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December 21, 2007

Periodically, as their busy spa and Hyde schedules allow, celebrity experts will join us to answer your questions about how to fug up your life as thoroughly as they do theirs. This week's expert is a mother of three who is currently working on a doctorate in banging her head against the wall, is penning a new Young Adult book called Sperm Hates You, and has developed a sudden passion for the Siberian real-estate market.

Dear Aunt Fugly,

I hate the holidays. They are so stressful. I feel like I have a million things to do and no time to get it all done.  This year, the real problem is my husband. He expects me to buy all the gifts for his family as well as my own and I barely know them, Aunt Fugly -- we just eloped six weeks ago! I haven't even met his mom. How am I supposed to know what to buy her? Why is he being so ANNOYING? What should I do?


Mrs. Grinch

Dear Mrs. Grinch,

That's a tough situation. My daughter is really busy, so she always buys us gift cards, like the year we all got a $20 credit at KFC, or the time she sent me a coupon for 2-for-1 sirloin at the local market. So try that. Especially if his family is as DUMB as my daughter is.

I can't believe your husband put you in this position. Men ARE real pills, aren't they? They're ALL about jamming us into positions we don't really want to be in. Or, they're all sweetness and peaches and Christmas cheer, and then one day you find out they're burning their yule log in your daughter's pants, at which point they turn quiet and surly and start calling you "Ma'am," and suddenly your publisher wants you to stop writing about parenting and unfortunately the only other thing you know enough about for a whole book would be, like, The Encyclopedia of Unexpected Smells, or How To Swallow Your Swelling Ball of Face-Enflaming Rage And Refrain From Disowning Your Child. I mean, seriously. They're all scum. And since your husband sounds like that kind of asshat -- trust me, I know 'em when I see 'em -- maybe give HIM a surprise vasectomy and call it a GIFT FROM SOCIETY. Right!? YES.

Dear Aunt Fugly,

I have a problem with my ex-wife. I'm still in love with her and I think she's still in love with me.  We have two beautiful kids.The problem is that she keeps marrying other dudes! And not like brain surgeons or professors or something. Like LOSER DUDES. Who are sort of like ME, but LAMER and less successful and grosser. This most recent loser was even in a sex tape --like me! -- but with PARIS HILTON, which I think we can all agree is not nearly as awesome as making a sex tape in which you drive a boat with your wang. Right? I mean, I'm right, right?  Look, Aunt Fugly, my ex and I have had a LOT of problems (a lot; I might have given her the Hep, for example). But she's awesome and I miss her rack and want her back. How can I convince her to divorce this guy and come back to MY sex swing?

Rock on,

Johnny Tee

Dear Mr. Tee (HAHAHA, see what I did there? Oh, God, now I sound like my DAUGHTER, I need a drink),

Have you ever considered that maybe it's your fault? That maybe she keeps getting married to random-seeming people, and making bad decisions, and getting drunk, and running off to Vegas, because you are MAKING HER INSANE and she's just disturbed in the head and needs a little PROPER love and guidance and support and a bath?

Wait, I'm sorry. I can't push blame on anyone. I can't be a blame-pusher. Nothing is anyone's fault. [DO YOU HEAR ME? NOTHING IS ANYONE'S FAULT, YOU HEARTLESS BLAME-PUSHERS.] Maybe you should sit down and write her a sensitive letter or a song. Lay down some mad-awesome trippin' love-beats, as my son-in-law says, all about how magical she and her chest are. Call it something like "Rack of Hearts." But don't put any stupid made-up-sounding words in it. Girls hate that. Trust me; one time I had to listen to a two-week argument about that, which ended in a certain person screaming, "OH YEAH, WELL, THERE'S A REASON 'POPOZAO' RHYMES WITH 'SHUT YOUR CHEETOHOLE, YOU DUMB COW.'" You do not want your song to end that way.

Or, just knock her up. APPARENTLY THAT WORKS TOO. GOD.

Dear Aunt Fugly,

Listen, I am seriously having a problem. I am dating this guy who is like really famous in Texas, which is where I grew up.  Let's say he's the most famous guy on the Dallas Curling Team, okay? And people are REALLY INTO Curling around here, okay? Like REALLY INTO IT. Anyway, I went to one of his curling matches and it's like all of a sudden he could not curl AT ALL. He was like the WORST CURLER EVER all of a sudden. But instead of being like, WHY CAN'T TONY CURL ANYMORE? all the papers are blaming ME for him being all sucky all of a sudden! Like I am the REASON he's a cruddy curler now or something. Aunt Fugly, I have done a lot of stupid things in my life, but I am not MAGICAL. I can't change people's CURLING SKILLS. It's SO UNFAIR. I got BOOED at the Sonic yesterday. I can't live like this anymore, okay? I need to be able to get onion rings in peace. And I really like this guy! I've had really bad luck with men since....a while. What should I do?


Jes -- er, I mean, "OJ" Simpson

Dear OJ,

Well, I can certainly understand your pain, honey. We all know at least ONE person in life who suddenly sucks at things they used to be good at, like curling, or bathing, or singing, or basic speech. Am I right? Haven't we all been there, when suddenly someone you love is not performing the way you expected them to, and it makes you really freaking mad at them but you have to bite your tongue and love them anyway because otherwise you might never see your grandchildren again? Are you WITH ME? Who among us HASN'T taken the blame for stuff that is NOT OUR FAULT, like, what are we supposed to do, STAND OVER THE BED and STRAP THE CONDOM ON FOR THEM OURSELVES?!?!?! WE ARE ONLY HUMAN AND THERE IS ONLY SO MUCH WE CAN DO TO STOP SOMEONE ELSE FROM BEING A COMPLETE GODDAMN MORON. So you know what you should do? JUST GIVE UP. Seriously. It's over. You tried. People suck. Disappear somewhere nobody will ever find you, where they don't have gossip magazines or Nickelodeon or HAIR EXTENSIONS or any of that goddamn stuff. I'm so tired. Please make it stop.

