July 2004 Archives

The thing I like best about Lil' Kim is her delicate grasp of decorum and modesty.

Hi! I'm David Gallagher, the boy child on Seventh Heaven who isn't Barry Watson! I'm all grown up now! And I didn't turn out so well! Check out my misguided facial hair -- a common, yet unfortunate, choice of awkwardly aging child stars since time began -- and my poorly styled bangs! My hairdresser calls this look The Van Der Beek! Do you like it? How about my unenthusiastic smile? Don't I look like I've probably got really bad breath? I'm worried that I do, and that's why no one loves me! How about my monster mega-brows? Aren't they manly? My make-up artist told me they were manly! But Jessica Biel said they were "cro-magnon manly!" I don't know what that means! I'm not sure it's a compliment because she's really mean to me! Last year she made me carry her purse for her every where she went on set and then she slapped me for dropping it that once! But it's okay because she's so pretty! Please love me! Please, please love me!

I had never heard of the rich "playboy" Steven Bing until he knocked up Elizabeth Hurley, and since then I've seen his name linked to other pretty young things whose names escape me right now (lucky for them) but who are pretty well able to support themselves and therefore don't really need to be with him unless he's either hot or charismatic.

But what really gets me about him is the moral fuggitude of his decision to contest paternity of Elizabeth Hurley's baby and claim they never really dated, because -- aside from it possibly leading to palimony he can amply afford and which she doesn't need -- God knows it's torturous having to confirm that he both dated and slept with a beautiful, internationally known model.

FRIEND: Hey, man, what did you do last night?
BING: Uh, nothing. I... hit on that cross-eyed video-store clerk and then tried to have sex with her and her hermaphrodite cousin, but, uh, they turned me down. Yeah.
FRIEND: Steve... I don't think you're being completely honest with me. For one thing, that's the same line you tried to use two days ago.
BING: Well, patterns, you know...
FRIEND: Steve. Talk to me. Are you... I hate to even say it... are you sleeping with Elizabeth Hurley?
BING (buries his face in his hands, weeping softly): I don't know what's wrong with me! I can't seem to stop! Why, oh, why, am I cursed with this freakish fetish? Why?
FRIEND: It's okay, Steve. I'm here for you. We'll get you some therapy and you'll get through this.
BING (sobbing): It's so GROTESQUE ... just... want the madness... to stop...

What a damper on your reputation, right? Especially when you yourself are completely plain-looking, dipped in liquid fug and topped off with a crispy doofus coating. I can just imagine him getting home, scrubbing himself raw in the shower with a loofa to get off any lingering cooties from the body of a famous hottie. God forbid they should infect him and somehow make him good-looking, too.

All the Queer Eye guys have their quirks: Kyan's the hot one who handles makeovers, Ted's the wry one who works the kitchen, Carson's the quippy one who rules the closet from well outside of it, and Thom is... the Pier 1 dude who is funny and also decorates. The point is, there's a reason baseball only has four bases; the Fab Five seems one person heavy on its roster.

But that was forgiven, because that extra body belonged to Jai Rodriguez, the wee one who's just so cute and cheerful you wish you could take him with you to drink giant martinis during a liquid lunch and gossip about all the celebrity bitches he's met.

Until...

Kyan, whip out your tube -- of hair product, that is, because Jai seems to have forgotten that his place is not, in fact, in The Monkees. It has slipped his mind that he is not Joan Jett.

We need Jai back the way we knew him, the way he was most useful to the show: as the totally pointless one who is along for the ride because he is wee and cute. [I mean, he's certainly not the important part of the show. "Go to the theater." "Don't chew with your mouth open." "Walk one foot in front of the other." "Don't be repulsive." "Learn to read." We get it. That stuff's not rocket science.]

Fix this, Fab Five-Minus-One! To thine own Queer Eyes be true; turn them inward and help your own before it's too late.

Once upon a time, I killed Hugh Grant in favor of marrying Ewan MacGregor and fucking the daylights out of George Clooney. I was proud of this decision. I didn't enjoy killing Hugh, but to borrow an idea from the squirrelly geek hotel magnate in Dirty Dancing, sometimes you have to do things that you don't want to do. It can't be helped. So with apologies, I measured Mr. Grant for his burial shroud.

And then, today came. Mr. Grant may have a reprieve on his hands. And we're not just talking a second chance at life; no, he's got himself a new bride-to-be. Because, my friends, in the photograph below, my former husband Ewan MacGregor is the one on the left:

Granted, this was taken after a three-month motorcycle ride across the nation, shot for a TV show on Bravo. But... Ewan, come ON, you were bright-eyed, clean-shaven, dreamy PERFECTION in Moulin Rouge. You were going to move into my house and rub my feet and bring me Diet Coke and serenade me, while also telling me I look pretty in that. You were NOT going to grow the Abominable Snowman's beard and take to chewing hay, spitting out bugs that got caught up in your teeth, and applying salve to your crotch to ease the bruises and pressure marks. Your eyes are supposed to sparkle with youthful, naive joy, not be dulled by the effects of funneling whiskey though an old exhaust pipe.

I just... I want "Your Song," not "Bad to the Bone." Something's got to give, Ewan, and please, for the love of GOD, let it be the fug.

Granted, Tom Sizemore's thuggish, overconfident brand of charisma never really turned my personal crank, but it's still intriguing to note that, just three years ago, he was this:

And now, many moons, rage issues, -[alleged] drug problems, and one girlfriend-beating trial later, he's this:

I guess that's what being an [alleged] complete fist-pounding assrag does for your complexion. He went from being chipper and cocksure and not-that-attractive-but-getting-laid-because-of-his-acting-skills-and-other-intangibles to looking, paraphrasing my friend Carrie, like a hundred miles of bad road replete with widening potholes and some colorful roadkill.

And do you see the crazy? There's [allegedly] crazy in those eyes. He looks a bit like he wants to eat your baby, possibly after he's scalped a few of his fellow inmates and hung their skin-shavings in his cell as a message to the rest of them that he's nobody's bitch now, fuckmothers, so don't you come over here with your soap and your lit cigarettes.

