September 2004 Archives

To the inventor of what is apparently industrial-strength boob tape:

Lil' Kim has taught the world a lot of important lessons. For example, as long as there is a swatch of fabric somewhere on your person, then technically you are considered clothed and fit for public consumption. Or, as demonstrated above, that as long as something encircles part of your arm and is somehow connected to the rest of the outfit, then that thing can be considered a sleeve. My life will not be the same.

But I owe you a debt of gratitude, because without your marvelous double-sided invention, the world could not safely learn these lessons. We wouldn't be able to study at her School of Skank, because we'd be forced to behold Lil' Kims nipples while she's teaching, and that is considered the leading potential cause of blindness and/or insanity. So thank you, kind sir or madam. You are the real hero. You are the reason she can wear her wrist on a red fabric leash without also letting the dogs out; your tape is the Breast Police, and it is blessedly unafraid of making arrests.

God bless you and keep you.

Cheers,
Heather

Looks like Donna Martin didn't graduate from the school of good taste:

Tori Spelling mistakenly equates "mismatched 80s fug wear" with "cute top." A pink and black rugby-striped blouse? Okay, fine. If you want to do that 80s thing that was so big nine months ago. But over an aqua tee? Oh, honey. Honey. No. Pink and black and aqua? Not even Kelly Taylor could pull off that unholy, Miami Vice-ian horror.

And the necklaces? Why? Why all the necklaces? Don't draw any more attention to your horsey neck than you need to, Tori. Especially not when you're wearing a top that's wrestling with itself for attention.

I guess we should give thanks, however, that at least we're not being treated to yet another viewing of the man-made crater between your breasts. Small favors, right?

Hey, almost-unrecognizable-and-surprisingly-mannish Amy Davidson, listen up: One simple rule of fugging oneself is matching one's hat with one's eye shadow:

Guys, consider yourself warned: If you persist in voting this year, we cannot be held responsible for the fate of your genitals.

And finally, because it's always worth noting, somebody still needs attention:

Is that shirt really made to make it look like she's wearing a bra outside her clothes? Or... is she actually wearing a bra outside her clothes?

At least her mother finally put a collar on Courtney, so that if she gets lost people will know who she is so that they can return her. Of course, knowing this family, the collar probably says, "Please return to: Ashley Peldon," which would render any good samaritan stumped.

Britney Spears is so right. I am sorry that I don't have what she has. To wit:

What girl doesn't dream of a marrying a David Silver lookalike who actually purchases -- and wears! In public! -- a trucker cap that reads "Rock Out With Your Cock Out"?

I think I speak for all of humanity when I beg you, Kevin, to put the cock away.

This man's name is Archbishop Don Magic Juan. Which makes perfect sense, especially if that actually is a blinged-out chalice in his left hand:

His Holiness looks like the Von Trapp Family pimp. His poor mother will sure miss those pale blue curtains, but it was well worth it for the matching sombrero. Ol√ɬ(c), homeslice!

I'm guessing the theory is: The more uncannily he resembles a couch, the more chicks will splay themselves all over his lap. Llife must look better through those aqua-blinged sunglasses.

Thanks for dressing up for the premiere of Shark Tales, Goose.

What's with the backpack? Is the erstwhile Dr. Greene living, per chance, in his car? Has he sold every pair of jeans he bought after he joined the cast of ER, thus leaving him with this one pair of reverse-cut, pale washed women's jeans he scavenged out of the dumpster behind the Gap on 22nd and Wilshire? Or is he just "keeping it real?" All I know is, I never see George Clooney looking like this. And I never see Anthony Edwards in anything approximating Ocean's 11. Hmmm. Wonder if there's a connection. Memo to Edwards's agent: get your man in a suit, stat.

It's like a little mesh tumor. Or a sartorial head-wound.

Maybe somebody bought it for her dog and Victoria Rowell misunderstood.

Is Mimi Rogers reliving her high-school prom?

I'm happy to see that she's so fond of her knit poppy-adorned doormat; not as ecstatic that she turned it into a poncho. But, judging by her expression, her date got them a hotel room for after the prom-queen coronation, so at least she'll get laid despite looking like she bled out on the operating table all over her white dress.

"Sorry I'm late, you guys! My tap class ran late and I didn't have time to change!"

Judging by her sulky facial expression, Mischa Barton didn't think to look in the mirror until after she arrived at the party:

This is sort of a melange of fug. The frumpy purse competes with the frumpy cardigan, which is bedecked with the kind of cursory glitter you see on the sweaters of octagenarians. Vying with those two elements for attention: the see-through black undershirt with pink bra.

It's like she's a 90-year old stripper who's trying to prove she's Still Got It. Come on, Mischa, don't age before your time. Go back to being who you are: a young starlet who hilariously think she's Got It, but who actually has nothing but the VDs she probably caught from her oily boyfriend.

Somebody remind me what the big deal is about Keira Knightley, because on a good day it sort of confuses me...

