Fugpo: The Fugnetic Fugpera

In the wake of news that Project Runway's first season for Lifetime will be shot in Los Angeles, I am concerned that Paris Hilton is putting together a portfolio of pieces for her audition.

I am not sure how else to explain this, except that Paris dared herself to create an outfit from nothing but an existing dress and the contents of Candy Spelling's wrapping room. Which might be spectacularly prescient of her if Macy's pulls out and Tim Gunn is forced to remind his designers to make full use of the Hallmark Gold Crown Store Accessories Wall, but otherwise makes me hope the maid will sneak into Paris's room at night and disable the hot-glue gun.

Fugcholai

Wow. I knew, in the back of my mind, that Nicky Hilton had been looking skinnier and skinnier in the last few months, but it only hit me when I saw her arrive at the L.A. Fashion Week tents on Tuesday night to prep for her Nicholai By Nicky Hilton show.

[Photo: INFDaily]

Holy cats. I hope David Katzenberg has some Godivas and a steak hidden in that box, because, GIRL, no. Your show is behind you now, so please, do yourself a favor and dive into some sourdough.

Fugoli

NICKY: So, my fashion show is toni --

PARIS: HEY! HELLO! TAKE MY PICTURE!

NICKY: Hey! I look cute back here, and I'm, you know, the designer, so maybe you might want to have me in the forefront of --

PARIS: How is that angle? Is that angle working for me? Do I pop in this red? I really do, don't I?

NICKY: Um....hello? Do I have to just...strike a pose at random back here? Do I have to remind everyone that this is my night! IT'S MY NIGH --

PARIS: Don't you just LOOOOVE my half-gloves? I know it's like 90 degrees today and it's March and it's Los Angeles, and even Lindsay Lohan tossed these out at some point in January, but I thought I should support my sister by showing up wearing the most plentiful and obnoxious accessories available so that people would be looking at ME in case the clothes were like really terrible and ugly. I was going to wear those crazy-ass Kanye West venetian-blinds-style sunglasses, but I accidentally drove over them with my car on the way here, along with Benji's foot. WHOOPSIE!

NICKY: I would LIKE IT if someone would, for once, pay attention to m--

PARIS: I'm also planning on wearing this red to her wedding one day. DON'T TELL.

NICKY: I'm planning on killing her one day. Don't tell. Oh, wait: no one is listening to me anyway.

The Fuglie and the Nottie

Dear Diary,

You will never guess what I've got now. Check. It. OUT.

[Photo: infdaily.com]

Doesn't he freaking ROCK? You know how much I've been wanting a baby ever since Nicole got one, but then I realized EVERYONE in this town has babies. It's so ordinary now. But how many celebrities in this town have their very own Wise Old Dude? RIGHT? JACKPOT!!!!! He answered an ad I put on Craigslist looking for a monk, but I'm not sure if he really is, because when I asked him to sing that "I'm A Believer" song as proof he just closed his eyes and cried. He's so SENSITIVE. And colorful! It's awesome, but I'm totally going to give him a makeover next week. He needs some aviator sunglasses and a trucker hat, I think, because you're no one in this town unless you look like an asshole, and they'll never let him into Hyde without them. 

He's already making me smarter, too. We went to this store that's an ENTIRE room full of BOOKS. It's like this whole side of L.A. I didn't know existed! It's SORT of weird that he doesn't seem to want to sleep with me -- not that I really want to sleep with him, but, like, it's the principle of the thing, and I am NOTHING if not principled (what UP, prison thesaurus!), so I put on my best nude fishnets and virginal dress and everything -- but then he started saying something about abstinence, and I could always use better abs, so I'm gonna hold off and just see where he's going with that. Plus, when I kept playing with my split ends during my meditation lesson, he totally broke down and gave me some tips on deep conditioning. Suck on THAT, Nicole! I'd like to see your baby discuss hair products! WHO'S WINNING NOW??!?

Ohmmmmm (or something; I don't know, I don't speak Latin),

Paris

The Fuggie and the Nottie

So....I'm confused. Is it possible that Paris Hilton cracked her head in the bathroom while back-combing her hair and when she came to, instead of, say inventing the flux capacitor, found herself under the mistaken impression that her new movie, The Hottie and the Nottie, was going to be awarded the Palme d'Or, or perhaps was on the receiving end of honors from Kennedy Center?

Because otherwise, I'm not quite sure what the reasoning is behind the Barbie Goes to the Oscars look. Let's be honest: in three-and-a-half years, the girl is likely to be releasing a remake titled The Hottie and the Naughty. Maybe she feels like she has to strike the Major Awards Show Look while the iron...I was going to say "is hot," but let's go with "existed."

Fab AND Fug: Paris Hilton

If GFY had a currency, like Disneyland, or Canada, surely one side would be FUG and the other, FAB, enabling us to make decisions like, "are Ugg boots okay, if it's seventeen below zero?" And on this coin, I can't help but think, would be someone much like Miss Paris Hilton, who is currently at Sundance, surely because she is nothing if not a great patroness of the art of film.

This would be the FAB side:

Okay, technically, it's fab tinged with a hint of Star Trek's Rocking New Year's Eve Party, but she looks cute. I like shiny.

This, of course, would be the FUG side:

PARIS. Stop wearing clothing with pictures of yourself splashed all over them, or with your name on them. Coming from some people, that sort of thing can be sort of self-deprecating  (like when Winona Ryder appeared on the cover of W in a "Free Winona" shirt after her whole shop-lifting to-do), but you can only pull that off when the general public is willing to believe that you can spell "self-deprecating."

Fuggis Hilton

Sometimes I would dearly, dearly love to be a fly on the cavernous, chilly wall of Paris Hilton's cranial attic -- some might call it her "brain," but I tend to think of it more of a "head-space."

[Photo: Splash News]

See, I love that Paris's way of braving the chill and the rain in L.A. was to wear a tiny leather jacket, stretched-thin footless tights, a miniskirt, a halter top she bought the last time she felt it was a Chico's kind of day, and a fedora to fend off approximately three percent of all the precipitation. And so it all makes me want to read her mind-leaflet, to better understand whether she checked herself out in the mirror and went, "Hott, I look like a sexy-awesome person who might suddenly give away a bunch of money to charities to make the world a better place, or might do body shots off your nape." Because MY first thought when I saw it was to check if she's currently starring in a mall production of Guys & Dolls: South Pacific.

National Lampoon's Fug This!

Remember last year -- so long ago! -- when Paris went to prison, and when she came out she vowed to completely change her life by eschewing all that embarrassing public partying and club-crawling, in favor of abandoning her dumb-skank reputation and using her fortune and notoriety to make the world a better place?

[Photo: Splash News]

I wonder how that's going for her.

[Photo: Splash News]

Perhaps one of her "poems" that she "wrote" in prison explores how the simple act of wearing relatively pure white cotton panties is so revirginizing, it doesn't matter if you're flashing them at everyone while rubbing yourself on a stage. If she titles the poem, "Look Who I've Got My Hanes On Now," she might have a shot at a lucrative endorsement deal.

The Hottie and the Fuglie

[Photo: Splash]

PARIS HILTON: Hello, LOVERS!

NICKY HILTON: I'm just going to look over here.

PARIS: And people think I am NOT SMART. I am smart enough to go out on the drunkiest night of the year with my NAME scrawled in the general area of my area, so if people forget my name --

NICKY: -- or if you forget your own name.

PARIS: TOTALLY. What was I talking about?

NICKY: You're smart enough to prepare for the eventuality of forgetting your own name, or for the very likely possibility of your hook-up being too drunk to remember it, so you purposely wore a dress with it scrawled across your gut in sequins.

PARIS:  Oh, right. You sound smart tonight.

NICKY: Just in comparison.

PARIS: Huh?

NICKY: Exactly.