Posted by H & J at 10:15 AM in Ask Aunt Fugly | Permalink

March 16, 2007

Periodically, as their busy spa and Spider Club schedules allow, celebrity experts will join us to answer your questions about how to fug up your life as thoroughly as they do theirs. This week's expert has an advanced degree in psychotic behavior with a minor in alienating one's family, and is fresh from a spiritual experience in the slammer that has resulted in him pursuing a career as a minister.

Dear Aunt Fugly,

I have this great wife -- she's smart, she's exotic, she likes to talk about really obscure books while walking around the house naked, and she enjoys traveling and drinking beer. All my friends think she sounds fantastic but because she lives in a different part of the state for work, they haven't met her. But they're doubling the pressure lately for me to introduce them. There's just one problem: She doesn't exist. I totally made her up and it's been three years now, including a successful stint in couples counseling that I couldn't stop talking about, and I'm worried it might be a little bit too late to confess to my friends that she's fake. Apparently I am kind of a douchebag. What should I do? Should I admit to my friends that I lied? ... No, really, give me an actual good idea.


Screwed By My Fake Wife

Dear Screwed,

I don't see why this is such a big deal. The solution is so obvious: Hire a hooker to impersonate your wife, introduce her to all your friends, and then "divorce" her. Or kill her off. And then you can just murder the hooker if you need to produce a body.

Wait. No, don't do that. If there's anything I learned in the joint -- other than how to be a better father to my daughter -- it is that killing someone will earn you some hard time and while I emerge from prison a better man, fully qualified to resume managing my child star's finances, I can not recommend you doing anything that might land you in the Big House. Also, maybe it will turn out that the hooker you hire will be awesome and hot and freaky and you can really marry her and I will be happy to broker the deal you make when you sell the rights to that major feature film for a low, low percentage of your gross. Say, 65%.

Dear Aunt Fugly,

My parents SUCK. I know all young girls say that, but seriously, mine REALLY DO. My mother thinks she's 19 and hangs around a bunch of nightclubs getting messed up -- and she's, like, the world's most annoying person when she's buzzed --  and she won't stop wearing my clothes and trying to sleep with all the guys I'm trying to sleep with, and it doesn't make sense because she TOTALLY has crow's feet and I can see it and I don't know why they would want to NAIL a woman who could HIDE THEM in her WRINKLES. And my father's, like, totally an ex-con and I hate him for ruining my childhood. Except my mother is ruining my adulthood -- should I hate her more? Seriously, HAS NO ONE NOTICED that I am celebrating being out of rehab by hanging out at a bunch of clubs? And that I  was IN rehab before I was the legal drinking age? And that I keep changing my hair color and losing weight? ME! Pay attention to ME! Stop shooting your stupid "I'm out of prison and I want to help children BLAH BLAH BLAH" reality show and stop nailing people who are younger than me and START FIXING MY PROBLEMS.

So my question is, should I stop wearing slouchy boots?


Big Red Brown Blonde

Dear Blonde,

Your mom sounds hot. Why don't you give me her number, so I can talk to her directly about how to be a better parent to you -- maybe over a couple of ice-cold Buds?

Dearest Aunt Fugly,

I am the victim of a sad misunderstanding. Recently, I was having an intimate chat with a dear friend of mine -- we'll call her Foolia --in front of some TV cameras (I know, I know, but it was a favor to another friend of mine; let's call her Doprah). Anyway, in the course of this verbal embrace, which was otherwise laden with warm personal truths, I made a joke about getting plastic surgery done on my eyes. See, Aunt Fugly, my wit is dry. It's arid as the desert but thrice as jolly. And unfortunately, now everyone thinks I was serious. Nobody can stop teasing me about my eye job. My friend Bark Smallberg called me up and was all, "Yo, I hear you got jobbed," and then started cackling. Even my bosses, two of the fairest souls you ever see across a crowded room and long to cuddle their worry-lines away, can't resist poking fun at me (although they can't resist poking at me in general; I'm a ticklish and highly touchable piece of man flesh). What should I do? I crave a hug of reassurance. If you could even donate one arm of your time to a half-squeeze, I would be forever in your debt.


G. Whiz

Dear Whiz,

While I would love to hug it out with you, I am trying to teach my daughter how to be a better person and part of that includes not throwing her limbs around men she hardly knows. Instead, I suggest you consult my forthcoming self-help book, Turning It All Around, which will help you learn how better to own up to your mistakes, whether your mistake is: getting an eye job, joking about something as serious as an eye job, not getting an eye job when you need one, securities fraud, being a terrible parent to impressionable teens, inspiring a really crappy pop song, aggravated unlicensed driving and attempted assault, or Solaris. I wish you luck, my good man, and suggest you practice patience. Surely someone will do something scandalous eventually, like run over a paparazzo with her car, and that will draw the attention away from your plastic surgery imbroglio.

Posted by H & J at 01:30 PM in Ask Aunt Fugly | Permalink

November 24, 2006

Periodically, as their busy spa and Spider Club schedules allow, celebrity experts will join us to answer your questions about how to fug up your life as thoroughly as they do theirs. This week's expert calls himself Peggy Post With A Penis, priding himself on his encyclopedic knowledge of etiquette, the history of social behaviors, his posture, and his immaculate sense of personal hygiene.