... and as featured on Page Six today, in full Overtired Vampiress mode, I'm pretty much totally perplexed. She needs some eye makeup remover. And a wig. I just... really? Really?

New York Fashion Week Fever strikes again. NYFWF is a rare, serious disease that affects mostly women between the ages of 22 and 35. Symptoms include: dressing like Florence Henderson in The Brady Bunch, if there was an episode of The Brady Bunch in which Carol Brady fell into a deep, deep depression and started drinking during the day, leading to drunk shopping and even drunker hair-styling [see subject above, who has a severe case of Bradyism]; delusions and hallucinations; the inability to tell if an outfit is attractive or if it makes you look like your Mom, circa 1971, especially if your Mom was on a serious diet of Quaaludes in 1971; no appetite, leading to emaciation [this symptom not visible in the subject pictured above. Please see: Wintour, Anna; Lauder, Erin; Grubman, Lizzie; any Von Furstenberg you can nab]; a pathological and crippling fear of mirrors and, correspondingly, an avoidance of one's own reflection. Treatment is severe and often requires stay in a rehabilitation center, where the afflicted is: forced to try on clothing that actually fits; fed three meals a day, two of which include carbs; and beaten with a plastic bag full of colored L'Eggs pantyhose [as pictured above on subject's legs] until he or she agrees that the only legwear options that are really acceptable in this day and age are the bare leg or the opaque tight.

Be on the lookout for symptoms of NYFWF in yourself. If you are a woman -- or, more rarely, a man -- interested in fashion, you are at risk. You may find yourself seriously considering buying a pair of Mukluks. You might hear yourself saying, "That Chloe Sevigny looks adorable!" You might decide to wear a pair of gold lame hotpants to the office. If any of these symptoms occur, remove yourself from New York Fashion Week immediately and seek treatment.

It appears that the Curse of the Baldwins has struck again.

It's not that Daniel Baldwin was ever "the Hot Baldwin," or "the talented Baldwin," or even "the other Baldwin." He was always "the other other Baldwin," or, in his darker times, "the Baldwin that almost (allegedly) ODed." But now, tragically, it appears that he has become "the Baldwin that ate the other Baldwin."

Dear Emmy Rossum,

Look at you! You are a very, very pretty girl, and you're very naturally slender, which makes you lucky. And you have great curl formation, which... suck on it, bitch, but first pass the product my way.

But that's neither here nor there. I have a more important question (aside from, "Um, are you at a Hollywood event, or are you a bridesmaid?). And that is: Are you eating?

Now, I get it -- weight fluctuates naturally; stress leads to weight loss; Jake Gyllenhaal wasn't good about feeding you rich soups while you were languishing in that library with him during The Day After Tomorrow... All these things make sense, i suppose.

But really, I just want to make sure you're not Mary-Kating yourself into oblivion, because that wasn't really good for anyone. I mean, all the fat twin wanted was to make some more caper movies, and now she's relegated to being The Sister Whose Name Hasn't Become A Verb -- in addition to being stuck in a career that will no doubt be confined to starring with MK in very special Lifetime Original Movies. Like Once Bitten, Twice High, about twins who get hooked on crack but are saved from their dealer (Kirk Cameron, as you've never seen him) by Bill Cosby, their gruff but lovable neighbor, and their kindly doctor Neil Patrick Harris, in a role you've seen him in before, but before all those other roles that were parts you'd never seen him in before.

Anyway... What was I saying? Oh, right: Just make sure that the next time the Phantom of the Opera kidnaps you and drags you into his dungeon, he offers you up some nice, butter-laden French cuisine and crusty bread while you're forced to watch him frantically and repeatedly, er, play his pipe organ.

Eat.

Cheers,
Heather

Oh my God, you guys! Bai Ling left the house looking weird, and with 80 percent of her skin showing! Can you imagine? What are the odds?!?

Seriously, this woman confounds me -- she's another one who shows up everywhere, but whose relevance I can't quite understand or recognize. I mean, other than the fact that her main mission in life is to be as naked as she can be. She's got to be stopped.

Maybe it's because I'm posting late in the day on a Friday, or maybe it's because she won't stop popping up all over the place in outfits that look like The Island of Dr. Moreau has a fashion line, but I am very, very intolerant of The Bai Ling Experience. She's no Courtney Peldon, who would go to the opening of a mouth -- and dress like she wants to put something of hers in it -- but Bai Ling is grating nonetheless. Can't someone contain her? Where's the mob when you need it?

In other news, I hate the '80s:

How embarrassing! In all the excitment surrounding the preparations for her maybe fake wedding to self-proclaimed "pimp" Kevin Federline, Britney forgot to wash and comb her hair! How totally ugh to look so greasy and unkempt in People Magazine!

The less said about the trashy "November Rain"-inspired wedding mini the better. Although I'm sure Axl Rose, who's clearly, like, living at an EconoLodge in Los Banos right now, reading People and eating chicken off of Buckethead's...bucket...is probably wondering how he can get some people again, so he can have them call Britney's people and arrange a meeting.