Fuggo: The Genetic Fug

[Photo: Splash News]

"Hi, Nicky, it's me. Your sister. The blond one who isn't you. Some people call me Paris, although I made that one guy call me Lady Cleavage of the Nude the other night and I kind of liked that better because I don't have to share that name with anyone. Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I went through your lingerie drawer after I read your diary -- um, not that your diary has anything to do with this, but I did think it was funny when you wrote "Mary-HATE"  instead of "Mary-Kate" and then drew a devil face on the "O" in "Olsen." Where was I, though? Oh right, your vibrator drawer. I borrowed a slip from you, because after all that itchy, sweaty stretchy velvet, I couldn't handle the idea of that much fabric. YOU know how much I'd always rather be naked. I mean, for one thing, you read it when Man-Paris glued that "I'd Rather Be Naked" bumper sticker to my ass and I kept it for a year just so people would know. Plus, I figure that I wore more material in that one dress than I had the entire YEAR put together! I totally earned the right to wear your nightie with tights. So just deal with it. What's yours is mine, anyway, because I'm older, and that's how it works, which is why I also copied David Katzenberg's number out of your cell-thingy. Okay? Sweet! So... uh, yeah. Call me back when you get this, or one of my other messages. Whatever. Do you have my number? I don't know it but I know it has a three in there somewhere. Bye! Love, Paris. Oh, P.S., I got my shoes from Goodwill. HA! Take THAT, all you people who think I don't do charity work." 

Fugfessions of an Heiress

You know, Paris Hilton takes a lot of crap -- including from us -- about all kinds of things: cultivating a public persona of vapid vacuity as though that were a state to be aspired to; public drunkenness and driving under the influence; and all the needless nudity and sex tapery. But you can't say she never did anything for us:

Frankly, it's downright brave of her to demonstrate the dangers of stretch velvet in public like this. Think of all the people she's saved from heinous crimes of figure-assault this holiday season alone!

Fuggo: The Fugetic Opera

Blurry stills are leaking out from the set of the hotly anticipated -- by people who like to laugh -- Repo! The Genetic Opera, a musical film about hijinks in a world where people's organs are failing like crazy and if you can't keep up with the payments for your replacement parts, a Repo Man comes and fetches 'em out of your body. Doesn't it just already make you want to break into song? It's like Rent combined with a Twilight Zone episode.

Mostly, the only reason anyone is keeping tabs on the movie is because it features Paris Hilton. In a singing part. On purpose. It's allegedly part of her attempt to prove that, like Sears, she has a softer side. A side that actually likes to work hard for the money, so hard for it honey.

[Photo: Splash News]

And yet... doesn't this particular still look less like, "Oh, sweet Paris, she's building a career," than, "Oh, Paris must be making invitations for her next big Halloween party"? This is about what I imagined All Hallows' Eve looks like at her manse: bustiers, wigs, hideous clothing, dry-ice machines desperately belching out ambiance, and of course a pair of muscular naked dudes in harnesses holding parasols. Maybe this movie is more of a documentary than I thought.

Fugs Are Blind

[Photo: infdaily.com]

ALEXA VEGA:  Oh my GOD, I can't believe I'm getting photographed with PARIS HILTON. This is so AWESOME.

PARIS: What are you, person? You remind me of something.

ALEXA: My movie Spy Kids?

PARIS: No! Duh -- I hate science. I think it's... you kind of look like Lindsay Lohan rolling out of some dude's hotel room at seven in the morning.

ALEXA: Dammit, it's the stain on my pants, isn't it? I KNEW it was noticeable.

PARIS: No, that just reminds me of the time I puked all over Nicky's Cyndi Lauper costume.

ALEXA: When you were kids?

PARIS: Yeah, like two whole years ago, and she's STILL mad at it, like, whatever, I don't even REMEMBER anything else about that year. She tried to tell me that I didn't need to bring breath mints out with us on Halloween because it wasn't THAT kind of trick-or-treating, and I got so mad at her for killing my buzz.

ALEXA: That's...

PARIS: But THIS year I'm going as Wayne from Wayne's World. But, like, a sexy man-girl Wayne. The kind with BOOBS. This is most of what I'm wearing. Isn't it hott? You want me.

ALEXA: One time I got to...

PARIS: Hey listen, if I cut off one of your braids, could I smoke it?

ALEXA: What? So now you don't like my...

PARIS: I told Larry King I would be good. It's not illegal to inhale if I'm smoking hair, right?

ALEXA: I can't believe you're allowed to wear a wig and a trucker hat, and you're ragging on me for looking like Pippi Longstocking just discovered the 80s floor at Polly Esther's.

PARIS: Longstocking? What's that, like a body condom?

ALEXA: I'm beginning to think I've made a huge mistake.

One Night in Fug

Last night, I was chatting with a friend about Jessica Simpson -- namely that she seems to be heading for several decades of Sunset Boulevard-esque decline (sorry, Jess. It just seems possible. Maybe you should buy a monkey and accept it). But now that I think about it, Paris Hilton seems to be embracing her inner Norma Desmond as well:

Albeit in what seems to be an incredibly cheerful way. And she, of course, has already gone to the trouble of buying a monkey -- which then, of course, attacked her and later was confiscated by the state, although it appears from this photo that they eventually returned him to her so she could make him into a collar for her coat.  PETA is totally going to set Pamela Anderson on her for this, and it's not going to be pretty.

VMA Fug Carpet: Paris Hilton

Dear Diary,

What? Just because my sister Nicky had a big fashion show in New York City, and my parents were there, and her boyfriend was there, and it was really important to her, you expect me to just DROP EVERYTHING and GO? This is the VMAs, beeyotch, and I don't know if you HEARD me when I was writing sensitive things about homeless people, Diary, but I was in PRISON FOR A LONG LONG TIME. What's a cougar to do?

What, I can't be a cougar now? Who cares if I'm not old enough? Since when am I not allowed to be fashionable? Demi Moore and Kim Cattrall are, like, all up in the young ass right now and everyone LOVES IT. So I figure, if I dress like a desperate matron, I'm IN. I can look 40! For real! See? Dina Lohan WISHES she looked this old and Up For Anything! That Shia Le Boeuf seems like he's in the market for an older woman to teach him the ways of a lady. He doesn't have to know I'm not that much further along than he is.

God, you're such a spoil-sport, Diary. Did Nicky put you up to this? She's so boring. I'm totally throwing you away.

BOOO,
Paris

Paris Hilfug

As alternately ordinary and twee as I find Amanda Bynes' clothing line -- note to Steve & Barry's: If it looks like everything costs under $20, then it automatically takes the novelty out of your pricing plan -- I will say this for her: She didn't paint her face all over everything and then expect you to pay for the privilege of having her eyes staring out from the vicinity of your nipples.

I guarantee you these vain little babies cost more than $20 (the shirts, I mean, but possibly also the girl). The Warholian number behind Paris's right shoulder is a deliciously conceited treat, as is the one that entreats you to "LUV THYSELF," as long as you don't do it enough to buy a shirt that's properly spelled. But the Main Event is my favorite. It's like she's depicting herself behind bars in a prison run by Victoria's Secret. Yep, held captive by her own indomitable sex appeal -- that's our Paris.

Although, is it just me, or does she look a wee bit haggard? Maybe she was up all night crying her eyes out when she realized her flippy new 'do is just a poor, shaggy clone of Posh's coif, and therefore David Beckham would never be likely to get them confused and accidentally take Paris home for a night of muscular passion. But chin up, Paris; iit's just as well. See, you don't want to cross Victoria Beckham, or you'll end up learning the hard way how many different torturous uses there are for a press-on nail.

The Fugple Life

[Photo: Splash News]

Dear Diary,

IT TOTALLY WORKED. That whole prison thing? GENIUS. Everyone should do it. Although I don't want them to, because then EVERYONE will be as adored as I am... but if they DO, they'll all be copying me, so maybe that's okay, too. But seriously, prison was a total epitome for me, Diary. For one thing, it expanded my vocabulation -- Bitchmaster Nunchucks taught me "epitome" while we were in the yard one day writing poems about homeless people. It means... shoot, I forget. Something to do with having a big realization. Or, wait, was it something about pretty mouths? I get confused sometimes with all the stuff I learned.