So, I suppose the moral is this: If you're fugly on the inside, you'll be fugly on the outside (also known as, "Don't [allegedly] get mad and [allegedly] beat up your significant other, folks, because you'll wind up on the business end of a skinhead's prison fantasy in no time).

I wish I had a better picture of this event, but I think the one below will suffice.

Le's talk about this. Prince Charles? Look fine. Dignified. Prince Charles-y. Nice suit. Good haircut. No problem. Geri Halliwell? Well, her hair's a little poufy, but otherwise, nicely played, Ginger Spice, especially considering that you could have dragged your Union Jack mini-dress out of storage. Lionel Richie? I thought you were dead, so well done there.

Which brings us to Lenny Kravitz.

Lenny, Lenny, Lenny. Lenny. I know we don't have a monarchy in the United States or anything, but Prince Charles is a dignitary of some sort, so could really have hurt you to dress appropriately? I do see that you've put on your most formal BeDazzled demin jacket for the event, but do you think you could have taken off your gigantic bug's-eye sunglasses for like five minutes? Could you have possibly foregone your usual macramé wear for the event? And, I hate to ask it, but -- the hat? What've you got in there? Blunts? A teapot? A very small, very quiet baby? How on earth did you get past security in that thing? Trust me when I tell you that, if you persist in wearing such ridiculous get-ups, no one is going to go your way.

A picture is worth a thousand words. In this case, those words include; "Why isn't this guy a checker at your local Best Buy instead of banging sorority girls all over the country?" and, "Seriously, I've read that this guy gets laid all the time and I don't understand it. What is the cred in sleeping with Carrot Top? Do girls actually sweep into brunch and announce to their posse, 'Oh my God, you guys, I had sex with Carrot Top last night,' followed by a round of high-fives? WHAT IS WRONG WITH THOSE GIRLS WHO ARE SLEEPING WITH THIS MAN? You can't need self-affirmation that badly, ladies." Other words include; "ew," "gross," "what's wrong with his face?", "oh God, make it stop," and, my favorite, "grody."

In part because of her striking resemblance to master fugstress Helen Hunt, and in part because she speaks like she has marbles in her cheeks and couldn't act her way out of a paper bag even if it already had a giant hole in it, we here at Go Fug Yourself have a special place in our cold, dead hearts for Leelee Sobieski. And we had vowed that her next new photograph would be her debut on this page.

Sadly, it doesn't emphasize the facial fug, but it's a fashion disaster, so I think we've scored:

There's something delicious about the fact that Fuglee went from being considered an acting prodigy after Eyes Wide Shut to dying of Frightening Travelling Knee Cancer (and being outacted by the Keanu-esque walking ode to cardboard, Chris Klein) in Here On Earth, to showing up at premieres for movies like Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle in the hope that someone will remember she exists.

And we do, but in the sense of, "Wow, Sobieski is back, and dressing fuglier than ever." Not only is Fuglee's dress evidently equipped with an enormous matching handkerchief that hangs from her chest (the better to wipe away the tears over her career decline), but she's chosen to pair it with a dark-green leather bag and orange... are they flats? I can't tell, but they're awful. Finally, the stripes, which thanks to the hanky appear to be going in every possible direction, are a melee of fug.

So, sure, welcome back to the world, Madam Fug. Welcome back indeed.

In my haste to make fun of Ben Affleck's appearance at the premiere of The Bourne Supremacy last week, I somehow missed this little gem:

That's CASEY AFFLECK with him, people! Doesn't it look the Topher Grace of 2017 come back to the future [or whatever] to warn his younger self against getting into Scientology, no matter what that Masterson punk tells him? ["Also, kid, the Kabbalah stuff that Kutcher's always yakking about? Avoid that, too. Do you want to end up like Esther? Have you -- oh, wait, that hasn't happened yet. Just keep an eye open, Toph!"] Men! The mustaches! No! Not on the young! Mustaches are for people's fathers, and, sometimes, ugly porn stars, and also Tom Selleck, but that is it! Enough!

Please note that Ben Affleck continues to sport his bloated, Hey Brother [Literally], Can You Spare a Dime homeless man chic look and also appears to need to hang on to Casey in order not to do a face plant into the red carpet. Seriously, Ben, I do remember when you were cute. Go back to Promises. And stop by Fred Segal on the way and see if they'll give you a facial in the new salon there.

This woman needs rehab? No way! Doesn't she look petulant? "Your hoooooooneeeeer, I don't waaaaaaaana go to rehaaaaaab." At least she managed to spackle enough Dermablend onto her rapidly disintegrating facial structure to look primarily human.

Let's get one thing straight. Pierce Brosnan is not fugly. Not in the least. Not at all. Not anywhere near it.

But the caterpiller living on his upper lip?

It's got to go. It makes him look old, it makes him look sleazy, it makes his capped teeth look way more capped than I'd ever noticed before. It makes him look like he just escaped from a touring company of a stage version of Dirty Rotten Scoundrals. Please, Pierce, shave it off. Please shave it off. Please don't fug yourself into a younger, less man-tanned version of Burt Reynolds.

Sarah Jessica Parker has just shot an ad for The Gap:

Ms. Fugker has always been one that must be photographed carefully, as her face walks the fine line -- the line of her nose, I believe -- between strikingly cute and shockingly scary. This photograph carelessly shoves her features into The Fug Zone, and it's really not helping, because we need something to distract us from the general fugocity of her clothing.

SJP designed the jeans and customized the shirt. She erred. She has no right to look whimsical in this photo, because it is hard proof that the influence of Sex stylist Patricia Field is toxic tonic indeed.

Jessica: I say knever to knickers.
Heather: So gross. Big fat kno.
Jessica: She also looks like she is missing a kneck there.

The whole ensemble, as displayed, is a cross between the costume in a gay chorus and the uniform of a Revolutionary War soldier. Maybe our troops back then were beating back the Brits with the heels of their pumps in some kind of choreographed battlefield cabaret. Who knew the American Revolution was so damn kicky?