Talia Shire was so proud of her son Jason Schwatzman's work in I Heart Huckabees that her neck started spontaneously blooming:

Thank god she pinned a hanky to her chest in case she starts weeping as well.

Jason's wink at the camera says, "You and I both know that Mom's Playtex 18-Hour Bra is showing. But don't say anything -- she hasn't worked in a while and she could use an endorsement contract."

So, you know how some people age really well -- either naturally, or with a little help from their friendly neighborhood plastic surgeon -- and some people, well, really don't?

Jan Hooks has taken a recent and somewhat alarming turn for the latter.

She's only 47!

Comediennes, a bit of advice. I know, because you are "funny," many of you feel that you must only be photographed making "funny" faces. Please stop. We know you are funny because we have witnessed you being funny. [Well, theoretically, anyway. I don't recall Jan Hooks being particularly side-splitting, but I also don't recall watching much of her stint on SNL] You don't have to create a visual cue with your face to remind us that you are known for being humorous. It's like the comedy equivalent of Zoolander's "Blue Steel," except way more off-putting. As my mother would say, "just look normal." Because I'm scared that the old adage has come true, and Jan Hooks's face really has frozen like that.

GRAVELLY VOICED NBC ANNOUNCER: "Coming soon to NBC in November sweeps: A Law & Order spinoff that starts with a crossover you won't believe.

The brand new Law & Order: Fashion Police force will debut in L&O: Criminal Intent with a dramatic arrest... of one of their own."

"What's the charge, Officer?" Kathern Erbe's character will scream through her tears.

"You're under arrest for Reckless Deployment of Gold Lamé -- looking like a chocolate Emmy™ statuette that somebody only partially unwrapped," the officer will boom, throwing her up against the wall of the station as Vincent D'Onofrio sweats lightly and pulls at his thinning hair.

And then, the Miranda rights: "You have the right to remain indoors. Anything you wear in public can and will be held against you," the arresting officer will say, cuffing her. "You have the right to brown velvet jeans and a matching tank top, but only if you don't dress it up with any old spangly thing. You have the right to gold lamé, but only if you wear it carefully in the context of an evening gown and, at some point in the night, hurl a martini glass at the retreating figure of someone who has just bested you in a verbal joust. Wearing this gold lamé jacket violates the law and abuses these personal rights."

He will then drag her downtown as Erbe weeps softly, "I thought gold lamé was my friend."

The officer will smile at her pityingly. "We get that a lot, Ma'am," he will say. "Most people are easily seduced by the sparkle, but you have to remember that lame is more often your enemy -- it would willingly, knowingly, fug you and your whole family if it had the chance."

Erbe will then land in the clink and be recast on her show with someone who is pretty but whose talent is considerably less -- you know, the way it always goes with female leads on Dick Wolf shows.

A thousand thanks to the eagle-eyed reader who recently made us aware of an unfortunate development in Cybill Shepherd's coiffure. If you can, um, call it that.

She arrived to tape a British chat show -- as I gather they are called, thanks to my extensive reading of Brit Lit -- looking like she was auditioning for the role of Red Riding Hood in a Christmas pantomime. If Red Riding Hood were, say, extremely weather-beaten from her trip to Grandmother's house. Regardez:

When questioned, Ms. Shepherd, who, according to this account had already been in London for two entire days, claimed she had "jet lag hair," and took off her hood.

To reveal -- cover the eyes of any minors in the room, please!

Apparently she rode over on the wing of the plane.

"What? What, you guys? Is there something on my face? C'mon, you guys, stop laughing at me -- why are you looking at me funny? Did I miss a button or something?"

Alia Shawkat is adorable as Maeby on Arrested Development, but that's no reason for her to become complacent:

I think the trousers might be okay if they were not blousing around the bridge of her foot), and the hat might look acceptable if she didn't look like it only existed there to hide the fact that she didn't shower this morning, but... that thing on her torso has got to go. And, oh, look, it is going! Her shirt is actually falling off her body. It is as lopsided and saggy as one expects Joan Rivers would be, had she eschewed surgery. It looks like Ms. Shawkat pinned an old satin pillowcase around her body and called it a top.

Her slouch is also giving her a persistent pear shape that I don't think she actually has. Stand up straight, Alia! You've already fugged -- don't Duff yourself as well!

Her relevance to society -- and photography -- still eludes me, but I've at least figured out what La Fugdon should have starred in: Sleepover.

She's certainly dressed like she thinks she's at a slumber party, albeit one for women like her who are 23-going-on-35-going-on-19. I just picture her sitting in front of a giant makeup mirror dabbing perfume on her neck from a crystal bottle, purring, "Satin is in. Feathers are in. Vaginas are in. Add crimped hair, which is NEVER out of style, and this outfit is a winner."

Rene knew Celine's back hair had gotten out of control, but as long as she dyed and styled it, he was willing to pretend it was a throw.