ANYWAY, I got out and everyone loves me now. Larry King said my diaries that I wrote in my cell were "unbelievable," or something, and a million people -- maybe even FIVE million -- lined up to come see my clothing line at Kitson, and I've stopped hanging out with toxic people (although sometimes THEY still hang around ME; I can't control THEIR free will, Diary. I learned THAT while I was meditating over a bologna sandwich). And now I go around tickling babies under their chins and giving them wisdom, like, "Kid, I hope you're wearing diapers under those shorts in case you're getting out of a cab and they ride up," or "Never let anyone photograph you eating ever again," and "Don't act like a total whore to your best friend who is just innocent and loving and then try to make up for the cameras and then get pregnant during your former BFF's time of need IN PRISON and act all sainted and shit when everyone knows you're just a HUNGRY COW HAG," and "Always wear as much shiny gold stuff as you can." That last one is my philosophy now. In fact, I wish I hadn't worn this bathing suit and sarong -- I call them "shirt and skirt" but Second Maid snorted at me and told me to use their real names, so whatever, FINE -- or else I could wear them to the VMAs. I totally would. I am hot.

Also, that Adrian Grenadine dude from Entourage has started letting himself be seen with me in public, for some documentary he's shooting about... I think it's about awesome hotties that people love. That might even be the title. But you know what's unfair? I'll show you what's unfair.

[Photo: Splash News]

That shadow over my face is unfair. Adrian couldn't even look at me. He was staring off into what professional actors call "middle distance" -- I've been taking classes, see -- and giggling. I didn't think it was THAT weird of a shadow but he kept reassuring me with stuff like, "Wow, Paris, you've really got the whole package," and "You really took your lumps with that DUI thing," and, "That must have been a real testes of your character," and, "I mean, you've got BALLS," and then he asked me if I'd ever seen some movie called Polterwang and then he had to walk away for a few minutes to compose himself because his eyes were tearing up (I think he's got allergies). But I'm so MAD that my big moment with Adrian Gren-thingy got spoiled by his allergies. And the shadows. God, they make my nose look like Mr. Burns'.

Which actually is okay, because everyone loves The Simpsons. Woohoo! PARIS WINS AGAIN, BITCHES. Now, I need to go find another baby to cuddle. I have a few months before that raging skankface pops hers out and I want everyone to be sick of blondes with babies by then. Also, I'm a maternal nurturer and it's time for the world to know that being held to Paris's bosom is more than just a Friday night thing. Or at least that's what my publicist told me.

Kisses,

P

One Fug in Paris

I'll say this for Paris Hilton: she may be a spoiled jailbird with an unbelievable sense of entitlement, but at least the girl knows how to make an entrance:

[Photo: Splash News]

No Amanda Bynes-like skulking into a Steve + Barry's in a hoodie for her, oh no. (Confidential to Amanda Bynes: sorry for all the grief lately. I actually really find you adorable and charming.  But apparently your clothing line enrages me in a kind of irrational way.  Just stick to movies where you talk Colin Firth into wearing leather pants.) No, Paris arrives places (ie: Kitson) to promote her clothing line (oy) in an armored vehicle  dressed like the offspring of a mermaid and an Old Navy coin purse.  She's so SHINY and sparkly and obvious, wearing what Las Vegas would look like if it were a dress, that, in a way, I have to hand it to her for, at least, not being totally boring. And then put my sunglasses on, because if the sun hits her the wrong way, we're all going to be blinded.

Fuggis Hilton: Headed-To-The-Pokey Edition

Karma is a bitch. So is Paris Hilton. So it only makes sense that the two would crash together, with unspeakably awesome results. There is NOTHING more fantastic than Kathy Hilton ranting about how much they spent, NOTHING as satisfying the long arm of the law finally reaching out and choking somebody with no redeeming qualities, and NOTHING as awesome as imagining Paris having to sleep on an uncomfortable cot underneath a burly, hygienically challenged, tattooed, pierced, and lightly mustachioed cell mate named Bertha. Today, even if it feels kind of bad for flashing its bitchpants, the world is full of glee. VICTORY IN OUR TIME.

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Poor P. Pooooooooooooor little P. Prison clothes don't come in leopard, sweet pea. And you probably won't get to use all that makeup, either, but it's just as well, because it makes you look like a wax figurine. As for Josh, don't worry -- he disappeared before your hearing, although I'm sure that was PURE coincidence. But just as a tip for the future, girlie, sometimes guys get sick of dating girls who just can't seem to remember to stop drinking and driving.

Also, seriously, DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE. For real. And don't then keep driving without a license. How hard is that to remember? Maybe you can sweet-talk Bertha into tattooing it to your arm.

At any rate, refill all your prescriptions, Men of Hollywood, and leave no ointment or salve behind. Paris has a month left before 45 days in the clink, and you know she will spend it throwing as many bratwursts onto the grill as she possibly can.

The Fug Life

GOOD NEWS! Paris Hilton's designed a line of clothing for Steve Madden.*  This is going to be perfect for all those times where you're standing in front of your closet, getting ready to go out and wishing you had something that was just a little more fame-whorey.

It will not surprise you that Paris has her finger firmly on the pulse of What a Girl Wants, and what we all want -- this part MAY surprise you -- are very tight, shiny white pants:

I hate to say it, but P Hilt kind of works these. I mean, she's really REALLY shiny all over the place here -- like some kind of Lame Lovers Barbie -- but she's looked worse.  The thing is, Paris Hilton also weighs like 100 pounds. Most women would put on shiny shiny white tight pants and things would go seriously awry. There would be frowns, and tears, and people asking if they're supposed to be able to see their reflection in your ass. It's like these pants are part of Paris's evil plan to take over the world by sending every other woman within the Los Angeles county limits to the sanitarium for one reason or another (eating disorders, sex-tape-related shame spirals, nervous breakdowns precipitated by her stealing your boyfriend). And we must fight her on it. Please, readers, do not bow to Paris's will and buy her pants.  We must stop her.

*GOODER NEWS. We've been informed by the nice people at Steve Madden that Paris has NOT designed anything for Steve-o. Steve Madden merely provided the shoes herein.

L.A. Fugshion Week: Nicky Hilton

Dear Nicky Hilton,

You're in the front row at L.A. Fashion Week, and you're related to that drippy suckmaggot Paris -- she who blithely did her makeup in the middle of a Max Azria show in September -- so we shouldn't be surprised that you have a short attention span yourself.

And we were even willing to give you the benefit of the doubt that, mid-show, you were merely idly clutching your BlackBerry because you didn't have anything else to do with that hand -- perhaps Brandon Davis was on your other side, for instance, and you were trying not to catch anything via accidental contact. That's certainly completely understandable.

But then we saw another photo.

Bitch, please. Now, I'm sure you're not the only one who does this, but that doesn't make it right. Fashion shows are, like, 10 minutes long, once they get going. I know L.A. Fashion Week doesn't quite have the cachet of its New York cousin, but seriously, whatever it is couldn't wait? You couldn't be polite, having been given a prize spot by the runway, and refrain from gazing at your BlackBerry for a few minutes? What was the emergency? Had one of the items in your clothing line accidentally turned out attractive, forcing a last-second redesign? Did Paris forget how to use a zipper and need you for advice? Where are your manners, child? Surely Paris didn't borrow them; she wouldn't know what to do with them if they came with instructions.

Oh, and, er, bringing it back on topic about the clothes... actually, you pretty much look fine. WHEN YOU ARE NOT BEING RUDE.

Sheesh.

Golden Globes Post-Party Fug: Paris Hilton

Never let it be said that Paris Hilton is not resourceful:

Why, she made this entire dress herself, out of tin foil!

Fuggis Hilton

Dear Diary,

So, remember that time I told Man-Paris that he was like a dead fish in the sack? [I think it was Man-Paris... or was it Nick Carter? Or Aaron Carter? Or Stabby Nachos? Or Travis Barker? Or Britney Spears? Or Andy Roddick? Or that other dude I was engaged to that time? Or was it the guy I met at the thing, with the stuff?... No, I think it was Man-Paris.] And he was all, "Oh yeah, well you're about as smart as one," and I was all, "Duh, brains make you FAT, they are ALL CARBS," and he goes, "Oh my God, you aren't even making any sense," and I go, "Sense gives you ACNE," and he threw a wastebasket at me and told me to crawl back into it where I belong, and I was all, "Well at least I don't have a failed solo career after my lame boy band broke up," and he was like, "Holy shit, Paris, that's your ex boyfriend -- do you even remember my name?" And I was all, "Duh, Nick, I'm not that stupid, it's not like 'Nick' is that hard to remember," and then he told me to go do something dirty to the Eiffel Tower and I was like, "OH  YEAH? MAYBE I WILL," and he was all, "Yeah, it's Paris-on-Paris," and then I totally looked at him and was all, "Dude, you're looking totally fine all of a sudden," and then we had sex? And he was like a dead fish in the sack so I told him so again? And he was like, "How would you know, anyway?"

