANTS.") and while I am THRILLED that the era of mad crazy low rise is over, J Simp's Doom-Trousers are a sterling example of how very hard it is for someone who is not built like a model to pull off pants that essentially come up to your pits. If you've got boobs AT ALL, super-high-waisted pants pose a problem. Because you look...sorta stumpy in them, all boobs and then PANTS PANTS PANTS PANTS. And while I treasure pants, and love pants, and want to MAKE love to pants and regularly request that people consider pants, THESE pants are an assault to the concept of pants.
AND TO HUMANITY.
So, readers, when you're standing there between the mannequins at Bloomingdale's or Macy's or Filene's or Barney's or Target or Banana Republic or J. Crew or Forever 21 or where ever pants are sold, and you find yourself thinking, "Huh. I'm totally going to try on these high-waisted, pleated pants," do not let me stop you. I would never prevent a fellow shopper from trying anything on. "Just try it ON" is my mantra. Sometimes things look better on you than they do on the hanger! And maybe you will look super hot in high-waisted pleated pants. I mean, you're pretty hot to begin with. So it's possible. But if you try them on and then suddenly feel like you've gained ten pounds in the walk from the display to the dressing room, DON'T BLAME YOURSELF.
Think of J Simp, and blame the pants.
December 12, 2006
Fug the Advert: Ashlee Simpson
So, I guess Ashlee Simpson is the spokesperson for Skechers now?
"You know what the Kids Today are like," the ad exec who put this ad together -- let's call her Alison Parker -- might have said. "They LOVE to sit around, buying stuff on the internets, wearing knickers! Sometimes, they just toss on a kicky vest and manage to levitate their CD into thin air! It's awesome. Sometimes -- if they're super cool -- their faces start to look kind of eerily like the skulls on their knit caps! And they all wear SKECHERS, a brand that looks totally, totally, freakishly misspelled the more closely you look at it! They're going to love this ad!"
November 22, 2006
AMAs: Fug The Alarm
Poor Assica. So unprepared was she for the exertions of being The Favored Simpson, she completely forgot to wash her hair and have Ken Paves rip out her ratty extensions. Which is why Joe should never have allowed her to stand next to somebody who probably has two shampooers, three professional weaveologists, and six personal hairbrushing lackeys on her staff.
Ms. Knowles, on the other hand, has made the intriguing style choice of borrowing her pumps from a West Hollywood impersonator named Beshlongce, who we imagine croons tributes like "Bootyvicious," "Humpin'," "Saliver," and "Rim the Alarm" while dancing on top of a Cadillac parked outside Rage.
She is also apparently beginning to see some advantages to gallavanting around town in buttock-length skirts:
This awards season, make it The Year Of Never Having To Lift Anything Up Over Your Hips When You Need To Use The Restroom.
Indeed, thanks to this helpful poster-worthy photo, we expect that in 2007 all the various academies, societies, groups, clubs, and Elks Lodges will launch a campaign to install latrines right into the auditorium seats themselves. Think of it: No more televisually inconvenient seat-fillers; no more awkward Christine Lahti moments where the recipient is accidentally (or just pessimistically, I suppose) spending his or her category's precious air time as a chance to visit the facilities.
October 09, 2006
Oh my God.
We knew she was depressed, but taking the veil seems to be a bit drastic.
Listen, Jess: The Sound of Music was just a movie. You can not enter a convent in the hopes that the Mother Superior will dispatch you off to a mansion, where the man of the house -- a deliciously stern military man -- will fall in love with your moxie and musical skills. That doesn't actually happen all that often. Try Match.com or something first, okay?
October 05, 2006
Fugployee of the Month
The repeat offenders just keep on coming.
Hopefully, instead of diving asshead-first into one of his monologues, Dane Cook is actually explaining to the crowd and to Jessica Simpson that unless she is auditioning for the Women In Waders 2007 wall calendar, or indeed wading through the detritus of her fake relationships, ENOUGH IS ENOUGH with the past-the-knee boots over jeans. Especially when you take into account that she's wearing them with a cropped blazer, which is so ill-proportioned compared with the rest of what she's wearing that it looks like she shrank it in an attempt to Brave Little Soldier her way through a load of laundry.
Of course, the way our luck runs with these things, he's not saying anything of the sort, choosing instead to delve into of his truly groundbreaking, intelligent bits about Burger King. Which... look, as long as he's not repeating his tired and terrible opening monologue from last week's Saturday Night Live (in which he attempted to infuse suicide with dark comedy in a way that would make the entire cast of Heathers bury themselves in unison just so they could spin in their graves, then thoughtfully repeated the joke at length in case we didn't yawn sufficiently the first time), then we'll consider it a victory of sorts.
September 29, 2006
Employee Of The Fug
Jessica Simpson has been going through a bit of a rough time lately, we imagine. To recap, she lost the post-divorce publicity battle; her lip implants backfired; her career as an actress may well rest in the bawdy frat-boy paws of Dane Cook and the grasping, sweaty, deliriously crazy mitts of Andy Dick; her father is still her father; and her sister has totally stolen the Family Mojo by starring in Chicago on the West End and overhauling her nasal passages.