"Yeah? So I ate some cookies. A whole lot of cookies. Wanna make something of it, bitch? Want to come over here so I can REARRANGE YOUR FACE? Huh? I didn't THINK SO.

Yeah, this IS my bitchface, BITCHES. I'm making a comeback, and it's BITCHY. I'm like the fat Shannen Doherty. I will MESS YOU UP. MESS YOU UP!

You think I look like a what? A pumpkin? Some kind of squash, is that what you said? I will squash YOU. Yeah, I'm talking to you, skinny girl with the pigtails. Aren't you the kid that took those pictures of me eating a Double Double in my car? It was PROTEIN STYLE, you know. I don't know why you people DIDN'T MENTION THAT.

For your information, I wore this dress to the Renaissance Faire last year and got A LOT of compliments on it, so why don't you just SHUT YOUR FAT FACES! Yeah, I said FAT. Like my new show on Showtime, Fat Actress, please watch it."

Heidi Klum looks remarkably cheerful for someone who just went through a paper shredder:

L

I understand that Jane Kaczmarek had a baby, but I don't understand why she decided to emaciate herself afterward:

She looks slim in the body, but her face looks downright... wrong. It's too narrow somehow. Maybe Bradley Whitford, caught up in one of the endless tight squeezes he gives her to show the world They Are Married And Are Hollywood's Real Love Story, hugged too hard and crushed her skull. Not sure. It's also possible he likes to sit on the porch at night and strum her neck cords, so she dieted herself a neck ukelele.

If you have, er, sharp features, then you shouldn't lose too much weight (see: Cox, Courteney), or else people will start trying to slice bread with your nose or chin. If you have hair, any hair, you shouldn't go all Señorita Lucille Ball with it. Ever. And if you have access to this dress, you shouldn't wear it. After staring at this photograph for thirty seconds, I immediately got the teeth-gnashing accordion melody "Lady of Spain" in my head, and that pretty much sealed Lady Jane's fug fate.

I'm one of those people who just likes Jennifer Garner, for whatever reason, and doesn't really care who she's boffing as long as she's happy.

I do, however, care about reckless uses of doilies and sashes:

She looks like a karate bride; a black-belt in ancient and sacret art of Pulling A Scarlett O'Hara With Granny's Best Lace Curtains. Whoever told her to cinch the dress ought to be slapped. I'm sure tomorrow I'll find out that the scarf belonged to a dead relative/starving child/Ben Affleck, and that she wore it as a tribute, but even if that's true, I maintain that the honoree would take one look at her deployment of said tribute scarf and weep tears of sartorial grief.

And if those are flat shoes under there, and if the dress indeed has the hidden trouser element at which it hints in this photo, then she's going on my list. All the Krav-Maga in the world can't defeat a vigorous fugging.

Oh, Jen. Can't we go back to the days when ill-fitting corsets and the ensuing quadra-boob were your only problems?

Those poor girls from Eight Simple Rules... They have some serious issues. I'm not talking about Dealing With The Tragic Death of Jack Tripper, although, yes, that was sad and I was sad about it then and am still sad about it now, because who didn't like Jack Tripper and sad sad sad sad sad, but I think I speak for all of us when I say that Jack Tripper would not have approved of these get-ups:

They look both square and old. These girls have slim, lovely figures, but they appear to be going to a Golden Girls garden party as Dorothy and Rose. Red appears to be wearing her maiden aunt's nightgown -- sexed up a bit around the cleav -- and Blonde is wearing the fabric equivalent of a Chinese lantern.

Dressed like this, these teenage girls would be lucky to get the time of day from someone, much less a date.

Meet Tess Smith.

Meet Tess Smith's entire naked body.

I do not know who Tess Smith is, but I do know that her waxer does good work.

I don't know about Tess Smith's personal life, but I do know that she enjoys a good loincloth.

I am not familiar with Tess Smith's professional career, but I suspect she might just be a professional, if you know what I mean and I think you do.

Babs looks like an overly formal drawstring bag.

[Photo courtesy of Zap2It.com.]

Poor Maria Me"no-no"s:

Nobody told her that she wasn't in a third-grade production of The Fugcracker, so she showed up swaddled in tulle with a corset so tight it made pancakes of her breasts. When she was shot from the side during interviews, my chest spontaneously began to hurt -- she was droopier than Eeyore. I wanted to grab her by the bodice and yank upward.

The outfit looked even worse when she was interviewing people on the carpet, because most people around Maria had a glamorous floor-length dress, and she looked like Glinda the Good Witch at her high-school prom. Apparently the only thing Ms. M learned from Lara Flynn-Boyle's Hooker Ballerina look at the 2003 Golden Globes was that knee-high lace-up slippers are a bad idea. I suppose we can be thankful for that small mercy.

Helen Mirren: great actress, crazy dresser.

[Courtesy of Zap2It.com.]

I love the sari itself. It's lovely. Except for the part where it's totally a weird choice for Aging British Actress Helen Mirren [unless, of course, she is celebrating India's freedom from Great Britain's tyranny, circa 1947. In which case... okay, but at the Emmys?]