Well... not that Nick Man-Paris will ever read this, but let's just say that I KNOW.

Heeee! But I really shouldn't say anything more, Diary. It's tough when you're dating a new guy and he sees his name in the press. So, toodles! I have to go buy more makeup. I used up all the eyeshadow I own on this one day in Sydney -- it's totally 2007 to paint yourself two black eyes and I want to be the first.

Kisses!

P

Fuggis and Fugney

Dear Diary,

So, I totally have a new friend to tell you about today! It didn't really work out with Nicole when she was blonde (and between you and me, Diary, she is even less fun with the brown hair -- I mean, what's the point of having dark hair if you aren't hiding weed underneath it?), and, like, oh my GOD, dude, Kimberly Stewart was really NEEDY. She called me ten times a day until I made her cry that last time, and I SWEAR I caught her rooting through my bathroom trashcan, picking out my old extensions and taping them to a hair clip. Which, EW -- it looked EXACTLY like a hair clip from a drugstore, and not the FUN kind of drugstore, so GROSS.

Anyway, so I found this new blonde person now and I think it's going to work out because even though she kind of already worships me, she attracts WAY better photographers than Kimberly did. And, she's going through a totally rough time right now because she's getting a divorce, so she wants to party and dress up and stuff and get really dirty and freaky, which is my FAVORITE THING EVER to do. Like, this one time, I put on my favorite red party dress of that week, and she got out this old thing she used to wear when she and her husband played that weird Ice Dancing game where they were at the porn Olympics, and we decided to go out and party. And it was, like, TOTAL sisterhood, you know? And it was SO SWEET because we were really cold, and she remembered that her ex-husband had a bunch of old pieces of panty-hose in his drawer from the olden days when he would stick his head in them and then throw over a 7-11 (she used that word -- "throw over" -- I don't really know what that word means but it is so Law & Order I can't even STAND IT and I think I'm so good now at saying the word that I should probably order up a part on one of the episodes, right? Do you think they deliver?). But anyway, so we had these pieces of panty-hose but there were only two, so we each wore one -- me on my right leg, and her on her left leg, which I swore was her right leg, but she kept telling me it was her left and that she would know what her own left leg looks like since she was BORN with it, DUH, and you know what? I don't know what her left leg looks like, and maybe it looks like it's on the right -- there ARE people who are born that way, I'm pretty sure, and if she's one of them, then maybe we should start some sort of charitable manicure program that benefits the Righty Left Children or whatever. It's a good idea.

Anyway, it was soooo fun -- she's like the sister I never had! Sometimes we sit up all night and drink vodka from baby bottles and talk about boys and divorces and our music careers -- apparently, she had some albums and shit, but I don't REMEMBER Pamela Anderson having a record or anything, do you? But she got all mad and screamed that she did too have more hit songs than I did, and she didn't seem to like it when I called her out and said I'd never heard of any of her songs and that she would need to PROVE it. In fact, she ALSO didn't really like it that much when I called her Pamela, but dude, I KNOW Pamela Anderson when I see her -- like, those things are KIND OF hard to MISS, you know? They're bigger than Nicky's head! So anyway I told Pamela to shut up and finish her Zima and she kind of got upset again but then once she was done chugging it and then shotgunning her Bud Light (she said her mom calls it a Trailer Martini -- how kicky and retro! Also, does Pamela Anderson HAVE a mom? Wicked!) and then everything was fine again.

Can't wait to see sister Pammy tomorrow! We're gonna get tattoos that say P&P Music Factory (even if she IS lying about having all those albums) and it's going to RULE. I talked her into it after the third bottle of Jagermeister. She said it would be even better because Kevin would hate it ("Kevin" is how you say "Kid Rock" in Michigan speak -- they are so funny up there!). Whee! Paris and Pammy!

Sloppy kisses,

P

Fugthy Hilton

When it comes to Paris Hilton, I prefer not to think of her actually coming from anyone. As far as I'm concerned, she spontaneously generated on a rainy spring day from a pile of fertilizer rife with dung beetles.

But I suppose there are documents that claim otherwise, and so it is that we've come to refer to Kathy Hilton as Paris's mother. And I'm realizing that if we are forced to admit Paris Hilton is a DNA creation, it does make some genetic sense -- the rotten apple doesn't actually plop in a pile of moldy pulp terribly far from the tree.

The outfit itself doesn't tickle my fancy, particularly, but it's fine. [Except for that crinkled skirt; her poor chauffeur is so fired for not having wrinkle-proof upholstery on his seats.] But the shoes are totally ridiculous. They're quasi-spats; the ankle cuff is totally perplexing -- it's as if she wasn't initially planning to carry a purse, and so needed a creative new way to carry Kleenex on her person for any nostril emergencies that might arise. To which I say, "That's what bras are for, lady."

And there's just so much RIGGING on them. Look, a word to the wise, Kath -- some more Chicken Soup for the Fugging Soul, if you will: If they look like they belong affixed to Paris's Portuguese sex swing, or if indeed that's exactly where you found them, do not remove them from their squallid home; instead, step away from the kegel-pilates apparatus area without touching anything and go bathe your hands in lye just in case.

Fug the Cover: Paris Vogue

When you think Paris Vogue, what do you think? Class? Elegance? Cutting-edge fashion? Quintessential French chic?

Or underboob?

Sure, maybe the underboob of a chic French model smoking a Gauloise in her underpants and, like, really expensive and avant-garde, de-constructed heels.  Or Vanessa Paradis's underboob, as shot by Johnny Depp with a Polaroid or something. But Paris Hilton's underboob? Honey, show us something we haven't seen before.

The Simple Fug

Los Angeles, recently:

PARIS: Dude, I'm so happy we're friends again.

NICOLE: Me too.

PARIS: You make me look so tall and healthy.

NICOLE: You make me feel so small and delicate.  And smart. I enjoy that.

PARIS:  I'm just glad we're over that thing that happened.

NICOLE: Me too.  Our friendship is more important.

PARIS:  I know. I mean, bros before hos, right? I seriously never would have hooked up with him if I knew you really liked him.

NICOLE: What?

PARIS: Stabby. If I'd known you were THAT into him, I never would have stolen him from you.

NICOLE: Huh?

PARIS:  STABBY. STABBY NACHOS.

NICOLE: Who is Stabby Nachos?

PARIS: You know, tall? Greek? Your boyfriend?

NICOLE: Stavros Niarchos?

PARIS: That is what I SAID. STABBY NACHOS.

NICOLE:  He's not my boyfriend.

PARIS: He was until I stole him from you.

NICOLE: What?

PARIS: Or was that your sister?

NICOLE: I don't HAVE a sister. YOU have a sister.

PARIS: We both have sisters, dumbass.  We're both the skinny sister!  Woo! Remember?

NICOLE: Paris. I don't have a sister.

PARIS: Um, did they  give you electroshock therapy when you were in that eating disorder thingie? You totally have a sister. You guys were on that TV show forever, like when you were little kids? Remember? You guys are twins, or something.

NICOLE: Paris, that's Mary-Kate Olsen.

PARIS: YOU'RE Mary-Kate Olsen.

NICOLE: NO, I'M NOT.

PARIS:...are you sure?

NICOLE: YEAH.

PARIS: Really? Because I think you're wrong. You look just like her. Do you have your driver's license with you? Because I don't think I believe you.

NICOLE: I'M NOT MARY-KATE OLSEN.

PARIS: Then who the hell are you?

NICOLE: It's NICOLE.

PARIS: Richie?

NICOLE: YEAH.

PARIS: Oh.

NICOLE: YEAH.

PARIS: Um. So, this is awkward.

NICOLE: YEAH.

PARIS: I guess the friends thing is off again, then.