Living on the edge, indeed. Ladies and gents, Joe Perry.

[Steven Tyler looks more and more like an aging socialite with a Botox-addiction, too, but that's hardly surprising. I'd be more horrified if he didn't look like he was wearing women's clothing from the Macy's juniors department.]

Joe, Joe, Joe. What's with the headdress? Look, headdresses in general are very difficult to pull off, and truly remain the domain of Vegas showgirls, actual Native Americans in tribal gear, and Cher [who really embodies the first two groups in one fabulous, Bedazzled wax figurine-like person]. For another thing, I hate to break it to you, but you're like a million years old. That get-up would look ridiculous on a young man, but when it comes to man of your advanced age, people just begin to suspect that you're wearing a headband-y item not because it looks cool [it doesn't], but because all of your hair is attached to it [could be]. Need I mention that the open shirt is a little gross? And the multiple necklaces a little likely to cause your ancient and dessicated body to tip over? And the pattern on your shirt a little responsible for seizures suffered by people who look at it too long? I didn't think so.

Jared Leto decided to drop by the Ten by Tanqueray Pool Party Benefitting Telkdgn948yhn -- sorry, I fell asleep -- The Collage Foundation on his way back from the gym. I'm sorry, did I say "from the gym"? I meant "from his day job as a roadie on the Van Halen tour."

Jared? The Unwashed, Grunge-y look was fine when you were Jordan Catalano. Back in 1992? When everyone was unwashed? Welcome to the new millenium, slacker. Invest in some product. And lose the towel.

Dear Margaret Cho,

You are not required to contort you face into "funny" expressions in order to be taken seriously as a comedian. Instead, we suggest you merely attempt to be funny.

We know you've got all these rants about how ABC made you get an eating disorder and why are women judged by their looks and yadda yadda yadda and good for you, but there's no reason for you to actually swing so far over to the other side that you actually start making yourself look fugly on purpose. Just look like yourself. This is, of course, presuming that you do have a normal, non-wacky, schtick-free facial expression.

Thank you.

CC: Jeanane Garafolo

PS: Look into a straight part. That crooked part is so Leslie Bibb circa 1999.
PPS: Mascara is your friend.

After I wondered briefly what Paul Rubens was doing in his life to make him so cheerful [and then paused to think, "Does David Gest have a son? No, no, I think I'd remember something that impossible"], I took a closer look at the above photograph and with a gasp recognized the visage of the throaty-voiced capitalization-repellant that is k.d. lang. (Honey? You're grown. So unless you are e.e. cummings, there is no excuse for insisting upon skipping the shift key.)

Ms. Lang -- Lang, I shall heretofore insist upon typing with defiance -- has always had a touch of the butch, but if this close-up shot is any indication, her exit from Lake Estrogen is now both complete and permanent. She always had sort of an endearingly hopeless fugocity, but there was at least some longer pieces of hair, some clumsy, careless makeup, funky jewelry... Now it's gone, and she's shot past androgyny straight to masculinity.

She's so dull and plain. Look at her. She doesn't want to sing about craving; she wants to do your taxes, or scour Consumer Reports for news of the new Chevy Malibu. She doesn't want to push the envelope -- she wants to put the cheque for her Readers' Digest subscription inside it and then lick it, stamp it, send it.

I think I miss the feminine side of her fug.

Such are the component parts of this Ashlee Simpson outfit from the MTV Movie Awards last month:

How do you take a boring blonde and differentiate her from her heinous fair-haired sister? Go through the bargain bin of bedsheets at a Cost Plus/World Market, fashion a "dress" out of one that's the color of cow's vomit, and cinch it with a giant leather yoke once used to rein in some oxen. Dye her hair, caution her not to wash it, and the throw in scraggly extensions that only go halfway around her head, serving to underline the natural lankness of her hair rather than thickening it.

Then give her those shoes: not a flat, not yet a wee kitten heel. An unholy way-station between two undesirable styles.

This is not the way to become the endearing Simpson sister.

If Ben Affleck is the King of this year's Fug Prom -- the Enchantment Under the Fug Dance, if you will -- then Maggie Gyllenhaal is surely the queen. But while Ben wears his crown with regret -- bloated, slightly smelly regret, but regret nevertheless -- Ms. Gyllenhaal wears hers with pride. Which is why she bugs so much; she's turned us, the prom committee or the student body, or whomever it is that votes on Prom Court, into our mothers. "Maggie, get a decent haircut." "Maggie, put on a goddamned bra for once!" "Maggie, my God, wash your face! Denver Carrington is about six minutes away from erecting an oil rig on your forehead!" "Maggie, holy shit, you are not wearing a fucking scrunchie!"

Listen, people. Scrunchies are not ironic. Scrunchies are not attractive. Scrunchies are not, unless you are a Heather, cool. And you, Maggie Gyllenhaal, are no Heather Chandler, so take off that hideous contraption and get on the dance floor for your spotlight dance with Wigfleck. And be gentle; that kid's got nothing left to live for.

Now, Maggie's answer, of course, is that she's not wearing a scrunchie. What looks like a scrunchie in the photo above is really a red "Target" logo. But let's think about this, kids: how long do you think we have before La Gyllenhaal shows up somewhere really wearing a scrunchie? I give her six months. And after that, the deluge.

Ladies and gentleman, the Ben Affleck's Delightful Downward Spiral of 2004 Photograph of the Day. Bon Appetit!

He's bloated! He's sunburned! He's disoriented! He's got a cigarette tucked behind his ear! The only thing that differentiates him from the homeless guy who asked me for a quarter and blow job this morning while I was waiting for the light to turn on the corner of Pico and Sawtelle is...no, not the mildly retarded gleam in his eye, nor the ratty shirt, but rather the Oscar on his mantle! Applause! Applause!

Ladies and gentleman, I present Princess Claire of Belgium. Although in this picture, it appears that she is confused and believes she may be part of the royal family of Belfug:

A toile pantsuit? With matching toile shoes? And a TOILE FEDORA? It looks like Laura Ashley exploded all over Dick Tracy and then decided to take in a parade.

