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April 17, 2008

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,

G


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,

G


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,

G


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),

G

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

February 26, 2008

Oscar Fug Carpet: Intern George's Date (Sorry, George)

Being the employers of one of the country's sauciest bachelors and smoothest-sailing dreamboats, we understand Sarah Larson's pain: All eyes are on her because George brought a date, she's the only one of his string of brunette-bots that he's brought to something like this, the magazines are screaming that she's the lucky girl who'll get him to commit again, and she knows we're all wondering why Clooney is making out with a girl who once ate a scorpion on Fear Factor.

But dating Intern George has its plus side -- you know, one or two -- and that is the fact that designers were probably throwing gowns at her by the dozen in an effort to woo her into their camp for the Oscars. She must have had an entire room at the villa full of options, and she picked this:

It's apparently a Valentino couture dress, but it looks more like Jessica McClintock passed out one night on top of a book of Monet paintings and woke up with drool on her cheek and a jones for wearable water lilies. We complained about a lack of interesting colors at the Oscars this year -- it was all red and black, making me wonder if there was a poker theme we didn't know about -- but I'm not sure I can get behind a crazy melange of pastels that may once have upholstered a couch in the lobby of my grandmother's condo building in Florida.

Oh, George, don't be like that. You know we're right. We're not saying she's not NICE -- not that we'd know, though, since we never heard her say anything all night and you never bring her around for dinner or Diet Coke breaks or donuts, but WHATEVER. So chill with the skepticism. Also, you've never seen that couch.

That's better. Now come home! We want to hear more stories about Tilda Swinton.

Posted by Heather at 11:24 AM in Intern George, Oscars | Permalink

January 31, 2008

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: Not Above The Law

This is to say paris your  not above the law !!!!!YOur  driving that way  and  more than one time is  pathetic ,  you  could  of killed  someone and hurt them  very badly .Can ya  deal with that ????Hope the  law  gives you the  most penalty  that  can be  given ,  you  deserve it totally , no  sympathy for you  period .  And there's  no  muff for your  tiolet  seat  either , so enjoy  that !!!!!!!Get it  good !!!!Not a  Fan  !!!!!!!

Dear Friend,

Playing Sherlock Holmes for a second on this vague, veiled missive, I am sensing feelings of rich disdain. A very wise person once told me, "The sum of your feeling equals the number of exclamation points you use when you're in a wicked strop." Here's a hint: Her name started with "M" and ended in "other Teresa." I thought we'd topped the scale at 14, which were the number she used in a handwritten missive to me raging against the cancellation of Models, Inc., but your 23 push things into the next stratosphere. Such passion! My toes are curling, pet. And you're right, if there's one thing that scaly heiress needs, it's a tiolet seat sans muff. But that doesn't mean I can't knit one for myself...

Getting it good,

G


E-mail #2

Subject line: (none)

hey can u tell amanda bines to stay out of my garbage can thanx

Dear Friend,

I understand your concerns; Anne Heche was once in my garbage can for three weeks. It was awkward, but she wove me potholders out of my old Coffee Bean cups, so how could I begrudge her? I urge you, put on your empathy pants and consider things from your visitor's perspective: Did it ever occur to you there might be a reason Amanda Bynes is in your garbage can? Maybe she was just passing by, and lost an earring. Maybe you threw out a sweater she thought would make a great piece for her clothing line. Maybe she's rooting around to try and find your Social Security Number so that she can steal your identity and run off to Fiji to escape memories of Sydney White. Gosh, maybe she saw an intergalactic wolf-sprite peeking out at her, begging her to return with it to another galaxy and save the world by spawning a new civilization with Andy Dick (although I've heard that before, ahem, ANNE, and it didn't happen, so tread carefully if Amanda tries that old chestnut).

My point is, stretch out your arms and embrace the unknown -- in this case, the reasons a Hollywood starlet is standing on your lawn nape-deep in your trash. There is nothing a hug of curiosity can't answer. But bring noseplugs if you ate fish recently.

Feeling whiffy,

G


E-mail #3

Subject line: words "Go Fug Yourself" sure is a fashion reject

the words "go fug yourself" sure is a a verbal fashion reject. it has very BAD connotation.  you probably thought you were oh so cute, but it is a blight on the culture. here you are, pointing out the errors of others, with a blattant business name that is depressing and demeaning.