NICOLE: You know what you did.

More Fuggis Hilton

Sometimes, Paris Hilton dresses really well for long stretches of time -- say what you want about her, and we've certainly said plenty, but she has a great figure for clothes, and a lot of the time she drapes it relatively adeptly.

And then she goes on stretches of crazy.

Here, all narrowed eyes and headband and pleated skirt, she's ripped straight out of Cruel Intentions 4: Climb Every Valmontain, in which the main characters are, like, third cousins of the originals, and Paris is of course the Queen Bee, who conducts interpretive-dance orgies (hence the legwarmers) that lead to your typical high-school scandal and sexual politics. Look for it in the $4.99 DVD aisle at your favorite local Target.

Fuggis Hilton

Dear Diary,

You know how you, like, always try to think of a really funny thing to say in the moment, and sometimes you can't figure out what it is until way later? Like, when I saw Lindsay Lohan making out with that Stabby Nachos guy I stole from Mary-Kate? (Oh, don't look at me that way, Diary -- she didn't need him right that second.) At the time I just walked over and stepped on Lindsay's foot and then glared at her really hard, but I realized, like, two weeks later that the perfect thing to say was, "Dude. Like, get a room. At a Motel. AND BRANDON DAVIS STILL HATES YOU." HAHAHA! I mean, right? Then nobody could say I am not awesome and smart and clever.

Anyway, so you know what is awesome? My new shirt, which is TOTALLY the perfect thing to say any time you can't think of a comeback as good as the motel thing.  Are you ready for this? It's so good I can't even STAND IT -- wait, hang on, I have to touch up my makeup real quick ... Okay, I'm good now. (Sorry, if I don't check my makeup every ten minutes I start to get wrinkles.)

Here is my shirt:

[Photos by X17 Online.]

That is WICKED HOTT TO DEATH, people! That is for everyone who lies and says they don't like my album. And to everyone who thinks they can, like, arrest me for just driving someplace, and then CHARGE me for driving, like it's my fault I hadn't had any food that night except for a martini.

But you know who ELSE it's good for?

YEAH THAT'S RIGHT BABY. (Hee. I said "baby." Can you imagine if Nicky has a baby? Maybe that would be cool. I could dress it up in little mini-Paris dresses and take it out and it could hold my drinks for me if I need to use both hands when I'm talking to a guy, or if I need to sneak away I could put the baby thing in my place and because we're dressed the same nobody would know I was gone. It would be like having a twin! Just like the Olsens, except we don't wear tights.)

Ahem. Anyway, yeah, I can secretly flip off Nicky any time I'm annoyed with her for being sort of sulky and pouty (for one thing, that's totally MY style, bitch), or being funny (she told me DUI stood for Driving Under Intense Hunger, and I totally believed her for like two whole days and was all like, "See, dude, I TOLD you they believed me," and then she laughed and I guess that was sort of funny of her even though it was mean and I HATED IT) or if she's just bugging me by getting more attention because of her perfect boyfriend and BLAH BLAH BLAH I'm sometimes so sick of her. So she'll think I'm mad at the photographers (but I could never be mad at them really; if they weren't around, there would be no Us Weekly for me to be in, so they're really societally important, and is that a word? I think it is, Diary. See? I'm getting smarter) but really I'm mad at HER. It's PERFECT.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXXXX,

P

The Simple Fug

When friends told Paris Hilton that if she came over, she'd be up to her knees in pure, white snow, none of them expected her to take that so very literally.

Nicky Fugton and the Tale of the Black Satin Shirt

We all have favorite articles of clothing. I, for example, have a blue and white striped tee with the cutest little gathered neckline that I wear all the time.  Nicky Hilton appears to be obsessed with her black satin tank. (Is  she wearing it in homage to Chanel's sold-out Black Satin nail polish? If so, you should send us a bottle, Nicky! That is the price for our SILENCE. [Not really, we don't take bribes. (OR DO WE? [No. (Well, maybe. [No.])])])

We've dinged her for wearing it as early as January of this year. And again in April. And she's worn it THREE TIMES in the last couple of weeks. Behold:

Backstage at the Heatherette show:

(She looks very cute here, I think. And in case you're wondering, I still think she's knocked up and I won't begin to believe that I am wrong until I see her out drinking a martini, eating a giant piece of raw fish on top of a wheel of unpasteurized cheese, with dye in her hair, wearing a shirt that says "Ortho Tri-Cyclen Lo Works For Me. ASK ME HOW!)

A couple of days before the Heatherette show:

And here we have it again, maybe a week before the other two pics were snapped:

Seriously. It's not like the shirt is a BAD one, necessarily. I just find it perplexing that a girl who has all the money in the world, not to mention her own clothing line, wouldn't mix it up more, especially at Fashion Week.  On one hand, there's something refreshingly normal about her wearing this shirt over and over and over again. On the other hand,  I can't help but wonder (Carrie Bradshaw style) if she shouldn't consider buying one in a nice navy, or chocolate brown. Just to get me off her back.

When Stars Are Fug

I like to call this tableaux, "When Bad Shoes Happen To Cute Outfits." Behold!

This photo was, according to our sources, taken the night of the VMAs, when Ms Paris was turned away from Bungalow 8. Hence her downtrodden expression. I suspect that the doorman got a look at her shoes -- and at the shoes of her companions -- and just decided, "This is IT. I can't do it anymore. I can not continue to validate this kind of abuse. WILL NO ONE RESPECT THE SHOES?"

Seriously. Paris, despite your attempts to convince us otherwise, you are not Pat Benatar. And thus, you should not be wearing those ankle boots with anything but pants. Take a cue from your Smoking Friend With the Sour Expression But Very Cute Cocktail Dress there in the middle. You can't see her shoes in this picture -- in fact, her footwear looks quite bedraggled -- but in other shots from this evening, you can tell that she's paired her dress with espadrilles. Yes, Paris! Seasonally appropriate footwear matched with the style of her dress! It CAN be done. She appears to have what we used to call, back when I was young, "a clue." It may behoove you to catch one.

On the other hand, at least you're not wearing Uggs. Here's my question about your Ugg-wearing companion: it's HOT right now. So, if you were going out for the evening, and you wanted to wear comfortable footwear that was inappropriate for the occasion, wouldn't you reach for flip flops, not Uggs?

Kids today. Just when I think I've got you all figured out....

VMAs: Paris Hilton

Paris Hilton, in her continuing attempt to become a singer, shows up at the VMAs in an homage to Bjork's infamous Trumpet of the Swan:

I especially enjoy the expression on the man sitting behind her. It's as though he started applauding for her, and then, actually catching a glimpse of her, has stopped mid-clap to think, "Sweet cracker sandwiches, what is she wearing?"

Good question, Perplexed Clapping Man. What IS she wearing? Let's take a closer look:

1. Bangs sculpted into a careful homage to Conan O'Brien
2. Wee little bows tried around her wrists like the world's twee-est handcuffs
3. De riguer giant belt
4. A skirt composed of equal parts duck feathers and the rejected scraps from Madonna's "Like A Virgin" costume. When Madonna and Bjork discover this fact, they will put on matching purple leotards and cartwheel over to Paris's house, where they will beat her severely with a sock full of quarters.
5. Black ankle boots, of course. Because what else do you wear with your fluffy white party dress? She's so ROCK AND ROLL! But what else would you expect from a songstress whose album includes the hardcore lines, "Girls and boys are looking at me/I can't blame them cause I'm sexy," or "I'm hot to death and I'm so, so, so sex-ee." I mean, the girls has CHOPS, am I right?

Is it wrong that I sort of just indulged in a fantasy wherein she walked right off the end of the stage, cracked her head, gave herself amnesia, forgot that she was supposed to be busy destroying the very fabric of our nation, and disappeared forever? That's what we're all hoping for, really, right?

Fugky Fugton

Proof positive that it's not just us: Even heiresses suddenly find that they hate every single thing in their closets and absolutely can't consent to wearing any of it in public.

Of course, the difference between us and Nicky Hilton is that we tend not to solve that problem by saying, "Screw it, I'll just wear my slip to the club." But it's probably a good thing that we're not suddenly beset by "Heiresses: They're Just Like Us!" comparisons that are completely accurate.