Maybe Princess Claire is secretly very shy, and this outfit allows her to blend -- like a salamander! -- in with her palatial surroundings, as toile is generally meant only for posh bedroom wallpaper, arm chairs and the occasional duvet. In which case, poor dear, her fellow royals are probably sitting on her all the time. "Holy Jesus, Claire! You scared me! I didn't see you sitting that chair!" "Heavens, Claire, have I trod on you again? You blend in with the paper!" "Begging your pardon, your Highness, I thought this bed was unoccupied."

Toile: Camouflage for the upper crust.

From the premiere of the summer release Thunderbirds:

They're going to have to do a lot better than Anthony Edwards and this motley crew of boys if they want me to go see this movie. The only saving grace is that the guy on the far right is named Lex Shrapnel, and that moniker is perfection.

But the guy next to him? No. Big fugging no.

My first thought: "Oh, look, Chris Robinson shaved his beard."

My second thought: "Wow, you go, Iggy Pop. You sing that song."

Third time's the charm, though, because that's how many thoughts it took for me to realize that the person pictured above is female singer Patti Smith. Crooning in the key of fug.

Have you seen the posters for the new Brittany Murphy/Ron Livingston romantic comedy Little Black Book? Check it out:

First of all, don't worry; I'm not talking shit about Ron Livingston. I love him and want to have his babies. I would never paint him with the fug brush. But look at poor little Fugany Murfug! The hair is so brassy! The undereye circles are so prominent! The facial structure is so very skeletal! She looks like the frail heroine of a Lifetime movie about eating disoders. Not Without My Zone Bars: The Brittany Murphy Story, or some such. And in the movie, Ron is all like, "eat, Brittany, eat! Eat, damn it!" And she'll be all, "nooooo, I have issues," and he'll be all, "what if I lift you up and nuzzle your neck like I want to ravish you right here?" And whereas I'd be all, "whatever you want, Ron!" Brittany is still all, "man, am I skinny, or what?"

Memo to Murphy: seriously, I don't know who styled you for this flick, but whoever they are, they totally hate you. You should probably watch your back.

Match this photo with the correct identification:

a) A man who is trying to look like Kenny Rogers;
b) The Unabomber, softened from his time in prison, divested of his hoodie and ready to rejoin society on Everwood as a recovering alcoholic lumberjack with huge appetites for Big Macs and sex;
c) A half-man, half-beaver experiment that is taking the science world by storm;
d) A tooth model; or
e) Val Kilmer (so tragically far removed from his stint as Iceman in Top Gun, the apex of his hotness) after a miraculous and five-years-overdue shower, smiling yet blissfully unaware that he still hasn't strategically deflated himself.

Somebody keep the corn on the cob away from that man.

A little known fact about actor Jon Voight: He's made of wax.

See the vacant eyes? The sheen on his skin? Evidently the real Mr. Voight died ten years ago, but was replaced with an animatronic wax replica courtesy of the Madame Tussaud screwballs so that he could make Varsity Blues, thus giving the world Ali Larter in a whipped-cream bikini and James Van Der Fug's futile attempts to speak in a Texas accent.

We're on to you now, though, Mr. Voight, so hop in your Le Baron convertible and get thee back to the wax shop so they can melt you down before the bright lights of Hollywood do it first.

Seriously, Costanza. "No soup for you!" it isn't a Seinfeld reference anymore. Step away from the lobster bisque and say hello to leafy greens. How does it feel to know that you're now more bloated than Newman?

Dear Ms. Littleford,

We realize you've struggled since The Daily Show to do anything approaching the caliber of work that program has churned out in your wake. We know you're that show's David Caruso or Sherry Stringfield, leaving a successful show -- on the cusp of becoming a pop-culture mainstay -- for pastures you thought were greener, when in fact up close they were dying and weedy fields with little dung mines waiting for your careless step.

And so, hooray for you that after a drought that consisted largely of IBM commercials and the occasional cameo, you've clawed your way into a network's press tour, having landed on the FOX show Method & Red. But do not get complacent. You are not so successful all of a sudden that you can afford to walk around looking like this:

[Photo courtesy of Zap2It.com.]

You look like the Emerald City of Oz. Your bleached hair and fake tan are a cocktail of fug. You were better as a redhead. And let's face it, there's a strong chance Method Man is going to beat the crap out of everyone associated with that show before it gets picked up for a second season, so don't get so comfortable with your "success" that you let yourself go any further. Save yourself.

Oh my God, what happened to Fox Mulder?

Remember when he used to look like this?

I sure hope this new look is for a role, because it otherwise it appears that he has gone out and gotten himself a weave. I don't know who told him that was a good idea, but Duchovny would do well to remember the principle tenent of the vehicle that made him a star and trust no one.

Of course, even giving him the benefit of the doubt and believing that the flat-ironed bob he's sporting is for a movie offers no explanation for that jacket-thing he's wearing. He seriously looks like he barely escaped from 1983 with his life.

One of the reasons we came to believe that fugly is the new pretty: Everywhere we look, otherwise attractive or at least serviceable people seem to be going out of their way to fug themselves up, to the point of disaster. Clearly, looking one's best has ceded being a priority, supplanted by the need to be "quirky" and "different" and "a standout" -- and, too often, this means fugly.

But how can the common man or woman approach these levels of fug? How do we get with the trend? Where do we find guidance?

Magazines. Specifically, this month's Lucky, which seems to have as its mission The Fugging Of America. Grab your copy and play along.