I think Mirren looks -- facially -- fantastic. If she's had work done, it's brilliant work. She's aging beautifully. Good hair, even. But... I just don't get the sari. It's a beautiful piece and she doesn't look bad in it, exactly, although she does look maybe a little shapeless. I just don't GET IT. I guess it's not "fugly" so much as it is "confounding." What is the theory behind this outfit? Is it "funky multiculti that also hides my unsightly bulges?" Is it "the cleaner shrunk my Dolce and Gabbana and this is the only thing in my closet that's vaguely sparkly?" Is it, "oh, what the hell! I'm bloody Helen Mirren and I can wear whatever I like?"

[Photo courtesy of Zap2It.com.]

We're really busy at Go Fug Yourself this morning, thanks to the Emmys, so this one is a DIY. Fill in the blanks: [ADJECTIVE] [ADJECTIVE] Peldon [VERB] [DERIVITIVE OF FUGLY] [SYNONYM FOR DRESS] at the Emmys. [INSERT VERSION OF "WHO IS SHE, ANYWAY?" HERE] Peldon [VERB] [SYNONYM FOR CRAZY AND/OR BLIND] and [ADJECTIVE SUGGESTING POSSIBLE MENTAL ILLNESS]. Peldon's [SYNONYM FOR OUTFIT] [VERB] [SYNONYM FOR UGLY]. [INSERT SNIDE COMMENT SUGGESTING PELDON MAY BE ATTENDING EMMYS AS A SEAT FILLER.]

So, Britney Spears went ahead and married Cletus. In Studio City. And then served chicken fingers afterwards. While playing music from a boombox. I can only hope the happy couple toasted one another with Red Bull and then tossed Cheetos into the other's gaping maw.

So classy. So delightful. I am so in love with the downward spiral of Ms Spears.

But I am the most in love with these outfits, provided for the groomsman, Cletus's merry band of brothers.

Yes, they are white track suits. Yes, they say "Pimps" on the back, in black cursive script [because cursive = classy]. Because, when it comes to pledging lifelong love and fidelity to a man, what little girl doesn't dream of pledging said love and fidelity to a man who has the option of trading her vagina for money?

True love, people. True love. My heart is so full right now.

Early in 2004, Maggie Gyllenhaal proved again that she should not be in control of her own clothing (or choice of stylist). There needs to be some kind of international Council of Fug Identification, Containment, and Treatment, and Maggie's wardrobe would be submitted for a thorough decontamination.

First rule of The Sag: Don't accentuate The Sag. WEAR A BRA.That might actually be the subtitle of this site, if enough women persist in wearing dresses that let them droop. Maggie really, really needs to arrange the girls in such a way that they don't look like tears that her neck has wept.

Are those... pockets? And an elastic prairie-style sleeve? That's just smurfy.

But it might be better than I Sent My Outfit To A Bad Dry Cleaner And The Whole Thing Shrank:

She looks like a genie who got mauled in the bottle.

Finally, while we're here, it never hurts to make the following comparison, even though Kirsten "dumped" Jake (read: was allegedly dumped by him because he got sick of the blizzard that was constantly raging in her nostrils). So I present to you...

Jake's ex:

Jake's sister:

Am I noting their resemblance as a quiet way of wondering whether Jake is trying to find a woman who looks exactly like his sister, but with whom he can have the sex and the babies without being considered a social freak/outcast whose children have five eyes and no kidneys?

Not at all! Not at all. That's a different kind of blog and I can't believe you would think I was going there.

From the Desk of Courtney Love:

In case you bitches were wondering, I am STILL TOTALLY OFF DRUGS. See? Am I not the PICTURE of TOTAL FUCKING SORBEI...SOBRERI....SOBREEIT...NOT BEING HIGH? Who am I wearing? STOP BOTHERING ME. But remember when I used to always wear Vercaccseessece, or however you spell it? I liked that. La lalalala la. LA LA. La. My necklace is so shiny! Oh, right. Well, this time, I just took this lacy curtain thingie off the window in Frances Bean's room -- I wonder where Frances Bean is, anyway. Huh. -- and wrapped it around me like a dress, over my favorite acid-washed long-line girdle. And then I used Frances Bean's Super Fun Barbie Makeup Kit and fixed the old face up. Somehow it got a little smudgey. Maybe that happened when I accidentally used the dog for a napkin.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHA. I am really REALLY AWAKE RIGHT NOW. Do you want to go to Wendy's? I am dying for a Frostie.

LOVE,

COURTNEY!

I'm so conflicted.

Part of me is filled with glee because Debra Messing totally hasn't lost all her baby weight and I am sure she is beside herself with horror every time she buttons her size six jeans because she seems like a total control freak who can't stand the fact that she no longer needs a license to reveal her collarbone because it's not sharp enough to cut anyone anymore.