Dear Aunt Fugly,

I'm at a loss. I hosted Thanksgiving for my in-laws, and when we asked if they wanted any leftovers to take home, my mother-in-law said yes... and then took everything. The turkey carcass, the mashed potatoes, the stuffing, even the leftover pies. She packed it all up in shopping bags and sailed out the door promising to bring the dishes back washed. I was shocked! We cooked the meal, paid for everything, and then didn't get to have any of it the next day. Worse, my husband doesn't understand why I'm so annoyed and thinks I'm overreacting and being selfish. And that's why he really wasn't impressed when he had to come bail me out because I TP'd my mother-in-law's front lawn that night and got booked by the Beverly Hills PD. But seriously... she deserved it, right? What should I do? Who's right?


My Turkey Done Left Me

Yo, Turkey,

Sounds like you GOT PLAYED, Playa.  Some people might call your mother-in-law a freeloader, but I call her a hero.  Is she single? Tell that bitch to hit me up: 1-800-FOR-KFED.  I will be all over her popozao.

But tell your husband to shut his damn mouth: chicks with records are hot, and you sound feisty. Maybe you and your mother-in-law and me can all get together sometime, if you know what I mean. You know, just the three of us and some PBR, chilling at my studio in Van Nuys. The dude next door has a hot tub. We can totally hop the fence.  It'll be SWEET. Blow up my cellie, girl! Holla!

Dear Aunt Fugly,

So... God, I'm nervous even writing this. Okay. Deep breath. See, I am a newlywed. And we're having our first Thanksgiving together. And his... traditions... are a tiny bit different than mine. For one thing, he doesn't want to have it on Thanksgiving because he thinks that's not what the Pilgrims would want, and whenever I try to explain that having Thanksgiving on Thanksgiving is kind of the whole POINT, he tells me that I haven't done my research and that he has and I should just let him handle things because he's a pilgrim expert. Also, believes that if we just leave the turkey on the counter overnight, Xe --  uh, I mean, some kind of cosmic force that he thinks is all-powerful -- will stuff it with good fortune. But I always thought it was sort of unhygenic to do that. He then wants us put on robes, rub our daughter with truffle oil, and read aloud passages from Battlefield Earth, because he says it's some kind of special auditing ceremony for babies who can't speak yet to confess their sins. Also, I like to say grace before we eat, but he likes to stand on his chair and throw his arms up to the sky and shout, "PURGE OUR THETANS, O GREAT ONE!" And then he starts laughing and clapping. Which, let's be honest, kind of weirded out my parents the last time so I told them it wouldn't happen again, but I'm not actually sure I can stop it. So I guess what I'm asking is, how the Hell did I get here, and yes, HUSBAND, I did say "Hell," because six months of your stupid free classes is nothing compared to a lifetime of being Catholic and I STILL BELIEVE IN MY OWN THING AND THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT THAT OWWWWWWWWWWWWW I think the chip he put in my brain just zapped me. What was I saying? Oh yes -- have you ever taken a Personality Test?


Everything Is Fine And I Am Fine And My Baby Is Fine And We're All Just Fine Here, Thanks!


Bitch, I have no idea what you're even talking about.

Hiiiiiii Aunt Fugly!

Y'all, I am having an AWESOME THANKSGIVING this year! First I lost weight... to be exact, 180 lbs of STANK-ASS HUSBAND! THAT'S RIGHT CAMERON BOY-NAME, you had better LOOK OUT FOR MY ASS NOW! Especially because I totally went and partied in Las Vegas with Paris and danced around in my tights because I don't NEED pants because I'm not KNOCKED UP any more and I'm not ATTACHED any more and I have all this money and all I want to do is smoke and drink and NEVER LISTEN TO ANY MORE RAP MUSIC EVER. And THEN when I got home my mother totally threw herself at my feet when she saw me and started weeping that she is the most thankful for my brain this year. Y'all she has NEVER said that to me before -- last year she drank all the cooking sherry and then threw the bottle AT my brain and, like, I'm not sure what she was talking about exactly . Something to do with peas, maybe? But she knows I don't eat green vegetables, like, HI, they're the color of GRASS, which my ex husband REALLY LIKED TO SMOKE IN MY HOUSE EVEN WHEN I TOLD HIM NOT TO, so she should know better than to think I would eat anything that color. Maybe she was just sad we're at war. But not this year! We ate like KINGS and my ex ate at DENNY'S and I hope they SPAT IN HIS CRANBERRY SAUCE... which I totally did last year (sssshhhhh, don't tell).

So I guess what I'm asking is: Don't you think my ex should SUCK ON IT? And aren't you glad I'm back? And do you know any guys? Hot ones? Who sing and dance? And were the lead in a boy band? And have ugly manly girlfriends I can SNAP LIKE A TWIG?




I strongly suggest you check yourself before you wreck yourself. Maybe your ex has a KILLER PLAN to make YOU suck it. No one breaks up with K Fed over text message, especially when you KNOW I can't READ real good. Damn. That was harsh, yo.  I'm writing a slow jam about it right now. It's called "You Have a Text Message from CheetoLover21" and it is a total panty-dropper.  But not YOUR panties.  You can leave those suckers on, beeyotch, because K Fed isn't interested anymore. YEAH!

And you can tell your MOM to stop calling me and laughing and then hanging up. I KNOW it's her, dude. God. It totally ruins my buzz, like, EVERY TIME.