1) On page 43, there's an entire spread entitled "What I Want NOW!" Is it about the entire England football team being in my living room? Is it about five-million dollars? Is it about a Double-Stuff Oreo? No. It's about that other thing you want right this second: Equestrian-themed clothing. According to Lucky, looking like you're ready at any time to throw a leg over a powerful animal (members of the England football team included, I suppose) means you are steeped in "the ultimate in rich, sporty style." The page pretends that pants that look like jodphurs, complete with knee patches, are "smart." There is a tan -- Tan! Not its trendier counterpart khaki, nor its posh twin, beige, but TAN -- cardigan, tapering at the sleeves and into the waistband, emblazoned with HORSE BRIDLES. Your grandmother, in whose closet it most belongs, would take one look at it and think it was frumpy. Lucky's take is: "A riding motif makes this cardigan posh." If by "posh" you mean "fugtastic." And finally, the magazine pimps a gold necklace with riding-themed charms (a horseshoe, a crop, a boot, etc.) and suggests that wearing such a necklace makes it seem like the charms have sentimental value. Yes, rather than actually wearing something that has sentimental value, you should buy something expensive that fakes it, and Lucky is teaching you how to do it the fugly way.

2) What to wear with your newly purchased riding jodphurs? How about some of the high-necked blouses that Lucky is trying to sell you on page 53. If you've ever itched to look like Fuggie Gyllenhaal or Kirsten Fugst, both of whom have worn high-necked shirts and looked like demented pale Victorian dolls, then this page is tailor-made for you. The bold portions of the captions -- atop photos of frumpy shirts that billow a tad too much, button up to your chin, and creep up on your head so as to choke you with their ruffles -- read as follows: "So romantic," "so airy," "a classic," and finally, "wear this." Not a lick of skin on your torso will show in one of these little numbers that Lucky insists upon calling, "Never stuffy!" The biggest blouse on the page is a silk paisley number that's $265, and is a turgid sea of purples and hot pinks. Wear this and you will look like a complete assfug. Which is apparently the point. Well-played, Lucky. Well-played.

3) Cruise on over to page 46 -- there's a velvet cape that the senior fashion editor thinks would be just FAB this season. Never mind that it's SUMMER, people. Or that it looks like a window treatment from a stuffy old mansion on a hill. There's also a "sultry -- yet earthy!" dress and some Stevie Nicks boots, if you decide to reject riding-wear and Victorian prudishness in favor of Fleetwood Mac chic.

4) Skip the page on tweed flats, because it will only mildly dumbfound you, and go straight to where true, potent bewilderment lies: page 142, which declares that "The Look" is... drum roll... '80s-style jeans. The model is wearing tight, tapered pants that hit at the ankle, covered in strange seams and zippers. If this style re-emerges, I will cry. Hard. The model couldn't look stupider if she'd put legwarmers over them.

5) Perhaps you could pair your new jeans with one of page 54's features: A blazer with rolled-up sleeves, preferably with a shirt underneath it that you roll up WITH and OVER the jacket's own sleeve. I'm fairly sure someone in Back to the Future wore this exact outfit.

Compared to all this, cover girl Molly Sims' pink leather jacket looks like a piece of real genius.

So have fun shopping this month -- thanks to Lucky, you'll know exactly where to go and what to buy in order to be a professional up-fugger.

Although I'm loath to turn this into All Baffleck, All the Time -- despite that fact he certainly provides ample ammunition -- no proud Student of the Fug could resist the Holy Triptych of Fugly represented below.

You know you're in dire straits when Kevin Smith is the best looking guy in the picture. And yet he totally is. He appears clean -- both in the sense of "washed" and "not strung out on smack" -- and he doesn't seem to careening recklessly toward death like Fugfleck and Jason "I'm Off Heroin, If By 'Off' You Mean 'Totally Still On'" Mewes. I mean, is Smith fat? Sure! Is he fatter than ever before? Probably! But at least he trimmed that gnarly beard and appears to have a working relationship with soap. The other two fools? Not so much.

For the love of God, Wigfleck, look in the goddamned mirror and get a damned grip on yourself.

This is not a recent photo, but, thanks to the beauty of "news" photography, even old fug never dies:

This was one of the fourteen looks and weights Ms. Aguilera cycled through before her current beau and possible fiance, Jordan Bratman, Squirrely Music-Exec-Type, "calmed her down" and "cleaned up her act." And by "act," we mean "vagina."

Except, we think that's an impossible task. For one thing, there are rumors; for another, just look at that outfit -- it is a straught-up advertisement that something is fire-hot and burning up in there. She might as well have arrows and little photos of STD mascot Phil The Sore taped to her crotch.

She is also a walking billboard for the dangers of overplucking one's eyebrows. But that's another photo altogether.

The verdict: Megafug.

Here at Go Fug Yourself, we are passionately committed to covering every aspect of Ben Affleck's downward spiral from Oscar-Winning Hottie to Sleazy Guy With a Gambling Addiction And Serious Beer Bloat.

[Ben, we've been there. The editors of Go Fug Yourself totally endorse drinking heavily. However, if you choose to booze, you must also choose to shower. And maybe jog around the block every now and then. Especially when you live in the public eye. Just a suggestion, because, honestly, dude? You're looking rough. Really, seriously rough. Showering At Truck Stops And Cooking Crystal Meth In the Back of Your Van rough. We're telling you this because, dude, we love you -- if only because of how hilariously, hilariously bad you were in Pearl Harbor and how much fun it was to watch your will to live drain out of your overly-blinged body during The J-Lo Years. Anyway. Just think about it.]

And thus, we present:

Doesn't he look like he's a jigger of Scotch away from a killing spree? Don't get in this man's car.

At the premiere of her summer movie, Sequel To The Moving-Picture Essay Detailing Why I Have Always Been A Matt Girl And Not A Ben Girl, Franka Potente decided it would be really attractive to show up in this:

It looks like she swaddled herself in black satin, then tried to sew it into a dress, hunching over and struggling with the needle and thread and hiking it up here, there, and everywhere to try and get those hard-to-reach seams done... and then stood up and realized she'd sewn it all wonky.

Also, she evidently needs to come shoe-shopping with me and Jessica this weekend so she can pick up some go-to black shoes, thereby preventing her from ever again having to complete this outfit with white Converse.

And finally... yeah, for a second, I was like, "Why is The Bachelorette's Meredith Phillips at the premiere of Seriously, Matt, Come To My House?"