Dear Friend,

It is? It does? Bless, you sweet peach of knowledge -- I learn so much from reading the GFY e-mail. For instance, I only found out the other day that Britney is just like the rest of us, and that Hilary Duff needs her head shaved by someone who cares. But consider me your knight in shining tuxedo. Once I explain this to the girls, we'll have a renaming summit, going for something that really sends out positive vibes. We'll get all the best cuddle-monkeys in the business together -- David Cassidy, Faye Dunaway, that Verizon guy... It's going to be  magnificent. Gird your loins, Officer Sweetpea of the Reject Police, because it's going to set them aflutter and the ensuing round of hugs will shake the smog layer clean out of Los Angeles.

HappyFashionPancakes.com,

G


E-mail #4

Subject line: hi

I am interested in know an famous people do you can help me ? Thanks

Dear Friend,

I can do better than that. I can hold you. I can sate your thirst, and sup on your elixir of yearning for some celebrity sparkle. My name is George. I wear many hats, but my most cherished is the Intern headdress strapped to my grateful cranium every time I get to man the bar at GFY HQ. I cherish sarcasm, pigs, human rights, and silk pillowcases. Sometimes when I close my eyes, I can whiff the world, and it smells like truffles. Hugs are my kryptonite but also my moisturizer. Feel this. Know me. Let's buy each other dinner and then watch it get cold, to remind us that the piece of our hearts we gave to one another lives somewhere else.

I must go. Celebrity Apprentice beckons like a post-coital sandwich.

You're hired,

G

Posted by Heather at 12:59 PM in Intern George | Permalink

September 12, 2007

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: (no subject)

if i can i have britneys real adress id be sooo happy

Dear Friend,

My deepest apologies for holding out on you, but it took a great many covert operations, stolen embraces, and bended-knee pleading (in a tux!) to get that overprotected information. It wasn't easy on my conscience -- I left a lot of dazed, vigorously hugged people in my wake, walking around bumping into walls with silly grins on their faces and flowers tucked into their hair. And trust me, the crazy sight of Kevin Federline plucking thorns from a rose before affixing the blossom to his do-rag is not something I'll soon forget. So forgive me, fellow believer -- ordinarily I would be a slave for you, but I can't release such sensitive information to rival fan clubs in case other people's intentions are more toxic than mine. But I'm sending her over a bundt cake and some Noxzema with one of those musical Hallmark cards (it plays the Dallas theme song, which makes my heart sing on a blue day), so I'll include a note about how much you want to hug her, baby, one more time.

Not a girl, not yet a woman,

G


E-mail #2

Subject line: jealous

ease up on my girl bai ling. she is every mans ideal woman. I AM SICK IN LOVE WITH BAI LING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!. I THINK YOU ARE JEALOUS. dont worry, not all white guys drool over her-just the straight ones!

Dear Friend,

It's true that I'll never fill out hot pants and a bustier quite like Bai Ling. And what Earthly soul wouldn't sit awake in bed hugging naught but his or her knees -- gazing out the window like Little Orphan Annie on another hopeless eve under Miss Hannigan's thumb -- and wondering why blessed Bai got 19 personalities that look great in tutus and we all only get one? But I dispute that she's every man's ideal woman. I was born to cradle the world in my healing embrace. How could I fulfill that destiny that with sprightly Bai? To quote the nuns in another great movie musical, how do you catch a cloud and pin it down? How do you keep a wave upon the sand? How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand? My mortal arms were made for squeezes; she is the Milky Way, and I'm just a man on the ground staring up at the night sky. Perhaps we could comfort each other in our mutually futile quests?

Weeping now for what will never be,

G


E-mail #3

Subject line: (no subject)

does nicole ritie have a sister

Dear Friend,

For this one, I let my fingers do the walking and my arms do the talking! I arrived on Mrs. Ritie's doorstep yesterday afternoon, and after we revived her, it took but one dose of my warming wingspan to get the information you need: No, she hasn't been off her feet all day and yes, she would love a cup of tea and a foot rub; no, she doesn't completely feel appreciated by her children for the fact that she irons their bedsheets and pillowcases after washing them; yes, she'd love it if I'd whip up an elegant dinner she can pretend she made so that her husband stops complaining about eating so Lean Pockets for supper; yes, she does love her four sons even when they get into the cookie jar and feed stale baked goods dipped in salad dressing to the dog; yes, the dog is going to be just fine now that they've pumped its stomach; and, no, her daughter Nicole Ritie does not have a sister, because she got her tubes tied after the last time her youngest child hung from the ceiling fan while the oldest turned it up to "High."