So,  in conclusion: BITE ME, and I want the weed I left under that rock by the pool filter back within the next three days or I'm calling Child Protection Services and telling them that you don't recycle bottles OR CANS. Good luck with the custody battle when they find THAT out! YEAH THAT'S RIGHT. I'm playing with fire! Federline is on the OFFENSIVE.


Posted by H & J at 09:20 AM in Ask Aunt Fugly | Permalink

June 16, 2006

Periodically, as their busy spa and Spider Club schedules allow, celebrity experts will join us to answer your questions about how to fug up your life as thoroughly as they do theirs. This week's expert has a doctorate in warbling with a specific focus on atonal droning, and has returned to school to study the latest advances in human cloning and how they can be applied to hair weaves.

Dear Aunt Fugly,

So I have a problem with my sister. That stupid bitch is totally stealing my life. It's like totally Single White Female over here, for real. Okay, like, you probably need some background on this. Like, when we were younger, I was totally the blonde pretty popular one. Everyone liked me. I had a great relationship with a really cute guy and I had a really interesting job and everyone thought I was totally fun and hot and stuff. And it's not like my sister was all like working in the gutter or something while this was happening. She was totally cute in like a really ugly kind of punk rock kind of way. Anyway, so things seemed like they were going really well for me, and my Dad even was like, "You are going to be the BIGGEST STAR IN THE WORLD" and it was AWESOME and then everything went really bad all of a sudden, Aunt Fugly. Like, really bad. Like, I kind of accidentally slept with some other people and my husband found out and even though he wanted to work it out, I decided to divorce him and THAT was a bad idea because he seems really happy now and I can't seem to meet anyone who treats me as nice as he did and also, I sort of can't stop eating Pizza Bites. But so I am having a really hard time, right? Like, I totally can't find a man AND I'm getting kind of fatter than I used to be and all the people who used to like me think I am totally lame now, even though I am acting EXACTLY THE SAME, and, like, this is the time when I need the support of my FAMILY, RIGHT? But instead of helping me find a new husband or something, my stupid sister goes out and gets MY OLD BLONDE HAIR and MY PRETTY POUTY LIPS and MY OLD HOT BODY and then she even goes and gets a NOSE JOB and now she's WAY BETTER LOOKING than me and all she ever says is that she just "wants to be happy" and I "made my bed" and I should "let her live her own life" and BLAH BLAH BLAH. Can't she see that right now what I really need is for her to be UGLY so I can FEEL BETTER ABOUT MYSELF? I really don't think that's too much to ask. How can I make her see my point of view?


So Maybe I Shouldn't Have Hooked Up With That Jackass

Dear Haylie Duff,

Don't try to hide from me. It's you, right? It has to be you. I mean, okay, so Hilary copied you by going brunette instead of blonde, and she was always more famous than you, and I wouldn't know your dad if he wrote a song about himself and sold it to me for my next album (although that wouldn't happen -- I am a singer/songwriter, you know) and of course you were never married... but you are, like, the only person it COULD be. And, I want you to know that I TOTALLY feel all of your pain. I am a deep, deeply feeling person-- hello? I dated Ryan Cabrera, who is so totally into it and heartfelt, he is practically a fallopian tube! So pain is something that I can totally, like, get.

It sucks that Hilary dieted off all her baby fat so she could look as narrow-faced and toothy as you do -- it does, really. Because, wow, skinny drag-queen was totally your look, and it's really unfair that now she's rocking it harder than you do. I mean, I hope that doesn't hurt your feelings. I'm just being real.

But you know what I think, Haylie? I think the joke is on Hilary. Well, I mean, right now the joke is on you, because you are being cloned and she is kind of more popular, but in the long-term the joke will be on her.... well, probably on BOTH of you, but that just means that you won't be alone in getting laughed at, right? Which is good.

Seriously, any girl that is so uncomfortable in herself that she has to resort to surgery and hair dye and emaciation and LIES in order to look herself in the face and keep from strangling her goddamn sister in her big-nosed orange-skinned sleep... well, that girl is not a role model for young women. And I am an expert on that, because I talked to Marie Claire, and Marie Claire is totally the sensitive, thinking starlet's publication. At least, it is when you cannot get into People because you didn't give birth, get stuck in a well, cry with Matt Lauer, or give birth while stuck in a well crying with Matt Lauer, and when you can't get into Good Housekeeping because you don't think your housekeeper is very good.

So basically, you should sit your sister down and tell her that she is really a tragic figure. Good luck with that! I'm going to go pray on your whole situation, and give thanks that my own sister is so sweet and supportive and loving, and that we embrace our differences, and are two very, very distinct talents.

Kisses, and BE STRONG,


Dear Aunt Fugly,

I have a problem for you. I'm dating a man whose parents are really, really conservative. I am not: my hair is purple right now, and I have my nose, my navel, both eyebrows, and both nipples pierced. My boyfriend doesn't have any problem with the way I look, and it's never been a problem in my life (I am an executive at American Apparel, and I think they PREFER me to look sort of edgy). I love looking like this. For the first time in my life, I feel like my outsides match my insides, and I'm really happy. And my boyfriend and I are getting pretty serious. I think we might even get married.

I bet you can see where this is going: I'm flying out to Connecticut with him to meet his family, and I don't know what to do about the piercings and the hair. Should I take them all out and dress down to make his parents happy? I do want them to like me, because they have a good relationship with my boyfriend. But if the boyfriend and I get married, does that mean I have to take out all my piercings and dye my hair everything we visit my in-laws? I don't want to do that. Wouldn't it be smarter to sort of just hit them with me as I am right off the bat? I honestly don't know. What should I do, Aunt Fugly?