They're all perplexing: Ric Ocasek/Paulina Porizkova, Liv Tyler/Royston Langdon, Kate Hudson/Chris Robinson, Anyone Breasted/Any Member of the Rolling Stones (or Vince Neil in his current state)... but none of the "Pretty Woman Nails Fugly Man" couples can quite compare to the following horror:

Brief digression: What the hell? Is he looking into becoming a mime?

No one is going to call Dita Von Teese, or even Manson's ex Rose McGowan, a timeless, unforgettable beauty. But both ladies are at least high enough above Marilyn's level that it ought to be a long and painful climb up the fugstalk for him to bed them. Ergo, one must conclude that -- in order to make it worth a pretty young woman's while to sleep with a man who makes all other sentient beings' skin crawl so far it ends up two time zones away from the skeleton -- Marilyn Manson must be well-hung, and perhaps even rather attentive in the sack.

I must ask: So fugging what? Is it really worth it?

He's a terrifying eye-sore when made-up, but honestly, he's only got so much with which to work -- it's entirely possible he's as bad, if not worse, without the war-paint. Is the stomach churn worth it if he sends lots of roses? Is staring deeply into psychotic and sometimes urine-colored eyes less repellant if the cunnilingus is fab? Is being able to say the sentence, "Oh, God, YES, Marilyn," or "Marilyn Manson and I have sex all the time and it's fantastic" actually worth it when you consider that it entails a) penetration, and b) having to see the man naked?

Even if he's majestic in bed, could he be that much better than the many other men on the planet who aren't drizzled in creamy fugamel and coated in a crispy milk-fugolate shell? Am I missing something? Am I secretly less of a fulfilled woman because I haven't been with the man who must, apparently, understand how to tickle and titillate the female body better than any other bepenised creature alive?

To maintain hold of my sanity, I am compelled to insist the answer is no.

I can't believe we've been fugging for this long without mentioning the Grandmaster of Fug and my own sworn enemy, one of the most loathsome and detestable individuals ever to appear on television and the man whose continuing "popularity" actively proves to me that we are indeed living in the End Times.

I present Bachelor Bob, that asshole:

[I am, by the way, aware that he is no longer technically a bachelor, having somehow forced the otherwise lovely Rebecca Budig (of ABC Daytime's All My Children) to marry him. (I suspect drugs, blackmail and brainwashing were all involved, although you'd think Budig's experience on AMC would have given her the life skills to thwart any such attempt on her virtue.) Needless to say, he will forever be "Bachelor Bob, That Asshole" to me.]

"Hi! I'm Kyra Sedgewick! I haven't had carbs in six months and my face looks like a grinning death mask! Plus, what am I wearing? I look like hell!"

"Hi! I'm Kevin Bacon! Seriously, am I on drugs? I think I probably am."

I wish Conan O'Brien would do an "If They Mated" with this photograph:

They are not the fugliest couple out there (any of the Hot Woman Marries Rock Star pairings has enough fug on the male side to wrest that title from the more balanced Sofia and Q), but looking at this photo, I have a hard time suppressing the urge to wave my hand in front of their eyes to see if they blink.

Also, as is the unfortunate wont of many Hollywood beanpoles, Sofia appears to be taking the "I know I can find a dress that makes me look fat, I just KNOW it" approach to fashion.

Matt: Hahahahahahah! I'm sorry. I was just thinking about our now wildly divergent careers. Let's see -- I was in The Talented Mr. Ripley. You were in Armageddon. I was in Ocean's Eleven you were in ... excuse me, I'm sorry, if I don't get a drink of water I'm going to choke, I'm laughing too hard. You were in... I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Hang on. I'm fine. Just got the giggles. You were in Pearl Harbor. Hee. Heh. Ahem. This summer, I have The Bourne Supremacy coming out. You've got...well...I guess you're good at poker? I mean, by most accounts, you're sort of funny and self-deprecating and I know you're not totally stupid, but have you looked in the mirror lately, old friend? Remember when people used to argue over which one of us was cuter? Heh. Hee. Hahahahahahaha. No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You've been through some rough times lately and... oh, hell. HahahahHAHAHAHAH!

Ben: Yeah, keep laughing, pretty boy. One day, you'll hook up with some batshit crazy marriage-obsessed succubus who will destroy your will to live and it will take all the internal fortitude you can muster to escape her grasping clutches, and we'll see how you look after it's over. I'm lucky I only look bloated and hairy and miserable -- she threatened to have me killed. I could be dead now. Isn't fugly better than dead? Isn't it, Matt? ISN'T IT?

Matt: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

I know, I know -- saying Courtney Love is fuggin' fugly is a bit like saying Steven Tyler's mouth is a little larger than average. But when the Massive Genital Wart on the Crotch of the Grand Diva of Fug actually manages to out-fug herself, it's irresponsible to ignore it.

"Janet! [CLICK] Janet, over here! Smile big for us, Janet! [CLICK] Show us some nipple! [CLICK] JAN... wait a second, that's not Janet, that's just some dumb look-alike... Who the hell is that?"

Singer Blu Cantrell, shown above at a fashion-show benefit, was apparently very excited to use this appearance to share with the world her plan to quit singing and become a jockey -- a literal attempt to ride back into cultural relevance, possibly by winning next year's Triple Crown.

Good luck, Blu! Hopefully by then we'll remember why you were ever famous in the first place.

Dear Laura Linney,

Thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule of corn-shucking and zucchini-harvesting to attend our charity event. We understand that you had to head right back out to the fields, and therefore couldn't be arsed to comb your hair, put on some lip gloss or change out of your skanky tee shirt before swinging by for your photo opportunity:

We've seen you look pretty, so we know you can do it.

All our best,

Broadway-Oriented Dog-Adoption-Related Charity Event Organizers

Dear Duffs: Please stop trying to foist upon us your other and less attractive spawn, Haylie (left). It's bad enough that we have to deal with Lizze McGuire mistakenly believing she's the cutest of the tween queens, and being deluded into thinking she has actual musical talent. Her singing voice sounds as if she is speaking the words through a kazoo; if the rumor about Haylie secretly doing some of the vocals on Hilary's album is true, then both their mouths should be duct-taped in perpetuity.