I hope this helps. Thank you for giving me such a cherished mission, by the way; I scored a wicked recipe for lemon bars and a mocha souffle.

Baked with pride,

G


E-mail #4

Subject line: coolio

thats fo nay!!!!!

Dear Friend,

A CODE! Good fun! Let's see... it's probably an anagram, so... "Fat, stony? Ha!" No, that doesn't seem right.  How about,  "Hat fonts? Ay!" Or, "Any hot, fast?" Hmm, that might be closer, because I am a purveyor of hugs of all speeds and temperatures. Oh, I love jokes and games -- thanks for this divine japery! It's just what I needed after I failed to unite E-mailer #3 with the Ritie family child of his dreams. Go outside and look to the east. Open your arms. Do you feel that? Good! Assuming none of nature's creatures took you for their enemy during this moment of meditation, you should be able to sense my aura. Feel the breeze envelop you as I would.

I'm like the wind,

G

Posted by Heather at 06:17 AM in Intern George | Permalink

August 02, 2007

Intern George Adam's Apple Watch

Beloved Intern George,

I'm not really fugging you. I promise we're not mad at you. We could NEVER be mad at you, unless, I suppose, we found out you'd been eating babies in your spare time, but I'm confident that won't turn out to be the case, because a) you are only a cannibal in the sense that you devour our inner demons and spit them back out as sunshine and rainbows, and b) you don't seem to be eating that much of anything these days, frankly.

The British press is concerned. Readers are worried. And while we know it's not exactly fair to compare you in the throes of Oscar weight-gain to you now several years later, it can't be denied that your neck cords are looking unusually pronounced lately. We could pluck those and play beautiful music. [Which, by the way, maybe we should do when you get back from your summer vacation, just because we haven't done that yet and we know how much you love how ticklish you are.]

Mostly, we're just writing to make sure you take care of yourself when you aren't under our watchful eyes. Remember all the things we taught you about pasta? And sandwiches? And pasta sandwiches? It's like the New World natives told those pesky, lanky Brits when they landed: "A carbohydrate plate a day keeps the Adam's apple at bay." Seeing you like this makes me feel like we sent you off to boarding school without any lunch money, and you're reduced to eating table scraps and whatever you can bargain for from the other students in exchange for staying up all night and finishing their essays on "Nebuchadnezzar: Tyrant or Titan?".

Hugs and love,
Heather

Posted by Heather at 01:08 PM in Intern George | Permalink

June 20, 2007

Lauren Fugbrose

No, Lauren Ambrose. No. Nice try, but I won't let you break me. I've been broken before and Intern George needed to pick up the pieces and it wasn't pretty (even if, secretly, it was sort of fun for me to have my pieces picked up by such a... ... um... loyal employee).

So, I will just quietly note that no matter how great you were with Seth Green in Can't Hardly Wait, and as much as I wish that movie had been about you and not that kind of wussy Ethan Embry character, I can't willingly endorse this look.

I don't even care if you're about to deploy jazz hands, or spirit fingers. The pants under the dress, and those shoes WITH the pants, are SERIOUSLY MISGUIDED, lady. ESPECIALLY DURING SUMMER. I just... I mean... it's... I can't...

Ig_headshot"Deep breath, Heather, calm down... BE the jazz hands... that's right. Is your pulse slowing down? Good. Because, sweet fugger, I have a cunning plan to save the day, so hop on the Georgie Express and have a listen. Zooey Deschanel owns way too many pairs of opaque black tights, correct? And Lauren Ambrose apparently doesn't own any, or else she might be wearing them instead of her favorite pair of Boyfriend Jeans from two years ago. So, Lauren should just give Zooey a jingle, arrange to relieve her of a few of those 60-denier security blankets, and the world will continue spinning properly on its axis because everything will be in better balance. We all win! Jazz hands for everyone. Let your spirit fingers waggle freely like hug-worms of elation, because it's chocolate martini time."

Sigh. Thank you, George. You are such a comfort. Also, feel free to give the Godiva liqueur a heavy pour. Don't hold back.

Posted by Heather at 01:01 PM in Intern George | Permalink

June 07, 2007

Lisa Fugdon

So... do we think Lisa Snowdon's enormous lingerie-blouse is what drew George Clooney to her, or what pushed him away?

I mean, I'm pretty sure I have relatives who wore shirts like that in the '70s, but they were probably polyester and patterned like a discount-bin rug rather than being sheer and lacy. Nice legs, though, but seriously -- in that thing, a stiff breeze could be her gynecologist. (Or her lover.)