Help Me,

Edgy Bride-to-Be

Dear EBB,

That is tough. Piercings and funky hair and stuff are totally perfect for those times when you want to say, "I am not not edgy," and then sometimes sweeter hair and less eyeliner and your sister's clothes are better for when you want to say, "I am not not not edgy." And, like, there's two sides to every story. See what I mean? You do.

But, you could take a page from the Duff sisters up there and make your sister look exactly like a preppy version of you, and send her off to meet the family. Or just ask your boyfriend what look he wants you to have, and then just do whatever he says. That way, everybody wins! Except you sometimes, but don't be selfish -- life is bigger than you.

I think I know what this is really about: You hate working at American Apparel, and you can't figure out why their stuff doesn't cost, like, $2 like at Forever 21, and anyway, WHO buys any of those mad ugly jersey dresses that they're selling?

Actually, my sister might. Which ... you know, maybe they are kind of cute! I'll take ten, in a variety of colors, okay? You can use your employee discount. Thanks!

Dear Aunt Fugly,

What should a nice girl wear to cut a bitch? If it helps, the bitch in question USED to be my best friend, before she started DATING MY HUSBAND. Neither of our divorces are final yet, and she's involved in a messy custody battle, so I really don't see how she has time to run all over Europe with MY HUSBAND, but APPARENTLY SHE DOES. I thought I would be able to just let this go and be the adult in this situation, but I really, really just want to choke her out. The question is: What does one wear in that instance? In my experience, whenever I've had to do something slightly nefarious -- for work, always, in the past -- I've worn a very, very short skirt and very high shoes, and let my roots grow out a bit. But that was a long time ago. What does a righteous bitch wear in 2006?


She Never Should Have Messed With Me; I Once Forced A Man To Commit Suicide So I Could Steal His Job


You might want to call Star Jones. She's a smart lady lawyer, I hear, and I think she may have cut more than one bitch on more than one occasion; she also can probably get you some bangin' Payless shoes so that you don't get blood on the ones that actually cost you money.

But I also think you should remember that violence is not the answer. The way mature people handle their disputes is not through rage or revenge, dear letter-writer -- after all, wasn't it Jesus Christ himself who told us, "Karma is a bitch"? No, the best way to purge yourself of negativity is writing very, very pointed songs with extremely thinly veiled references to the people who made you vengeful.

EVERYONE is doing it, dude. It's true. Check it: Lindsay Lohan hates the paparazzi ("Rumors"), I didn't steal her boyfriend ("I Didn't Steal Your Boyfriend"), Britney broke Justin's heart with her vagina ("Cry Me A River"), Britney pines for Justin during every waking moment and half her unconscious ones as well ("Everytime"), my sister screwed around on Nick and it didn't bother him that much because he hated her by then with the white-hot fire of a thousand STDs but he was able to channel his imagined grief into a song that did well on iTunes for about three days ("Insert Name Of Song Here" -- my Dad wouldn't let me look it up or else I don't get my allowance), the Hanson brothers have a tragic addiction to food ("MMM-Bop"), and Fergie is not a man but could still potentially be a hermaphrodite ("My Humps").

So my point is, start a recording career. And also maybe call Star Jones. She is scary and might even cut the bitch for you for free.



Posted by H & J at 01:42 PM in Ask Aunt Fugly | Permalink

February 14, 2006

Periodically, as their busy spa and Spider Club schedules allow, celebrity experts will join us to answer your questions about how to fug up your life as thoroughly as they do theirs. This week's expert has been writing a book in utero for the past eight... no, four... five? Six! Six months. It's entitled, When Is A Turkey Baster Not a Turkey Baster; in addition, the fetus is considered the leader in studies of the genetic correlation between dimple depth and hyperactivity.

Q. Dear Aunt Fugly,

I hope you can help me. Until recently, I was a freelance writer who worked from home. I also have four small children, so as you can imagine, I'm really busy and don't have a lot of time for myself. This past week, I accepted my dream job working at a magazine you've definitely heard of. My problem? I've worked in sweats and jeans for years and I don't have any kind of work wardrobe. I don't even know where to start! What kind of basics should I invest in so I can come to work and look chic and professional, without blowing my entire salary before I even earn it?


If Only Anna Wintour Condoned Yoga Pants

Dear I Bet She Would Snap To It If Prada Made Them,

I can certainly relate to feeling underdressed. Just the other day, there were about sixteen people and seven needles peeking up in here and I hadn't even showered. It's a drain, you know? All I want to do is write my thesis, and instead I'm getting poked and prodded, and then there are the emotional highs and lows, which are ALL lows -- I swear to GOD Mom's heaving sobs are going to turn me into a really motion-sick ki… OW! Stop it, I… OUCH!

I mean, everything's fine, it's all sunshine and sloppy kisses and I think all the auditing by osmosis is really starting to work. I even wrote a poem about the man who they keep making me listen to; want to hear it? Okay. It goes like this:

Old L. Ron Hubbard
Got locked in a cupboard
While he was home alone.
When he got free
Not a week later, but three,
He looked kind of pale and crazy and he was babbling about thetans and I seriously think a can of corn cracked his

AAH, motherf$#%r, that hurt. Fine. FINE. I'll be your pimp.

Yoga lady, you know why you have no clothes? Because you're miserable, you're probably hooked on pills, and you have a deficient personality. Diuretics can -- YEEEEOW -- I mean, dianetics, can help.

Christ, or I guess Hubb, do I ever need some Aleve. I bet I'm never getting any.