If you insist on trying to make the public remember that Haylie even exists -- without forcing her to go brunette, like Asslee Simpson and Nicky Hilton and all the other forgotten blonde siblings -- then please warn her to cease and desist trying to reinvent old bridesmaid's dresses by adding pants to the mix. That outfit is a nightmare.

In related news: Chad Michael Murray has reimagined himself as a fugly hybrid of Ryan Phillippe and David Beckham.

Oy. Close your mouth, Hilary.

"You know what?" I said. "Your doll is a total ho."

She studied it. "Oh my God," she gasped. "I got a SLUT with my cheeseburger!"

The amount of makeup slapped on the doll's cheeks isn't as evident from his photo, taken on a camera phone, but it's so streetwalker-chic that it borders on Drag Queen. The fur-trimmed jacket comes off to reveal a tube top, and... are those flared capris, or just pants tucked into the pink wedge boots?

In a HAPPY MEAL. Five-year olds order those, and now each one comes with its own teenage prostitute. Gives a new meaning to the term "Happy Meal," doesn't it?

Jack Osbourne should get down on his knees every night and thank God that he was born a rich kid with a famous father, because there's no way he'd ever get laid otherwise. I mean, seriously:

According to Reuters, Courtney Love has been hospitalized. From the linked article: "It's not drug-related," [her PR Flack] added. "It's a feminine issue. ...a medical condition relating to gynecological issues."

Just ruminate on that for a while.

Happy birthday to Courtney Love. Poor Courtney. She certainly looks fugly as hell, but we all know it's just because that's what being utterly batshit crazy does to one's face. Well, that and all the drugs.

This may just be an unfortunate photo, but this site isn't about being fair -- it's about pinpointing the fug. And even though Jessica Lange is pictured elsewhere looking smiley and charming, it's when photographers catch celebrities unawares or off-guard, or just "off," that you get to see what sins of the fug they've truly committed. And so it came to pass that we learned just how much Jessica Lange is looking over-botoxed, or possibly badly nipped and tucked and possessed of uneven cheek implants -- to the point where the once-lovely actress now resembles the notoriously ghoulish Marie Osmond face lift. Ms. Lange, we implore you: Make it stop.

Thora Birch is a lovely young girl... who desperately, desperately needs to invest in some decent hair color, some shampoo, lipstick that doesn't suggest she will blow you for three dollars and a mickey of rum, and a jug of anti-frizz:

She gets major points for not contracting nippleitis while wearing this tight dress, but... what are those spots down the front? And is that the edge of a RUFFLE I detect in the bottom left corner of this picture?

It's almost too easy to rag on Mr. Mira Sorvino, but then again, we are nothing if not easy, so:

Congratulations to Mira for both her marriage to the Ambassador of Fugoslovakia, and her subsequent, dutiful attempts to fit the mold of that proud nation's First Lady. Evidently she dug around in her old dress-up drawer from when she was six and found a this pink smock, possessed of just enough water-proofing to prevent any tear-stains -- provided any water leaking out of her tear-ducts makes it past her protective goggles -- that may result from those brief moments when she takes stock of her life and realizes she married some kind of surfer-ape.

How is it possible that we've been fugging it up for this long without mentioning the Grand Duchess of Fugstonia, her Royal Highness the Princess of Fugdavia, Steven Cojocaru? Look upon him, all ye who enter here, and despair!

Tara Reid has officially reached rock bottom. I know, I know, like so many people, I was convinced that the hard partying, the Carson Daly engagement, the sickening pelvis, the dead-end career, and the mascara tracks looked an awful lot like rock bottom, but apparently Ms. Reid one-upped herself -- two-upped herself, technically -- by getting gigantic new breast implants. Because nothing says "Look at me, please, I'm DESPERATE to be treated like a real young star" like heavy-looking implants that seem to be drooping, sagging silicone dumplings.

[Photo: Splash News]

Props -- and at the same time, bitch-slaps, because this chick doesn't need to be encouraged -- to the Scrubs people for trying to make her feel culturally relevant, but even that show couldn't disguise her patent lack of talent, humor, and sex appeal. And then she goes and steps out in public looking like the guest of honor at a roller-disco rave gone wrong.

Can someone please put a mirror in front of this girl's face and show her that she is the senior-class president of Fug Valley High?

Full Disclosure: here at Go Fug Yourself, we love Britney Spears. We love dancing around to her peppy pop music whilst singing into hairbrushes and wiggling our firm and well-shaped underwear-clad asses, we love making fun of her acting skillz in Crossroads, and we love, love, love witnessing her current downward spiral.

Who would have guessed that sweet little Britters would end up engaged to a manpri-wearing, jaunty-trucker-hat-sporting, skeevy David Silver look-a-like back-up dancer? It's fantastic! Less fantastic is her slide into the fug: the Cheetos addiction, her apparent distain for hair product, the way she seemingly has stopped washing her face. This is a cry for help far more serious than her impending marriage to Cletus. I mean, look at her:

WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?

From the runways of Paris's fashion week comes this little gem from John Galliano:

I think I'm speechless. This is what Abe Lincoln would look like if he swallowed Daniel Boone and then went on a three-week opium bender.

Has John Galliano lost his mind? I think he has lost his mind. Down a manhole.

Katie Couric is looking increasingly like some kind of alien being. In addition to whatever sketchy face work she allegedly had done, which makes her eyes look constantly wide-open, she's over-bleached her hair and overtanned her skin. Katie Couric used to be sort of endearingly cute -- pretty in all her imperfections, and a good-looking older woman who still had a comforting maternal aura around her. Now she's short skirts, high heels, muscular legs, and lifted brows. She's a poster child for the perils of fake-and-bake addictions, looking a tad leathery around the edges and just utterly unnatural in her skin tone.