What's a girl to do? I mean, aside from try to take comfort in the soft, incubatory embrace of a fake romance with a slightly bloated "sensitive" musician who can woo her with syllables and the promise that he might one day write a song and allow the world to assume it was about her? That's the natural first reaction; nothing cures a broken heart like a hollow, shallow publicity stunt, especially one that ends in a cover of Us Weekly on which the word "DUMPED" screams across a photo of you with your lips puckered and slightly parted, as if someone has just offered you a chocolate malt and then yanked it away in a cruel prank against your sweet tooth.
Fortunately for J.Simp, the next step was to normalize her gymorexic physique and Crayola-colored skin.
Oh, but one step forward, two steps back. Because you know what doesn't help in this situation? Thigh-high boots that look like you stapled them together with some felt you bought at Michael's:
The red purse might help her spirits a little. But the boots, Jessica. The boots. You are not so intriguing that you can rebound from your current tragic situation in just any old crazy shoes. You're not becoming the type of person who can pull off over-the-knee faux-suede naughty boots simply because you are Who You Are.
Now, Victoria Beckham, sure. Thigh-high boots? No problem. Kind of fabulous, actually. Not because they make sense, but because we've come to adore her for her half-nutter, half-genius fashion sense. Yes, she can put a foot wrong, and indeed often she puts them both there, but on the whole she's so intriguing that even her missteps come back around to being awesome. (Indeed, we had fervently hoped she would eventually be immortalized as a sort of latter-day Joan Collins, but without the help of the late Aaron Spelling -- rest your beloved soul, you mischievous soapy mastermind, you -- we're having to recalibrate our expectations a trifle.)
But Jessica, we're not there with you. Not yet. You are not Posh Spice, honey. You are not British pseudo-royalty. Perhaps the flickering bulbs in both your heads emit the same low wattage, but where we suspect Posh Spice is quite funny behind the scenes, we don't have quite the same high hopes for you. [Don't take offense; you created the monster with Newlyweds, so you have no one but yourself and your Svengali father to blame for that preconception.]
Ergo, all the boots make us think of is who you aren't. Now, definitely keep trying -- we love a good phoenix-from-the-ashes story just as much as the next tar-hearted cow -- but you might need to aim a little less ambitiously. Your embers aren't quite cold enough yet for a glorious, Posh-esque, dramatic resurrection in oddball footwear.
September 26, 2006
The Name On Everyone's Lips Is Gonna Be FUGLY!
INT. Night. The party following Ashlee's Simpson's debut in Chicago:
ASHLEE: Can we finally agree that I'm the cute one now? Can we? Seriously, Jess! I'm totally the cute one now.
JESSICA: I can't believe it's come to this so soon. I felt like I had at least five more years of holding you off. But the divorce hit me like a ton of bricks, Ashlee. And then that disaster with John Mayer. And I've totally gained weight since I stopped working out nine hours a day. Even my hair is, like, all....
ASHLEE: Lank? Lackluster? Meh?
JESSICA: I was going to say, depressed. Those commericals are true, dude. Depression HURTS. It hurts everyone AROUND ME. Aren't you hurting, now, too?
ASHLEE: I feel great!
JESSICA: Nothing even fits me anymore. I made this top from one of the curtins in my hotel room.
ASHLEE: Well, at least you're crafty now that everything else has fallen apart! You know what they say: when God closes a door, he opens a window, or whatever! Your window turned out to be arts and crafts! That's awesome!
JESSICA: I guess. Where's the cheese table around here?
August 30, 2006
A Fug Affair
I would love to have been at the Simpson Family Meeting where it was decided that Jessica ought to wear this little number:
MA SIMPSON: What should Jessica wear to that Yahoo! thing tomorrow?
PA SIMPSON: Pasties!
MA SIMPSON: No.
PA SIMPSON: Hot pants!
MA SIMPSON: Not again. What about a slinky little cocktail number?
ASHLEE SIMPSON: Um, I totally hate to be a bitch, but am I the only person who's noticed that she looks like she's been living on a steady diet of KFC lately?
MA SIMPSON: Look, Ashlee, for the last time: we are not sending her out there dressed like Buckethead.
ASHLEE SIMPSON: That is not what I meant! She's totally been riding the lard pony, you guys! We were all at the Simpson Family Weigh-In this morning. You saw her charts. She's so gained weight since we booted Lachey!
JESSICA SIMPSON: (silent due to laryngitis, gives Ashlee dirty look, throws a highlighter at her head, gives her the finger.)
ASHLEE SIMPSON: You guys NEVER thought this would happen! DID YOU? NO! You NEVER thought I would be the hot one! AT LAST! THE STICKS OF BUTTER I HAVE BEEN WHIPPING INTO HER NUTRA SLIM SHAKES ARE WORKING! I HAVE FINALLY DEFEATED HER MAGIC METABOLISM! SURE, IT'S ONLY LIKE FIVE POUNDS, BUT I WILL TAKE IT! THANK YOU GOD! MY BLOOD SACRIFICE IS IMMINENT!