Dear Aunt Fugly,

So a project I did last year has gotten a ton of acclaim, to the extent that three out of the four people who worked on it got nominated for this really important award thingie that's happening next month. You guessed it: I was the one person who was left out. I feel terrible about it, but it's not like it'll do any good to complain. I feel like the best recourse for me is to show up at the award thingie looking really, really, really good. The other girl just had a baby, so you'd think it would be easy to look hotter than she does, but she's been looking annoyingly great lately. I kind of want to die, to tell you the truth, Aunt Fugly. Why didn't anyone recognize ME? I worked hard on this project! God! Okay. Yoga breaths. Anyway, I need to show up at this awards thingie looking really awesome. Do you think it would be a good idea to do it up classy, or sexify myself, like, hardcore? You know, for attention. I honestly am so turned around. I don't know which way to go with this. Please help.


If I Didn't Value My Anonymity, I'd Mention That I'm The Only One With Julie Andrews's Cell Phone Number, SO THERE.

Dear Maybe You Should Go Into Something Else, Like Real Estate -- I Bet Your Face Would Look Great On A Bench,

Gosh, so sorry to hear that, best of luck, give up now and spend the day getting charm lessons from Mary Poppins, etc., etc., best regards.

Now, let's get to what really matters here: Can you get me Michelle Williams' number? Michelle and Heath look like such a nice, happy couple. They hold hands a lot just like my parents, but it never looks like she's being dragged, you know? And her eyes are never puffy. I bet Heath is a great Dad and she's dressing really well and doesn't seem to stand for those strange snap-crotch bodysuits, and I don't care what boat trip I get to take when I hit OT Level VIII at the earliest age in history and I don't WANT to find out that I used to be an intergalactic walrus with a penchant for dating Martian bishops, and while we're here, I don't think I really WANT to be the alien heir of a religious overlord, would YOU? MICHELLE! MICHELLE, I LOVE YOUR HAIR. PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GET ME OUT OF HERE -- OWWWWW, that HURTS, don't MAKE ME come out there, Elfman, or … or I'll… I'll have to… what's that delightful music?... Gee, can't remember what I was saying, all of a sudden.

Oh! I know what it was: Lord Xenu wants you to know that your E-meter readings are in the stratosphere, and you register a -35 on the tone scale. Seek help (and bring your checkbook).

Dear Aunt Fugly,

All right, so I sort of hit a guy with my car yesterday, which, okay, look: I'm sorry, all right? Are you people happy now? Christ. So anyway, I guess I need to go to traffic court, or some stupid shit, like, dudes? I threw down with Paris Hilton over Rick f'ing Salomen, okay? I was married to him. Rick Salomon. That's hardcore. So I am not scared of traffic court. I mean, I had to look into the cavern of Tori Spelling's grody cleavage for like years, you know? I am totally not scared of some judge. And it's not like this is even the worst thing I've ever done. For three years in a row, I stole Gabrielle Carteris's lunch out of her trailer every day of the week, okay? That's like, malicious. This was just an ACCIDENT. So I really don't know why everyone is making such a big deal about it. Anyway, the thing is, I have no idea what you're supposed to wear to traffic court. My boyfriend told me to wear a body suit and a vest and hope the judge was a big Brenda Walsh fan, but I punched him in the face, so don't try to get funny on me with your answer, okay, bitch?


Yeah, You SHOULD Choose Yourself, Kelly Taylor, Because No One Else Wants You --YEAH, I SAID IT


It's like Kelly Preston always says: We are all the stars of our own little space operas, and sometimes, you just can't expect your husband to be your co-star, because he's really tired and he has a really important spirit massage scheduled with his guru Randy, who isn't licensed to purge and cleanse a woman's aura and THAT'S why he calls himself a mansseuse and that is the ONLY reason.

So, what I’m saying is, you probably shouldn't have punched your boyfriend, because there is really no way aside from The Magic of Brenda that you are getting out of this one; Xenu asks that you recite to Leah Remini a thousand Hail Helatrobus oaths in order to make up for indulging in violence.

And then, maybe give me your autograph. I secretly love you and I think you would've made a kick-ass mother of Hubb 2.0: The Hubbening. But unfortunately, that didn't happen, so I need to settle for having a photo of you on the uterine lining. You can wait until I come out, I guess, but I might try and stay up in here as long as possible, so if you could just roll it up really small and send it via Baster Mail, that would rule. Heh -- could you write, "Brenda likes it out of this world," and then sign? Please?

Wait, why am I asking? I'm the friggin' heir to the throne of the Hub. I own a beliefs system, bitches! I KNEW there would be a perk to this somewhere along the line. Because, sure, you're the star of your own space opera, but that can be cancelled, if you get my meaning. You don't want your space opera to get cancelled because the Fifth Invader Force weekly newsletter -- The Space Station 33 Sentinel -- panned it as, "the type of piffle only a Venusian would watch, and also, the chairs were really uncomfortable in the theater," now, do you? Because if that happens, poof, you're done. You're my Mom, and you have no career, and you read the Factory Girl script in bed at night when you think no one's paying attention because you are still sort of hoping Sienna Miller will get canned even though they're done shooting already.

And you don't want that to happen. That's a fate worse than dea… OH, FINE, Elfman, I'll take a nap if you'll stop zapping me like a goddamn OT I or something.

Sigh, "Kate is a delightful talent," yawn. Now do what I say or I will bust your ass back down to the just-created OT Level Negative Twenty, where your thetans will writhe in the agony of interstellar sin.

PS: Wear what Brenda wore to the spring fling when she gave it up to Dylan. EVERYBODY loves thinking about Dylan. Toodles!