She's so orange, in fact, that she's one green coif away from being cast as an Oompa Loompa in the Johnny Depp remake of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

One can only assume that Spidey thinks he's reaching for a hanky:

Ms. Dunst would like to apologize for looking like a desperate flapper who Scarlett O'Hara'ed a dress out of her grandmother's old nightie, some ribbon, and a BeDazzler. And whither the bra, Kirsten? Based on her tight-lipped, forced joviality, she finds the droopy-chest-effect just as exciting as we do.

Maybe Spiderman behind her isn't confusing her dress for a tissue at all -- he just wants to rip the monstrosity off of her and remind her that young, slim women really aren't required to dress as though they just poked their legs through a Safeway shopping bag.

Heather and I continue our obsession with the fugly kings and queens of Hollywood, the cast of Sleepover. So you can imagine our glee when we discovered photos from the film's premiere. To wit:

Jessica: Who is she wearing?
Heather: A little known designer called "Oh, honey, no."

Heather: YOU DO NOT WORK AT A GAS STATION, HOMESLICE.
Jessica: Is this what the girls think is cute now? I weep for the future of humanity.

Jessica: The fugly blonde isn't nearly as fugly as she was on the poster.
Heather: No. Which is disappointing. But her outfit appears to have gone through a trash compactor, so that's something.

Because I am obsessed with mega-fugly flick Sleepover, I actually sat down last night and watched the trailer. Here's the scoop: Alexa Vega is not nearly as fugly in the movie as she looks on the poster. Although she's grown boobs and hasn't yet decided to diet down to a lollipop-head body type yet, she doesn't look nearly as tubby/awkward in the movie as she does on the poster. Mika Boorem is very cute. The aforementioned ultra-fugtastic blonde kid is, in fact, super extra fugly and appears in the trailer not at all, which is disappointing because I wanted to know if she did, in fact, have what Heather refers to as "Mad-Eye." And, finally, it appears that the movie also features Pacey Witter's Mother/The Lesbian Dog Trainer from Best in Show wearing a really bad haircut.

I am so going to see this movie opening weekend. Although, as Heather pointed out, it is one of those movies where you buy the tickets in secret over the internet and go to the theatre wearing an enormous hat and giant, round Mary-Kate Olsen Pretends To Be Eating a Pizza For the Paparazzi sunglasses.

From USA TODAY:
"Tori Spelling spoke recently with USA TODAY about her wedding plans. 'We're doing a Great Gatsby kind of feel,' she says. 'That's the dream I've always had.'"

Tips For Creating Your Own Gatsby Wedding:
1) Throw dress shirts, not rice!
2) At the end of the wedding, someone should be dead in a swimming pool!
3) During the reception, your maid of honor's boob gets ripped off in a horrible car accident!

When will people learn that although The Great Gatbsy is a really great book, it is not a happy one?

The rest of that article rules. Luke Perry -- not invited to the wedding and recently divorced -- is totally bitter in it. And it turns out that Shannen Doherty also wasn't invited. For what it's worth, although she has her own wonky eye and her eyebrows are really misguided, Shannen is not fugging it up, because she is Brenda Walsh and Brenda Walsh rules.

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Look at her wonky eye! Look at it! Doesn't that affect her depth perception? Melissa Joan Hart: Archbishop of Wonky of the Holy Fugly Church.

There's a dangerous new trend sweeping the nation. A trend more dangerous than snorting cocaine, or sniffing glue, or whatever it is the kids are doing these days. It's insidious, this trend, and it doesn't seem to be anywhere near over.

This trend is ugly.

No, I mean literally. Fugly is the new pretty.

Have you seen the posters for the sure-to-be-Oscar-winning tween romp Sleepover yet? Heather and I saw one at the Beverly Center on Saturday and agreed, within a matter of mere seconds, that every kid cast in that movie was fugly. Especially the one girl on the left. With the wonky eye. She's hella fugly.

Those girls are not cute, people. Okay, Mika Boorem is cute, and little Alexa "Spy Kids" Vega used to be cute, but it's not like you can see them through the fog of fug. Seriously, look at the girl on the left again. She's Miss Teen Fug USA. She should be on the cover of Fogue [you know, fugly + Vogue = Fogue. No? Move on.]

It ain't right. When Heather and I were girls, celebrities were actually attractive. Now, just look around. Chloe Sevigny? Maggie Gyllenhaal? Melissa Joan Hart? Fugly, fugly, and the conductor of the Chunnel to Fugtown.

Heather: Fugly is clearly in now.
Jessica: It's like that old Janeane Garofalo routine, about how "a girl's greatest asset this spring is a pretty face," except this spring, a girl's greatest asset is fugliness.
Heather: "Those in the know have started washing their faces with Crisco."
Jessica: "Got cellulite? Make the most of it!"
Heather: "Are you lucky enough to have a monobrow? Cultivate it!"
Jessica: "Got facial hair? Thank your lucky stars!"

It is at this point that Heather and I began speaking in phony British accents. Why? Was this an attempt to ape Brenda Cooper, of Fashion Emergency, and more recently of Next Action Star? Sure, let's say it's that, and not that we are lame.

Heather: "For breakfast, eat a pound of butter."
Jessica: "Are you a size 6? Squeeze into a 2! Or roll around in a 12!"
Heather: "Stop washing your face! Don't wash anything. Ever!"
Jessica: "Showers? For shame!"
Heather: "Throw out all your make-up! Rub olive oil on your face!"
Jessica: "For a nice change, why don't you consider a bowl cut?"
Heather: "Have you ever thought about braces? Get some! Leave them on forever."
Jessica: "Invest in a set of headgear! Wear it all day!"
Heather: "Throw out your toothbrush!"
Jessica: "Say good-bye to contacts and hello to Coke bottles!"
Heather: "If your pants are too short to be capris but too long to be pants, then they are JUST RIGHT."
Jessica: "Aren't you glad you fired your bikini waxer? Your boyfriend is!"

And so forth. And so here we are. Celebrating the fugly. Okay, not celebrating it as much as pointing it out. Why the fug? Whither the fug? Wherefore the fug?

Viva la fug.

In honor of the fact that, these days, fugly seems to be the new pretty, we've created a blog to honor all the visual atrocities of the world.