JESSICA SIMPSON: (holds up sign reading: "It's just three pounds, but even if it were 35, I'd still be hotter than you, you tragic little desperado.")
MA SIMPSON: Don't be ridiculous. She's maybe just a little bloated, and she's still very pretty. Let's just put her in a car hop costume and hope for the best.
ASHLEE SIMPSON: WHY DOESN'T ANYONE LISTEN TO ME? I'M THE PRETTY ONE NOW AND YOU'RE STILL IGNORING ME! SHE CALLED ME TRAGIC! I'M NOT TRAGIC! You don't think I'm tragic, do you, mom?
MA SIMPSON: Huh? Oh, we thought you'd left. Run along and play, I have to brush Jessie's hair 1000 times now.
ASHLEE: I HATE YOU ALL!
June 16, 2006
Fug The Cover: Maxim
That intoxicating aroma wafting through the air is, we at GFY News Service have confirmed, the smell of desperation emanating from Camp Simpson.
But first: Consider for a moment the last time Jessica Simpson appeared on the cover of Maxim. It was in 2004, she was still pretend-happily married, and her father was still gleefully exploiting her as the sort of sexy blonde angel-next-door.
See? They're working the whole virgin/whore, "You want me, but I'm taken," rumpled princess thing. You almost get the impression Maxim wanted her more naked but she and Joe were able to say, "No, that's not her image, and you need us more than we need you, so go along with it."
But now, what with her being a rumpled princess of a different sort, Jessica is in a different situation. She's being painted more often than not as a selfish little sinner who cuckolded her husband with a series of utter man-whores, she's completely boring, and she's being forced to hawk some humiliating wigs that are so mind-bendingly atricious, even Cher, or Dolly Parton, or hell -- Dame Edna -- would sooner strap roadkill to their heads than wear her pseudo-coifs.
So what happens? Maxim comes knocking, and her knockers knock back:
This cover just reeks of C-list "look at me, look at me!" desperation. It's the sort of blow-up-doll approach to publicity that a person would take when she thinks she's on her way up, not when she's been at the top for a few years based on her sweetheart image, raked in millions, dominated the tabloids, and stirred up a national obsession with her marriage. What makes it more pathetic is that she's still stuck with that disastrous, tacky fright-wig of a mop on her head -- unless she is actually wearing one of the titular creatures from the promised "World's Most Horrifying Pets" story, in which case, that's savvy art-directing.
As such, the whole package is less "portrait of an untouchable fantasy" than "chick with the nice rack who works at Dairy Queen and won an online cover-girl contest." How Team Simpson let this happen is beyond me -- it's almost like admitting defeat -- but perhaps there's some truth to the idea that Ashlee gets the royal treatment now and, until she can redeem herself with a movie and/or a respectable romance, Jessica is relegated to clawing her way through any old publication that will tell her she's still got it.
So what's next, Jessie? FHM? Jugs? Wicked-Hot Chicks Monthly?
June 09, 2006
HEATHER: I wonder if we should finally do something with that Jessica Simpson dress that everyone's e-mailing us about. It is ugly.
JESSICA: I know. But, ugh. It feels like it's been covered.
HEATHER: Yeah, it's possible everything's already been said about it. Also, I'm still just really sick of her. I can see her beady little eyes through those sunglasses, and I can feel a headache coming on already.
JESSICA: I know. It's like I don't even have the energy to make fun of the dress because she makes me so very tired.
HEATHER: Sweet GOD, though, that this is terrible. It's like if Salvador Dali painted a seascape that he thought existed somewhere in Dante's second ring of hell. It's beyond awful. It's not even flattering.
JESSICA: And the shoes. Usually these people can at least get the shoes right. It hurts me when they don't.
HEATHER: She looks rough. I feel like having no friends and being the big PR loser in her divorce war is kind of turning her into a kooky recluse.
JESSICA: It's about time. I've only been waiting, like, two years for her to retreat into her mansion and draw the shades.
HEATHER: Seriously, where did she get the idea that people in the outside world wanted to be exposed to that pattern? She's the lucky one; she's wearing shades. They protect.
JESSICA: Maybe Ken Paves told her it looked good. And then transferred a bunch of money to a Swiss bank account.
HEATHER: Maybe Adam Levine once told her that he gets horny at surrealist toga parties.
JESSICA: Or maybe Joe told her that if she didn't do something dramatic to get herself back in the public eye, she could be... replaced.
HEATHER: It worked. She is just a step away from Muumuu City in that travesty.
JESSICA: I do wonder if, now that everyone's more interested in Ashlee's nose and Nick and who he's rebounding with, she'll finally go all Sunset Boulevard on the world.
HEATHER: Haha. "I AM big. It's the tabloids that got small."
JESSICA. Right. With a turban! Oh my God, if she'd worn a turban with that...
HEATHER: Turban's are a washed-up diva's best friend.