But the other part of me is irritated that she hasn't totally lost all her baby weight, because now she looks sort of lovely and normal and it's hard to make fun of that. And she generally dresses well, so I can't go there. And she's got such nice hair, although I don't like it blown out, particularly. So I don't know where to go with this: pleased at how upset she must be every time she steps on the scale, or peeved that she looks quite pretty thanks to the extra cursed pounds on her formerly skeletal frame?

I guess, grudgingly, I am going with a bit of both. Keep some of the weight on, Debra. You look much better without all your bones sticking out every which way, threatening the ocular safety of your castmates.

There will be no comment on Joan Collins's slightly questionable choice of belt or anything else that might be catagorized as questionable about Ms. Collins, for several reasons:

a) Joan Collins fucking rules.
b) Joan Collins looks smashing for eleventy, darling, and she's married to a man, like, two-thirds her age, so she must be doing something right. Plus, as mentioned previously, she rules.
c) It would be mean to say something about Heather when she's not here to defend herself.

Fuggie Gyllenhall must be stopped.

She looks like she's playing the role of Aunt Eller in a poorly costumed high school production of Oklahoma!. Except she left her boots in the back of her boyfriend's Pinto, and she had to wear this pair of espadrilles she found in the corner of the costume closet, last seen when the class of 1987 put on Picnic.

I can't wait for her to lasso something.

Can someone please help poor Thora Birch?

What's going on here? Is she preparing for a role in Homeless to Whorehouse? With the mesh tunic over a white sports bra? And the horrible bruises on her legs? And... are those bicycle shorts? She looks as though either she's appearing in a crackhouse talent show, or that her pimp has a fetish for Chicago.

Anyone who's anyone is dressing like a Visigoth this fall.

The premiere of National Lampoon's Gold Diggers was, not surprisingly, a veritable buffet of fug in the way that the premiere of something like, say, Merchant Ivory's Repressed English People Living Beyond Their Meager Income In Order to Maintain The Standards of The Class Into Which They Were Born would not be. Full of people I barely recognize -- and, people, I have a subscription to Star -- this event appears to have taken place at the Apex of the Fugiverse.

For example, this outfit? Restrained in comparison to others at the same event. This poor anonymous starlet/model might as well have worn a nun's habit or hair shirt, so modest and demure and tasteful does she appear in comparison to her fellow Gold Diggers.

I do like that she decided to accessorize that outfit with a crucifix. Jesus loves short shorts. And yes, I just called an outfit made of the mesh material they bag oranges in and ruffled hot pants demure. So prepare yourselves for...

This:

Someone could put an eye out on those hipbones. Either put them away, or hand out safety goggles to everyone within a five foot radius. Not to mention the fact that she looks like the lovechild of a rodeo whore and the ruffed valence hanging over my kitchen windows.

Speaking of curtains:

Sometimes, I just don't know what to say. This is one of those times. I don't even know what's going on there. The dress has rendered me speechless. I am without speech. Except to point out that this gown features: toile, black lace and gray illusion netting. It's about five inches of netting away from actually being a figure skating costume. For The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas On Ice.

Speaking of whorehouses:

Seriously, was this a costume party premiere? Were the invited guests instructed to look as tacky as possible? I really want to know. Because I can't think of any other reason for this outfit. The tacky plastic white boots? The enormo, hot pink boobs? The fishnets? The very short, very crinolined shirt, edged in both hot pink and lime green? Why? How? What?

I have to lie down.

Kimberly Stewart has really outdone herself here as far as embracing today's most fugly trends.

The skeezy, Britney Spears style unwashed mega-mini with the allegedly preppy tie as a belt? [Note: if we can almost see your girlie bits, it ain't that preppy. Just so you know.] Check. The no-longer-even-trendy trucker hat, cocked so jauntily that we can't even see your drugged out, spoiled little eyes? Check. The -- dear God, I can barely type it -- legwarmers? Check. The squirrelly lapdog, praying for the sweet escape of death as opposed to finding himself shoved into a handbag yet again? Check.

Just in case you were concerned that Vincent Gallo had, say, slipped in the bathroom and conked his head and come to, hours later, with the intense desire to take a shower, get a haircut, shave, invest in some Visine, and put on a clean, unwrinkled shirt that doesn't make him look like a creepy drifter hellbent on skinning you and using your pelt as a poncho:

That hasn't happened.

In the vein of the hit game "Gay or Eurotrash?" we present to you our new favorite pasttime: "Busey or Nolte?"

That crazy hair, that withered, weathered face... It's a mystery!

Okay, it's Nolte. But it's a fun game.

How about four more? Answers at the bottom:

Hmm...

Oh, I know this one... It's.... the blond one!

Here's a hint: You can always tell by the Botox which one is Busey.

Answers:

Busey, Nolte, Busey... and a trick question: That last one is Kenny Rogers.

No, it's not. It's Nolte. But maybe I've just hit upon the next big game craze: Rogers, or Nolte's Grizzled Era?

Ever wondered what a bottle of Pepto Bismol would look like if it had even less subtlety, and mated with an insect of some kind?

