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May 04, 2007

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.

Posted by Heather at 05:19 PM in Paris & Nicky Hilton | Permalink

April 11, 2007

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.

Posted by Jessica at 03:19 PM in Paris & Nicky Hilton | Permalink

March 21, 2007

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.

Posted by Heather at 02:59 PM in High Fugshion, Paris & Nicky Hilton | Permalink

January 19, 2007

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!

Posted by Jessica at 08:34 AM in Golden Globes, Paris & Nicky Hilton | Permalink

January 03, 2007

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

Posted by Heather at 11:04 AM in Paris & Nicky Hilton | Permalink

November 28, 2006

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

Posted by Heather at 08:22 AM in Britney Spears, Paris & Nicky Hilton | Permalink

October 27, 2006

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.

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

October 24, 2006

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.

Posted by Jessica at 07:04 AM in Fug The Cover, Paris & Nicky Hilton | Permalink

October 12, 2006

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.


Posted by Jessica at 12:34 PM in Nicole Richie, Paris & Nicky Hilton | Permalink

October 04, 2006

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.

Posted by Heather at 02:12 PM in Paris & Nicky Hilton | Permalink

 

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