Side note: Could somebody please sneak into her closet and steal all the hideous transparent plastic shoes, and donate them to Goodwill -- or even possibly burn them, because they'd be nothing but a blight on the shelves of the altruistic Goodwill organization? We've seen her in them now several different times, occasionally with different colored-piping, confirming that she does indeed own at least three pairs of these cramped monstrosities. They don't fit her snaky toes, and well, they're hideous, transparent plastic shoes.

Anyone? Paris? Kevin Connolly? Weekday Maid? Come on, surely somebody can engage in a little shoespionage -- it's for her own good, we swear.

Busey Or Nolte: Ladies' Night

This is, to put it mildly, either GREAT NEWS for Tara Reid, or like incredibly BAD NEWS for Nicky Hilton.

We've got exhibit A:

And then we've got Exhibit B:

Right?

Memo to Ms Hilton: when it turns out that you bear an as yet unremarked upon resemblance to Tara Reid, it is probably in your best interest to make sure that you don't ever look even mildly Reidified when you leave the house. That means you've GOT to wash and brush the hair, fight the bloat with all the tools at your disposal (if that means sleeping with your head propped up on five pillows so all the fluid runs down to your little feet, so be it), make your you've got a wee bit of lippy on, and, obviously,  control any wayward boobies. I know this seems like a lot of work when you're just out running some errands, but you can NOT AFFORD people mistaking you for La Reid. It's career suicide! (Even if all that career consists of  is sort of sometimes designing bags, walking around town with that cute little Kevin Connelly , and not being as trampy as your sister.)

Memo to Ms Reid: Hey, keep it up.  It's not like anyone is confusing you with Giselle, but any step forward is a step in the right direction.

The Fug Life

Dear Diary,

"Well, hello, sailor!"

Hee! I think that is the coolest pickup line EVAH! And I decided that I should dress like a sailor so that somebody would come up and say it to me and I could reply, "Sailor? I hardly know the dude." HAHA! People don't think I'm the smart one but I am, and it's good that I'm writing this diary so that when I die -- or at least when I survive some sort of tragedy, like that time I went into that horrible Goodwill store because that bitch Nicole told me they'd sell me new tires for my car -- I can write my life story and use snatches (hee! I know, Diary, but don't laugh, 'cuz it totally is a real word) of my journals to make people who hate me start crying about how much I was misunderstood.

I'm also really sensitive, though. The Simpsons totally made me sad the other day (I started watching when ManParis and I were dating and he never wanted to leave the house. He got me hooked). Anyway, Dorky Kid's father got dumped by his wife, and so he did what everyone does and recorded an album. And, like, he sang his big song and it was all, "Take my hand with your glooooove of loooooove!" Isn't that totally rad poetry? And the little dude was, like, bumming out. I told my assistant to call him and get his address so I could send him my single, and maybe invite him to a party to make him feel better (but, accidentally leave him off the list, because the invitation is enough and I don't want him there really). But apparently she couldn't find him listed in the book.

So, as a way of reaching out to the dude, I decided to dig out this wicked awesome white glove from my mother's closet -- she uses it to make the maids cry; seriously, some people are so lazy about dusting the inside of the dumpster -- and wear it so that he knows that, like, in his honor I will totally borrow somebody's feeling and squeeze it with my love-glove. And I did, because I always do, but -- don't tell the little blue-haired guy -- the glove was kind of annoying after a while. I had cut it in half, and it kept falling off in people's drinks, and in the toilet, and down a few people's pants. Seriously, that is the last time that I let Nicky convince me I can't wear fingerless gloves because it's Opposite Day. [I think she was lying about that anyway, since it's not on my calendar until August.]

I have a confession to make, though, Diary: I'm not really sure about the shoes. They remind me of mustard, which I refuse to eat, because Stabby Nachos told me it comes from squeezing people's mustache clippings and I do NOT think PETA would be very happy about THAT, and they hate me enough already. Truthfully, Nicky made me wear the shoes because she's doing some stupid Tweety Bird collection for one of those stores, and I secretly think that is lame, but I don't have the heart to tell her that -- at least not until there are enough other people around to overhear it, because otherwise, she won't stop and I'll have to put up with her on Project Runway again when they won't even return my CALLS, those bitches.

Anyway, good night, sweet diary! I have to go wash the love-glove before Mom sees the stains on it. I might just plant it in the maid's purse -- is that wrong? She totally looked at me meanly the other day when I told her to separate out the latex in my garbage from all the recyclables (I LOVE the Earth, dude). So she sort of deserves what she gets, I think, right? Right!

High-five with my love-glove,

P

One Night In Fuggis

Dear Diary,

I've decided to do some community service so that people will know I love the world, and then love me in return. I'm very excited about it ever since my mother told me that my new sense of purpose totally took five pounds off my hips.

Today, I've decided my community service is: being a metaphor. Isn't that awesome? I got the idea when Brandon was crying to me about how his father called him a filthy leech, and how he wouldn't listen when Brandon sobbed to him that "firecrotch" was really just meant to be some kind of metaphor for Lindsay's inner spirit. Because, HEE, I totally thought he said "megawhore," and once I stopped laughing and agreeing with him (because, Diary, she kissed my ex boyfriend -- I hate it when people touch my castaways), he explained to me that a metaphor is something that, like, means something about something. Do you see?

Well, I see.

So I decided to make a statement. And I chose world peace, all right? Because a lot of really cute boys in uniforms are dying without getting to meet me first and that is the worst. So, look at me: Up top I have this really crazy shirt with all the anchors on it, and on the bottom there are my animal-print shorts, with matching hoodie. And these two things totally don't go together, just like a lot of people in this world who don't understand each other and don't think they go together. But I want to bring these two things together, to show that we totally don't have to be at war, and even if you don't get somebody, you don't have to kill them. Like the time I met somebody from Our Can Saw at a bar. He insisted that's a state, and I didn't believe him because I could swear I saw one of those at a party once and it was a power tool. He said, 'No, it's a place, and I said, 'No, it's not, and I grew up in New York where there are really good schools so I think I'm probably right,' but still, he swore that's an actual state. And did I kill him? Nooooo! I bought him a drink. And let him grab my crotch. (And then slapped him when he tried to kiss me -- like, hello, my mouth is private.) So anyway, even though I sort of ended up slapping him, we were mostly completely fine, and I think the world should be the same way.

And that is what my clothes mean! Sometimes you can wear leopard and anchors and nobody has to get hurt! Can't we all just love each other? Do you think I should offer to wear this to those United Nations of America meetings?

Of course, another reason I wore this is that they're my PJs, and I didn't want to take them off, because I spent all night in them texting Matt Leinart all these awesome "drop anchor" eunuchisms or whatever -- basically, he completely wants to nail me, and I'm going to allow it as soon as his mean bosses stop making him cry by saying shit like,
'What do you want -- football as your job, or foot-jobs for your balls?' and I've seen Flashdance so I know what they're talking about even though I've NEVER done that for him (but, now that they mention it, doesn't it sound fun?). So it was, like, really romantic, and this shirt makes me think of love.

Oh, God, see? I brought it RIGHT BACK around to love. And peace. I am so awesome, Diary. I am full of things to say about things that mean things. I am a walking megawhore! Or whatever that word was.

XOXO,

P

Fuggis Hilton

Dear Dairy Divey DiarrheaHAHAHA Diary (phew),

That Girls Gone Wild dude had a birthday, so I decided to go, because I am a girl, and I'm totally wild, and, like, every guy who's ever seen me naked has totally looked at me that night and said, "Paris you're COMPLETELY gone," so I guess I am ALSO that. And, Nicky said she wasn't going to go, so that made my decision for me, since I'm sick of us posing together because even though we look kind of alike and I wonder sometimes if we are secretly sisternal twins or whatever, we are NOT identical twins, so we don't need to act like Mary-Kate and Ashley and stand next to each other all the time. I mean, God. Sometimes I just want to be all, "Nicky, do YOU have a fragrance?" and then, like, brush past her on the red carpet and go to a party that ONLY I am invited to and NOBODY ELSE except for a bunch of dudes and maybe Rachel Zoe or something because even though she's nice and likes to party, no one will want her instead of me because she is totally way too old to be having sex -- I think she's like 40 even though she says she isn't, and that's the age when I told Nicky I want to be put to sleep, and come to think of it, that is TOTALLY something only OLD people do, so why is it called youthinasia? Did it start in, like, the Asia party circuit? That sounds pretty rad actually.