It would seem the leggy tyranny of stylist Tina Knowles didn't cease after she put her daughter in those fugly VMA hot pants:

Whoever that is on the right is having a fine old time, perhaps celebrating that she escaped the lamé-wielding claws of Tina Knowles and her Hot Pants of Terror. But Beyonce? Oh, honey, no.

As we've stated before, Beyonce is a lovely woman with fantastic curves that can be -- and have been -- dressed to complement and enhance her figure. Short-shorts of the Nair ad variety do not achieve this. Her legs look like mighty oaks and her hips look like Austraila. I can't fathom why Beyonce hasn't looked in a mirror and wondered, "Is this perhaps the most flattering thing I could put on, Mom?" I know summer is ending. I get that. But regular pants are not the enemy, Beyonce. Capri pants can be your friend. Mini-skirts would even work. But hot pants are a different beast, and they are gobbling up your pelvis, Beyonce. Please intercede.

I'm not sure what else to do, other than plant myself in the front row at her next show with a staple gun and some strips of cotton.

Are you an olden-days-style romantic? Are you looking for the kind of passion a girl only feels on her deathbed? And are you aching for pledges of eternal love from a devoted hottie, without the matching chronic wasting disease?

Then this look, fresh from the face of a model at Fashion Week, is tailor-made for you. It's called Consumption:

The first step is ringing the eyes with the kinds of pinks and beiges that give them an overtired, sickly, naturally red-rimmed appearance -- as if they've been rubbed or delicately wept into chapped, puffy splendor. The effect will make your irises look ever-so-slightly fevered, which is the second crucial element. Thirdly, use your natural oils in conjunction with iridescent makeup to achieve a perfectly moist sheen on your face, the better to replicate the cold, cold sweat of impending death. And the final step: With a coy smile on your face that hints at the pain through which you're soldiering, pull your hair off your face -- but leave a few escaped tendrils that will appear to have burst forth during a fainting spell.

Voila! You too can be consumptive! Someone will sweep you into his or her arms in no time and cradle you with tender professions of ceaseless devotion as he/she waits for you to expire.

I have some issues with Jennifer Jason Leigh. Sometimes, I think she's an extremely good actress, but most of the time, especially now, she seems too busy "Acting" to actually act. Kind of like Sean Penn. Call it the Curse of Ridgemont High.

I also have some issues with the outfit she wore to the Imitation of Christ show this fugshion week. On one hand: Imitation of Christ? The official provider of uniforms for the Fug Army. Any line primarily represented by the Queen of All Fug, Chloe Sevigny, can't help but be, well, kinda hideous. So, with that in mind, I guess it makes sense that one would chose to wear something unfortunate to celebrate a line that embraces the Fugly like an alcoholic clutching a Stoli bottle at happy hour.

On the other hand:

Jennifer? [May I call you Jennifer?] Annie Hall was like fifty years ago. And the only person who can get away with dressing like Annie Hall is Annie Hall. At least Diane Keaton knows how to properly wear a tie. You, on the other hand, look like a homeless Charlie Chaplin. Are you going to use that copy of Fashion Week Daily as a blanket later? Are you going to start yelling at people in the street? Do you plan on beating someone with your hat? Is Crazy Homeless Lady Chic the new black? Because I think I missed that memo.

Still, your skin looks great.

A reader sent a link to the following photo that proves, to the shock of a nation, that Britney Spears is continuing to dress like a flaming -- yet, like, totally, spiritual and stuff -- assrag:

She looks like a cast member of Police Academy 8: Asshats On Parade, in which the gang reunites to recruit drunk prostitutes into the force, train them, and then turn them back out into society as clean, productive police officers who arrest people for sartorial crimes. [Prediction: Britney's character learns she's worth something more than a Big Grab bag of Cheetos, which is what her pimp traded her to the cops for, and Steve Guttenberg earns Oscar buzz for a surprisingly sensitive return to the franchise as the man who teaches Britney that she is safe now, and can turn her back on horizontal stripes.]

The Kaballah people need to revise their ancient teachings very quickly to include a heretofore lost, yet sacred, scissors ceremony in which the red string is clipped from the wrists of people who only wear it because Madonna does. That, or it needs to add a chapter entitled, "It Is A Sin To Think That Wearing Double The Headgear Will Protect You When You Are Smote From On High."

Incidentally, if anyone's in need of a good celestial smiting, it's Britney. If taking a whizzing asteroid or some other object of divine scorn to the head doesn't knock some sense into her and make her take out the white trash from the dumpster that her vagina's become... then, well, nothing will.

Jaqueline Fleming, reknowned for her work as "crack addict" in Hood Rat , as well as her unforgettable roles in Malibooty and Vegas Vamps, nabbed a part in the upcoming Bernie Mac flick Mr. 3000 as "young woman," and is making the most of it by showing up at the premiere in something the camera couldn't ignore:

She looks like a present a toddler started unwrapping, but then cast aside halfway through because the child got bored and wanted to go play in a Fisher Price box. The color looks fine on her, and the skirt might not have been that bad, if not for the cape and the weird hanging-open white shirt with that yellow... thing... wrapped under her left boob. Is her chest trying to blindfold itself? Or did she pop a button and use her cape to hold things together?