Let's ask the man who was once one of those things -- and possibly both; he does seem to be a George of All Trades. So tell us, Intern George, what do you make of that outfit?

"Oh, Lisa, pet, my love ferret. Such a cry for help. I can't turn away. I must come to you, take you home, straight back to your closet... I... WAIT A SECOND.

"STOP THE PRESSES. This smells fishy. This is how we kept getting back together the first few times! She would wear clothes that cried out for camisoles and pants or being thrown on a bonfire because she KNOWS it's not in me to withhold a hug from someone so needy! I feel so betrayed. I am the lonely goatherd and she is Julie Andrews, yanking my strings and yodeling. I can't look any longer. I ... I need a bottle of champagne and cuddle on a chaise longue and a pair of leggings to cut up. I need to forget."

We hear you, George. We'll be right there.

Posted by Heather at 11:52 AM in Intern George | Permalink

April 06, 2007

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: is this website for real

I cant believe you guys have nothing better to with your time than put every one down. All the celebreties are either to thin or to fat, to ugly, dressed wrong according to you, ( the fashion experts,) or just not good enough. It would be interesting to see what you all look like. You just add to the insane vanity of this society. If we all looked the same then mabey we would be acceptable. Good thing we dont or you have have nothing to bitch about. Life is to short. Get a life. We are all just going to end up 6 ft under anyways so what the hell does it matter so much what we look like. Did you know that the way we look does not determine our character in full. Beauty is only skin deep. If you look good, your a bitch and if you dont look good your a loser. Who wins. No one wins. Under the skin we all look the same.

Dear Friend,

You cut me to the core, and I mean that literally. Except without any cutting, because we've all learned -- thanks to Lifetime Television For Interns -- what happens when we abuse ourselves thusly. But, you have caused me to peer within, for underneath this manly, complex skin and warm eyes lies a man as red and squishy as any humble specimen. I am you. You are me. If you cut me, do I not bleed? If you crack my chest, do I not ooze the juice of sexy life? If you root around therein, do I not start flatlining? It seems we are as one, both brimming with the sacred Kool-Aid. I will take that with me into the jacuzzi tub on this eve and ponder our crimson connection, wishing I could wrap a vein around you and massage your vessels with the kind of passion only a hot-blooded George could provide.

Squeezes,

Blood Type G


E-mail #2

Subject line: bitchiness

Janet is the queen, can I get her diet?

Dear Friend,

Often I have gazed upon her abs and wondered whether six-packs grow on trees. For a while I tried, hoping that cross-breeding a lemon tree with barley plants would yield some Corona. Then I realized that the only way to achieve that kind of divinely cuddly muscle definition was lifting some heavy weights. If you have a one hanging around, I highly recommend a Pig Press; it used to be our most special time together. Oh, how he would giggle and snort! I miss him. I... sniff ... collect yourself, G-Spot, collect yourself...

Ahem. I'm okay. Now that he's gone I just do a full lap around my villa every few days for maximum cardio, although if you want the truth, the best way to burn calories and bulk up your biceps is to play TV Tag with a Fug Girl or two during the Passions commercial breaks, or until her martini glass runs dry -- whichever happens first.

Your Lemon Drop,

G


 

E-mail #3

Subject line: (no subject)

im looking for pics of rosanna arquette in a swimsuit

Dear Friend,

Get in line! Why, her work in Desperately Seeking Susan knocked me to the floor. So sultry! We had a long conversation about that the other day in GFY HQ, as a matter of fact, in which we agreed that her work as a French villainess in The Whole Nine Yards was good but not nearly as befitting her talents as that signature, seminal role as a Madonna-obsessed amnesiac with no facial expressions (what a brave creative interpretation!). We then tried to outline a screenplay we could pitch her for a sequel entitled Desperately Seeking Salt & Vinegar, about two women and their quest for a healing back of Kettle Chips. Hey, they say to write what you know! And I'm an Oscar winner, so I have important things to say on that subject.

What were we talking about? Swimming? Personally, although the mad thrashing of the butterfly will always entice me, I'm a breaststroke man myself. And I give demonstrations that are not for the faint of heart. Why, we'll be streaking across the pool in no time!

In Speedos We Trust,

G


 

E-mail #4

Subject line: why are you necessary?

apart from you being the argument against freedom and all, why are you necessary? What's that? People like to hear and see gossip, rumor, and innuendo? They're the same vapid-minded spastics who like you stake out positions of ersatz superiority. Why don't you post your pictures on the net and let me comment on them? I'll bet most if not all of you look like something that crawled out of a lemur's asshole!