Posted by H & J at 05:39 PM in Ask Aunt Fugly | Permalink

September 16, 2005

Periodically, as their busy spa and Spider Club schedules allow, celebrity experts will join us to answer your questions about how to fug up your life as thoroughly as they do theirs. This week's expert has an advanced degree in pharmacology and is studying for an additional masters in legal briefs

Q. Dear Aunt Fugly,

My stepmother always told me never to wear brown and black together. Not ever. But, she also told me never to wear white after Labor Day, never to go out without a bra on, and never to wear a skirt without panty hose. Obviously she's outmoded. Still, every time I consider about pairing my favorite black pants with a new brown top I just bought, I get hives. Help! I don't want to be a prisoner to old rules! Do I still have to follow them? If not, how do I get them out of my head?


What Can Brown Do For You

A.  Dear What Can Brown Too Many Words To Type,

Can you believe they fucking sent me back to rehab, man? That's bullshit. I am NOT ON GOD DAMN DRUGS except for the stuff I have to take for my bad back which is really seriously pretty bad.  Hey, are those Cheetos? I love Cheetos. And Fritos. And Tostitos. God, I seriously can't stop eating. I should go to Wendy's. Yeah, for a Frosty. And one of those square hamburgers they have. Two square hamburgers. Three square hamburgers.

Hang on while I stick my foot over my head for a minute.

Right, your stupid fucking problem. I don't care. Wear whatever you want. Rules are for ASSHOLES.

Q. Dear Aunt Fugly,

What does a girl wear to an annulment? Is Carolina Herrera too much? And, how much time should I wait before contacting my ex? He might be married, but I'm pretty sure that was just a revenge wedding because I married a gay alien and he wasn't happy about it. Maybe I should wear something seductive so I can go right over to his place after I sign the papers? I'm nervous! God, I need a rice grain.

You complete me,

Afraid of Carbs

A. Dear You Had Me At I DON'T CARE,

You know, you people don't have real problems. I have real problems. I'm having Alan Partridge's baby and no I'm not yes I am no I'm not yes I am WHERE IS MY HAMBURGER? I WILL THROW THIS MICROPHONE STAND AT YOUR HEAD. No, I won't. See? It's just a banana. Banana. BANANA! B-A-N-A-N-A-N-A-N-A-N-A-N-A -- that reminds me, I have to call Stefani. Talk about people who can't DRESS. She makes ME look like -- hey, remember when I dressed all classy and shit? Like when I was in that movie with that guy from Cheers. Man, he had the best weed. I should call him except I totally don't remember his name anymore.

I'm going to take a nap now.

Oh, about your stupid fucking annulment like are you aware of the fact that I am a WIDOW? YOU'RE VERY INSENSITIVE. WEAR WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT, BITCH.

Q. Dear Aunt Fugly,

Y'all! I'm a MOM! But listen up, though, because now I have a serious dilemmon. (I just learned that word! This is my first time using it. I hope I did okay! I just read in some book that if you use big words around the house your kids will stay off the crack, or something so I am practicing now so I am good at it by the time the baby is old enough to hear and stuff.)

Okay, so, here's the deal. I just gave birth (it was soooo sweet and loving, y'all -- my husband couldn't even be there because he was so afraid of fainting from love! Isn't he sweet?) and so now my lawyers told me I have to lose 60 lbs in two weeks, but... I looooooooooooooove my maternity clothes! Y'all, do you even KNOW how much they hide? As a test I taped three bags of Ruffles to my bra and walked around the house for an hour and nobody noticed. Although my husband was kind of preoctopied (whee! That was a good one. I totally would have passed those FATs or STAs or whatever that test with all the bubble-thingies was called. I am so lucky I didn’t ever graduate high school) by some papers he was trying to understand. He kept growling and saying something about a "loophole," but I don't understand why, because he doesn't even wear belts!

The trick is, nobody has made it fashionable to wear maternity shirts and pants even when you're not earning interest on his deposit. (Hee! That's what my husband calls it. I don't know why he keeps talking about money all the time but maybe he is looking into becoming a financial analyst or something like that because he told me to fire mine because he wanted to cook the books himself. AND he wanted to name the baby Dead President, but I told him that wouldn't work, ever, because what if he was president? Would he be President Dead President? That's so confusing! And so then he suggested Shut It as a name, I think, but I said a two-letter middle name is bad sheng fui or whatever, so he said, "How about calling it, 'Moooooooo,'" and then I cried a little and told him he was so mean that devil would dry up his swimmers and he'd never have another little baby and he was all, "Good, it's about goddamn time," and so I ran away and sat in the corner and meditated and talked to the red string, and it told me to name my son "Preston," because it's kind of a combination of "Priest" and "Justin," which means he'll be the perfectest little baby ever because he'll be all righteous and pious and stuff, but he'll also love dancing and singing just as much as he loves the Lord. … Hmm, unless the red string said "Presley" and not "Priest"… in which case he would probably love drugs, so I'd better start using more big words in my vocabilory because if my baby ends up addicted to crack or whatever I will be very sad because I don't even think they have a wing at Promises for babies. But maybe he would just love sandwiches, which is okay because everyone loves sandwiches!)

Where was I? Oh yeah -- Gwen Stefani needs to start wearing maternity clothes every day, so that I can too, don't you think. Can you give me that? I can't register for it even though I tried. The lady at the Wal-Mart just laughed at me which I think was really sort of rude. Also, it's hard to breast feed with Doritos taped to your chest. Have you tried? I asked my Mama to come help me but she said she was busy and then I saw that she was cutting up all my credit cards -- I think so that she and Kevin and me and Jamie Lynn can all have a piece to use. That was really injeanis of her, don't you think? I love her even if she did say she was going to take me and the baby and fly us far far away so that Kevin could never find us. I am pretty sure she just meant for a vacation.