Ahem. Anyway, so I figured Joe's party would be a good time to hit the circuit and troll for dudes with my new cleavage everyone is talking about -- I got bored with that Stabby Nachos dude and all that dumb relationship stuff, so I decided to go outside with my shirt hanging open to get everyone talking about whether I had implants. I am so smrt! To make sure everyone stares at it and not at my gold sneakers, I totally wore a cropped vest over my shirt -- it was Nicky's idea. She said something about how if I wore a short vest with a really long black tunic thingy pulled down over my hips, everyone would stare at me in disbelief, and that's awesome, because my cleavage is unbelievable... unbelivably hott!

Did I actually get implants? Ha! Silly Diary! I'll never tell, Diary, not even you! Because I don't trust that you won't go talking to Lindsay Hohan (hee) or Nicole Bitchie (hahahahahahahaha) or The Wimpsons (I am AWESOME today!!!!) or Icky Hilton (HAA, oh wait, that's Nicky -- I shouldn't say that about her because she totally holds back my hair still when I'm detoxifying).

So you'll just have to guess if my boobs are real any more... although if that dude with the big teeth plays his cards right he will totally know if they're real, if you know what I mean, and I think you do! (I'm going to nail him, is what I mean.) He kept staring at me with these huge eyes and at first it was scary because he didn't blink but after a while it turned super hott, because he obviously is in love with me and I am a really sweet and giving person and so I walked up to him and wrote my number on his year and told him that I love gnawing on carrots, and that I knew of a cool rabbit hole he could explore. Isn't that hott? I used that exact same line on Man Paris, although I don't want anyone to know that -- especially the dude with the big teeth. I want him to think he's my first. He's totally going to call, Diary. They all call.

Dangling some carrots (heee, I'm so naughty),

P

The Fug Life

Dear Paris Hilton,

Put them away.

Love,

The 6 Billion Residents of the Planet Earth. We've ALL seen them already.

PS:  Despite the fact that you're desperately wearing it open to the waist, that dress is cute, and your hair looks sweet. WHY DID YOU HAVE TO GO AND EFF IT UP?

Fugky Hilton

Doesn't this look like a wax figurine of Nicky Hilton?

The shiny face and the stiff way she's holding her upper body are so Madame Tussaud's, and the scarf just adds to the notion that they didn't really finish the statue on time and so they're holding her head on by tying that thing reeeeally tightly.

None of which is really fug, per se, it's just weird. But luckily, the presence of formal shorts, on which we have put a pox and a fashion jihad, makes this a completely legitimate posting. That, and the fact that if you're out on the town wearing a sleeveless top and shorts so short that a Nair commercial could break out at any moment, you might not need the scarf. Just a theory.

Those poor shoes. Like so many pairs before them, they are victims of what's going on upstairs. Or perhaps more aptly, what's not going on upstairs, if you catch my drift, which you should, because it's really more like a hurricane wind.

Fug By Nicky Hilton

Nicky tried to put on a happy face, but all she could think was, "I look like Little Orphan Annie with a water-retention problem in this thing. That is the LAST time I let Paris approve my wardrobe without giving her a breathalyzer first."

Fortunately for her, some people may have been too busy gawking at how ugly feet look when squished into clear plastic shoes to really care much about her clothes.

Oscar Post-Party Fug: Paris Hilton

There are so many ways to go with this photograph of Paris Hilton.

1) Well, at least it's not the kind of cock you expect Paris to drag around with her...

2) Never before has hunting seemed so appealing. Indeed, somewhere in America, Nicole Richie is suiting up in her best bright orange and borrowing a rifle (and, most likely, hiring someone to help her lift it to shoulder-height).

3) Oh, honey, we've already seen your plumage.

4) How unfair that a peacock had to go naked so that Paris Hilton, of all people, could get dressed.

5) We would suspect this is her attempt at playing off of Jon Stewart's "Dick Cheney/Bjork and the swan dress" joke, if we thought she had any idea who Dick Cheney is. Or, indeed, who Jon Stewart is. (They're not Greek enough to make her radar.)

Regardless of which path is the one you think leads to enlightenment, one thing is certainly universally true: She looks more like an aging drag queen than ever.

National Lampoon's Fug This

From the diary of Paris Hilton:

Deer diary,

So, it was my birthday. I totally made it to 25. Hott. Not everyone thought it would happen or that I would still be like all sexy and adored and stuff, but then there I was at the party dancing on a table and everyone was trying to touch me and shove flashing cameras up my skirt, so obviously I still rock even though I'm really old now. I'm old, diary. I'm, like, halfway to 35, which is so messed up, dude! That guy Paris I was engaged to -- wait, I should use a suedonym, huh? They call it that because you use them so people won't sue you when you talk about what boring dumbasses they were.

Anyway, where was I? Oh right. That ex of mine Paris "Paris" told me after we broke up that I wouldn't live to see 25 because my vagina would rot before then, but it hasn't,  or if it has I didn't notice and it didn't kill me, so SUCK ON THAT, Mr. "My Parents Won't Let Me Use My Greek Shipping Fortune To Buy Another Big Diamond For My Beautiful Fiance Because She's Just Going To Have To Pawn It When She Goes Broke In Three Years." Maybe my vagina is... that word for things that live through anything... what is that word... biopic! I have a biopic vagina!

But you know, diary, what really sucks is that for some reason people are starting to call Nicky the "classy" sister. I'm not really sure what's classy about wearing a dress that comes down to, like, your KNEES, and is WRINKLED and doesn't even have any cutouts on it. Also, and you didn't hear this from me, but she's totally worn those shoes at LEAST once before, which is such, like, a gnarly and Payless thing to do. SHE is the one who looks like she's halfway to 26, or whatever, not ME. I look all young and foxy and hott in spandex and lace! And anyway what's classier than LACE? The Victoria's Secret catalog I made some bellhop read to me while I put my clothes back on told me that lace is refreshingly feminine! And it is, because the dress looks like it's all long and shit, but really, thanks to the lace, you can still see all my business. And I am all about my business. People don't think I am, but I am. Or wait... am I "all business"? No, I'm pretty sure it's the other one. I don't know. I drank a lot tonight, diary, and the Red Bull is starting to wear off.

Maybe if I start to design clothes, instead of just that jewelry that was selling online somewhere and I don't remember where because I was really busy trying to convince everyone that Kimberley Stewart is as cool as that tramp Nicole -- although Nicole is NOT COOL, diary, so forget I just said that. But... I don't know what I was saying. Except that maybe I should design lingerie so that people stop acting like Nicky has a real career and I have a fake one just because I go on TV and drive around in a big customized bus. She draws on cotton and gets invited on that runway show? Whatever dude. I don't know why she'd want to go on a show with "project" in the title anyway. We have way more money than that. But I'm kinda tired of her getting to do stuff, diary. I want to be the one who has stuff! Although right now I mostly need some extra headlines that don't have to do with me being "stupid" (ha -- like they even know what that word MEANS), which is kind of why I wore a dress that totally showed off my bloat and even had an ugly patterened thing that basically frames it. That way, people will start wondering if I'm pregnant, and nothing makes people love you like getting totally knocked out. Or up? I think it's up. It's like Kimberley used to say:

Okay, I just sat here for 15 minutes trying to remember what she used to say and I don't think I ever actually listened to her once unless she was asking to borrow my outfits. She can't have this one. She needs to go get her own pregnancy headlines.

Man, it's only 5 a.m., diary, and I'm already tired. I AM getting old. Time to go to bed!

Kiss kiss, spit spit,

P

Stars: They're Just Like Us (In That They, Too, Find Brandon Davis Scary)!

If I were the Us Weekly body-language expert, and I were being consulted to do something as gravely important as making up subtext to a celebrity photograph, I would probably suggest that Nicky Hilton is thinking, "Try to smile, be cool, stay on your side of the line -- if you don't touch it, you can't catch anything from it."