Dear Friend (?),
If only you would take a minute to get to know me -- really know me. If you did, you would find that I would only ever put myself on a pedestal if it meant I could clutch a person of great height to my soothing man-bosom. In a free world, we need people like me with open arms and hearts for rent. We need huggers, not fighters.

Plus, my picture is on the Internet. Here. And in magazines, and in homes, in frames; in your hearts and dreams and hope chests. I don't mean to toot my own Georgiehorn, but it cannot be denied that I am as dapper as a fluffy puppy in a blanket (timeless, warm, huggable, dignified yet youthfully excitable). So if I came out of a lemur's anal cavity, sir, well, I would certainly like the Guinness Book of World Records to see that lemur. You know, it's really bringing a tear of grief to my coffee eyes to hear you speak in such a way, because all I've ever done for you is throw wide my wingspan and offer you sanctuary there. For while I would never close my embrace to you, angry Friend, you have closed your heart to me. Woe! Curse my innocent heart! The only remedy for such profound sorrow is to sit on a Fug Girl's knee and lay bare my soul. So off I scamper. Good day sir! I SAID GOOD DAY!

Fug is my Kleenex,

G

Posted by Heather at 08:41 AM in Intern George | Permalink

March 12, 2007

Beloved Friends,

It is with throbbing arms that I thank you for all your support of Go Fug Yourself, which -- thanks to snuggly little nuggets like yourselves -- has won 2007 Bloggies for Best Entertainment Weblog and Most Humorous Weblog. Heather and Jessica weren't actually at SXSW in Austin for the announcement, but they decided to live today as if they were, mainlining margaritas from about 8 a.m. onward and then trying to hold a panel discussion called, "Why Steve Madden Shoes Don't Seem To Fit As Well Anymore, And Also, Yay Blogging." Then I clasped their hands, got down on one knee, and whispered the sweet words they'd longed to hear: "You should really eat some guacamole." And it was while they were delicately, sweetly shoveling that divine green goo into their mouths that we found out our happy news. I am so grateful for your votes, which brought such joy to GFY HQ that I dare say a wee tear squeaked out of my ducts before I dispensed hugs all around. The mailman acted surprised, but he went with it, bless his cuddly heart.

With a caring fist-pump to the sky and a hug in my soul,

Your George

P.S. The link is working now. I was just too overcome to focus properly before -- Heather and Jessica had just given me a raise by upping my daily back-rub quota to two! I've been begging them to let me provide more for them, so the news made me positively giddy.

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

March 02, 2007

Independent Spirit Awards Fug Carpet: Laura Dern

Must... suppress... frustration...

My, what a nice... pedicure! And don't her eyes look lovely. And, gosh, her teeth are so nice and white. What else, what else... oh yes, that dress would look so adorable with a cute pair of strappy sandals AND A BARE LEG, LAURA, PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, YOU WOULD LOOK TOTALLY HOT WITH BETTER SHOES AND NO JEANS OH MY GOD I CAN'T SWALLOW MY RAGE I THINK THIS IS GOING TO [thud] kjghlakdskjlhag

Ig_headshot"Hello friends -- Intern George here. Heather's going to be fine. She turned a little blue in the face and started gesturing wildly before fainting dead away on her computer keyboard. It was so graceful, I applauded for five minutes before I realized it was a real rage blackout. 'Silly George!' I boomed, rife with manly regret. 'Woe betide thee if a Fug Girl gets a concussion on your watch!' But after some extensive CPR and a lot of me fanning her with my 1500 thread-count pillow-cases, which I keep with me at all times just in case I need to lay someone down and hold them all night long, Heather revived. She seemed to think she needed a little more CPR but I hugged her tightly instead and sent her off to a corner, where she's now engaging in her usual ritual of rocking back and forth and screaming, "Why?" She's even regained enough of her senses to start begging Laura Dern for mercy. So, all will soon be well here at GFY HQ; fear not, sweet friends. But I do beg you: Please put your pants away if you're wearing a perfectly lovely cocktail dress. If not for her, then do it for me, your embraceable George. For I can't live another day picking Heather or Jessica up off the floor for any reason OTHER than it's their turn to get a Georgieback ride to the fridge. It's too emotionally taxing." - Intern George

Posted by Heather at 12:21 PM in Intern George, Misc. Awards Shows | Permalink

 

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