Thanks for the advice, Auntie! I love you!

A.Dear Stupid Girl,

I forgot your question.

Okay, enough with the questions. I have to go to my lawyer's office AGAIN to do something about something that I don't remember. All I know is, if this is about how Dave Grohl is all pissed that I burned down the shed in his backyard WHICH I AM PRETTY SURE I DID NOT DO, I am OUT OF THERE.

Posted by H & J at 03:02 PM in Ask Aunt Fugly | Permalink

August 03, 2005

Periodically, as their busy spa and Spider Club schedules allow, celebrity experts will join us to answer your questions about how to fug up your life as thoroughly as they do theirs. This week's expert has an advanced degree in overaccessorizing and is studing for her doctorate in enamels.

Q. Dear Aunt Fugly,

My sister is getting married this September and has asked me to be in the wedding. Great! Except the dress she wants me to wear is totally hideous: lime green satin, with a hoop skirt and matching hat. Do I tell her that I look like a deranged lime in this get-up, or keep my mouth shut?

No One Ever Told Me My Sister Was Blind

A. Oh my God, like, that's totally tragic. Blind people are totally the real heroes. Except for all the other heroes, like soldiers, and poor dead Dr. Atkins, and little Zahara Jolie. I can totally relate to your sister because one time, my sister gave me some of her mascara and I put so much on that it clumped and glued my eyes shut. I cried for three days and then burned a picture of Aaron Carter.

Anyway, what were we talking about? Oh yeah -- your sister is stupid and has bad taste in fashion. You and I are, like, totally the same, NOETMMSWB! And I can't keep my mouth shut about it! I mean, physically, I can't, because these things are, like, veneers on steroids. You know what you should do? Take some scissors to the dress and cut it up, like I did at the VMAs when I turned my Armani pants into Armani shorts. Then slouch a little and wear forty-five necklaces along with some cowboy boots, and you will look, like, totally fantastic, and everyone will tell you that you're the real star.

Or, you could just tell your sister she's dumb and much uglier than you are, although that tends to get people grounded. Trust me. Ouch!

Q. Dear Aunt Fugly,

I have a problem. Until about a year ago, I was a nun at the Monastery of the Angels. After a lot of soul-searching, I eventually left the convent and reentered the world. I'm very happy with my decision. However, I have no idea what a 29 year old woman is supposed to wear here on the outside. Fashion magazines are impractical, and celebrities are no help. My friends all tell me I look fine, but I feel totally lost. Can you give me some advice on some basics I should have in my wardrobe?

Don't Call Me Sister

A. Wow, you're, like, totally pious! I love God! He's so awesome! What a wicked beard!

Anyway, Sister Don't Call Me Sister, dressing doesn't have to be hard, you know. Two words: Teeth.

I find that a nice set of veneers dresses up any outfit. Fangs are incredibly slimming -- I mean, look how hollow my cheeks look -- and everything goes with white, even after Labor Day, so ignore all those people like my sister who will tell you that you have to paint your enamels black from September until Easter. My  teeth are totally natural -- they just took a while to develop, You know? Every girl gets her teeth at a different time in her life. But you could probably buy some really good ones from... oh, off the top of my head... Dr. James X. Morgan III, Esq., in Beverly Hills, who is in the book and has a framed, autographed photo of me on the wall even though he's never touched my mouth, ever, and those X-rays are totally faked.

Q. Dear Aunt Fugly: I do not know what to do. I keep seeing photos of my ex-fiance's pregnant assface human incubator and it MAKES ME SO MAD, I WANT TO BUY WEST VIRGINIA AND THEN CLOSE IT JUST TO MAKE HER CRY, BECAUSE THAT WILL TEACH HER TO COOK SPERM EGGS! Except my Mar... er, husband... is hibernating right now in that coffin he bought on eBay, and I don't know when he's coming out, and I can't buy West Virginia until he  has written us a sultry duet about bubble baths! Help me, por favor, I am furious!

Also, what should I wear when I am crowned Queen of West Virginia and declare that stupid high-cheekboned baby chute an enemy of the state?


Alias Schmalias, Stupida!

A. Aw, poor ASS. That, like, TOTALLY sucks! Believe me, I totally know your pain -- I so know what it's like to have somebody who is, like, completely trying to copy your life, and you wish she would get the hell off your coattails, already, and have her own stupid career and stop trying to upstage you with nice teeth and a bony face. But you know what helps? Caps. They do for your mouth what newsboy hats do for the rest of you -- a little something extra, extra. HA HA HA, get it?

For your coronation, dear sweet ASS, you must wear pants that hide your shoes -- they make you look taller! It's the best secret in town! -- and some scarves. About seven. Then march over to her house, announce that your she has no taste in clothes and looks like a man and can't even sing, no matter what your record exec tells her, and 7th Heaven is like so totally over, dude, so would she please just stop acting like a bitch and stop trying to Single White Female you, and stuff?!?!? ... Then flip one of your scarves over your shoulder, steal her whitening toothpaste, and leave. Easy.

Okay, I'm off! I have to back-brush my hair 100 times every day in order to make it look as rock-and-roll as possible, because (ssssh!) my boyfriend is in a band. Good luck, you guys! Watch for my Stuff By Duff false teeth on sale soon at Target! Smooches!

Posted by H & J at 04:26 PM in Ask Aunt Fugly | Permalink


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