Project Fugway

Nicky Hilton's appearance on last week's episode of the delicious and delightful Project Runway proved that she was way less annoying than I thought she was, and also that she's kind of low energy, which I guess isn't that surprising since sharing a family with Paris Hilton would probably make a girl retreat deeply into herself, to a place of great silence and psychic pain.

This outfit, though, causes me psychic pain:

Leggings. Are never. Okay. But especially not when your shirt is short enough to show the whole world your girl-package.  There is such a thing as too much sharply-defined crotch.

In her defense, however, Hilton The Lesser does look as though it just occured to her that she forgot to put on some other pants.

AMAs Fug Carpet: Nicky and Paris Hilton

Am I the only one who finds it suspicious that NICKY Hilton is dressed like a Vegas call girl and PARIS Hilton is wearing something classy, demure, flattering and actually pretty?

Is this some kind of Sweet Valley High Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield Trade Places For the Day Because Jessica Really Needs Elizabeth to Pretend to Be Her To Get Out of a Scrape And Elizabeth Is Too Much of a Pushover to Say No type of thing? Like, is Nicky attempting to pass as Paris so she can later, say, break up with Stavros without accidentally sleeping with him on videotape first? She better watch out, because playing the Elizabeth to a Jessica Wakefield is dangerous. Next thing you know, Nicky Hilton is gonna get in a motorcycle accident and awake from a coma thinking she IS Paris and she'll start doing things like running around town with a monkey and then the only thing that will get her out of it, as avid readers of Sweet Valley High 7: Dear Sister know, will be if she happens to drunkenly roll off a coffee table and conk her head. Save yourself, Nicky! Everyone secretly hated Elizabeth Wakefield for being such an mealy-mouthed easy mark. Don't let Paris talk you into going out looking like the trashy one.

The Fugtons

Interesting that only Nicky chose to wear a costume on Halloween.

Pledge Fug

Well, folks, it's been a difficult week here at Go Fug Yourself HQ, for obvious reasons. Frankly, we feel as if a couple as truly commited to each other, as clearly deeply in love and as obviously devoted to honest and upfront communication as Man Paris and Paris Paris can't make it, what hope do any of the rest of us have for forging a true and lasting relationship?

Thank god Paris Paris is holding it together okay.

Or so it seems.

Look deeper. Can't you see that's it's just a facade? She's all going out in last summer's flirty cotton ruffled skirt and her sister's ugly tank top, pretending that it's 2004 and she hasn't even MET Man Paris yet and the only problem in her sunny, shiny life is how she keeps losing Tinkerbell and the way people keep falling into her vagina. On camera. 

But can't you smell the heartbreak? Don't you just know that the sunglasses are hiding tear-stained eyes? Isn't it obvious that after the event, she and Nicky are going to climb in their car and she's going to sob and sob all over Nicky's twee seersucker evening shorts, and eventually, she won't be able to hold it in anymore -- she'll unleash her barbaric, heartbroken yawp to the Southern Californian night air: "NICOLE'S GETTING MARRIED AND I'M NOOOOOOOOT!"

Fug This!

A peek inside Paris Hilton's Day Planner:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb]

4:3opm: wake up

5:oopm: go back to sleep in tanning bed

6:15pm: make help wash hair

6:30pm: consider texting Man Paris. Crank call Nicole instead.

6:40pm: threeway with man who drives me places and lady who paints my toes.

6:47pm: put on velvet dirndl-y sack-dress thingie.  Shapeless throwbacks to already-unflattering retro styles are hott.

7:00pm: but it's missing something. Something...macrame. Like a vest!

7:20pm:  party!

Romeo and Fugliet

Oh, Girl Paris, welcome back to the blog:

And what better triumphant return to the fug than this chartreuse shiny bandeau dress, complete with billowing bodice, slits, and a tennis skirt? It's all so very white-trash St. Tropez, seen at all the yachting parties of peasants whose boats are only a pathetic fifty-feet long.

However, I am vexed by the continued absence of Man Paris. Are they fighting? Has he been brainwashed by his Hilton-horrified parents, who keep insisting their children are getting hitched on the tenth of Never, and not a day sooner, even though Kathy Hilton has already pretty much planned the wedding and monogrammed some towels? Or are her slits accidental -- left over from the knife fight she got into with Mr. Man Paris's hired goons, who want to scare some jilting into her?

I love the idea that they're a billionaire sandbox version of Romeo and Juliet, but without the innocence. Or the vocabulary. It's going to be so tragic when Girl Paris drinks Red Bull laced with arsenic and passes out, only to wake up and find out that Man Paris drank a lethal dose in his grief, which will force her to impale herself upon a cocktail toothpick she ganked from the Tropicana Bar the other night.

Hopefully she'll change first.

One Fug in Paris

There are times when my ability to form coherent, complete sentences fails me.

This may be one of those times:

Is Man Paris SERIOUS? White, draw-stringed track pants...with crotchal graffiti? An acid-washed jacket...adorned with kooky man-plaid? Worn together... and not on Halloween? [Although Man Paris would have to be trick-or-treating dressed as Blind Man With Cruel, Joke-Playing Girlfriend for even that to fly.]

There's really only one explanation for this: Man Paris has been ordered by his family to break off his engagement to Paris Paris.  Man Paris, however, is terribly scared of Paris Paris's wrath, and is employing the age-old Boy Trick of Acting Like An Ass So She'll Break Up With Him First, and the first item on his list of assholery is, "Dress Like The Derelict Who Lives In Vanilla Ice's Dumpster."

Sadly, what Man Paris has failed to understand is that Paris Paris has an inordinately high tolerance for bad fashion -- as proved by her own wardrobe -- and he is probably going to have to move on to the next items on his list, "Try To Sleep With Nicole Ritchie," "Hit Nicky With Car [Not Too Hard]," and "Give Up Drinking."

Best of luck, Man Paris. Best of luck.

Take Me To Fuggis

At first glance, this photo just looks like Paris Hilton is taking the gardener to the prom:

But then you look closer, and you realize you are stepping into a really vapid vortex of self-obsession:

Sweet LORD, Man-Paris, get a grip. Why are you wearing that out in public? When you're WITH her? I'm happy you're proud of her, and that you think her bod is bodacious, but save it for a time when she's not standing next to you in some kind of bizarre before-and-after tableau. Perhaps Girl-Paris is actually in the act hustling him out of a party, because she is, like, a totally hott businesswoman now, and the only way partial nudity will make people take her seriously is if she's slobbering all over a hamburger.

Fug of Wax

I know Paris Hilton was the Grand Marshal of the West Hollywood Gay Pride Parade this weekend -- and I just accidentally typed that as Gay Prude, an entirely different parade, and one at which Paris Hilton, I suspect, would not be terribly welcome -- but I had no idea she was embracing the Pride so very vehemently:

I mean, there's flying the Gay Pride flag, and then there's wearing it.  And then there's wearing it as a fringe-y tube dress by way of The Muppet Movie.

That being said, I really can't wait for this wedding. I presume the honeymoon will be televised.

House of Fug

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

"Heyyyy, like, you guys. How are you. I know I only have, like, one tone to my voice, so you can't tell if I'm asking or stating, or happy or sad, but I swear, like, I'm interested. Really. And I also want you to ask me, so I can tell you I'm engaged, and that it's like super awesome-cool to have sex with somebody where I can shout out my own name and he thinks I'm talking to him. Isn't that hott. Kind of like this outfit. I'm a total trendsetter, like, in the sense that I like to set trends by taking something trendy and doing something different to it, and that, like, sets it, or something.

"Take this outfit: I know the bohemian look is, like, in fashion right now, and stuff, but I ask you -- have you ever seen any peasants in Bohemia wear a sequined tank top with one of their skirts. No way. This hott look is mine, all mine. I know you think it doesn't match, but that's because you're not as smart about fashion as I am, because you don't set trends. See, if you had, like, knowledge, and stuff, you'd know that the patterns in the skirt and the shirt actually do match, because there is white in both of them. See, I am so smart. And I made the shirt. It used to be a dress, but I cut the bottom half off, because Nicole touched it once and said it would make a pretty lampshade.  But she's the lampshade. Yeah, that's right, I said it."