Dear Chloe "Fuck Your Umlaut" Sevigny,

Why so blue?

When you woke up this morning and realized that the oversized white sunglasses your mom bought for you at Raging Waters back in 1983 still fit your big fat head, didn't you smile? When you got out of the shower and decided just to let your hair do its own thing -- much as I do on days when I have a busy schedule of the stomach flu ahead of me -- didn't you chuckle to yourself, pleased with your own efficiency? When you decided to wear that dress that Half Pint wore in the episode of Little House on Prairie where Mary burns down the barn and wakes up all blind, weren't you filled with glee at the thought of your own unbearably ironic hipster charm? When you stole that umbrella from your grandma, didn't you laugh at the thought of the old woman stuck in the rain without it? When you then nabbed her orthopedic shoes and outfitted them with heels made of corks from the discarded bottles of Two Buck Chuck littering your bedroom, weren't you thrilled with your own ingenuity? Yes? Then why do you look so sad?

Does it have something to do with Vincent Gallo's wang?

Anna Wintour is the top Vogue editrix. So you'd expect Anna Wintour, being as she works at a fashion magazine --and because she's the titular Satan in The Devil Wears Prada -- to dress very well. But you would apparently be wrong.

It seems Ms. Wintour has taken a job at Fogue (a.k.a. Fugly Vogue), and is trying to dress the part by wearing no fewer than three garments on her upper body alone: A t-shirt, a thin and messy black cardigan, and some sort of nylon half-sleeved jacket, all of which are different lengths and styles. Her skirt looks like she accidentally brushed up against some wet graffiti. She is giving off the impression that being fashionable and trendy equals putting on as many things from your closet as you can find, all at once.

Apparently the sunglasses are her trademark. Okay. Maybe their presence will dupe people into thinking everything is normal with this outfit, nothing to see here, fug along...

Photogs: "Ellen! Ellen Barkin? Over here! Ellen! Ellen!"

Ellen Barkin: "Erg. Hurts to turn my head. Hang on. Ouch. Oooch. Ooooooc. Okay."

Photogs: "Ellen! Ellen! Smile for us, baby!"

Ellen Barkin: "I am smiling."

Photogs: "Smile! Ellen! Ellen! Give us a smile, Ellen!"

Ellen Barkin: "I AM smiling!"

Photogs: "Come on, baby, it can't be that bad! Show us those pretty veneers you had Ron Whatshisname, that Revlon guy, buy you!"

Ellen Barkin: "Seriously. This is me smiling. This is as smiley as I can get."

Photogs: "ELLEN! Baby! It's not a funeral! Pearly whites! Pearly whites!"

Ellen Barkin:"Listen, assholes. This is as good a smile as you're going to get. Thanks to the Botox and the face lift and the Botox and the other face lift, I can barely chew a stick of Nicorette, much less actually open my fucking mouth. So take the picture and shut your fat faces."

Photogs: "God. Fine. Whatever."

Flashbulbs!

This weekend, I was idly browsing at a newsstand when I did a double-take on the following magazine cover:

"Who is that?" I wondered, furrowing my brow. "It almost looks like Brittany Murphy, but she doesn't have a honker that huge."

But then I read the cover line, and learned that -- if the thick white text is to be believed -- that is indeed Brittany Murphy, and apparently, if you photograph her from a certain angle, she does have a honker that huge.

The photo, to me, looks nothing like her at all. Obviously, there is shades of Brittany in it, but on the whole it doesn't resemble relatively fine-featured twig we've come to recognize from posters for Little Black Book, or various pictures at red-carpet events, or that unfortunate time period during which her tongue was never more than an inch away from Ashton Kutcher's face.

She looks... weird. Worse. The photohrapher has taken her already pointy features and found a way to add hardness to them. Her browline looks more severe somehow; her smile, photoshopped from another photo entirely. And her nose has a hook and a girth to it that doesn't show up in any other photo of her that I've ever seen.

Oh, wait -- except for this one, an almost identical cover shot on Marie Claire from September 2003:

This one might a) be even worse, and b) look even less like Brittany Murphy than the current one. I don't know what it is, but it's like her features seen from this side provide an entirely different visual. At first glance, I was, again, wondering if I'd gotten wrong the identity of the cover model.

Perhaps Ms. Murphy pissed off someone at Marie Claire. Or maybe the photographer just thinks her Holly Hunter side is her only good one; either way, she really ought to stop posing for them before every plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills calls and offers her a free downsizing.

"Hi. I'm Sienna Miller. You might remember me from such tabloid reports as, 'Jude Law Splits With Sadie Frost, Cavorts With New Co-Star While Wife Minds Kids And Sinks Deeper Into Depression,' or 'Jude Law To Girlfriend Sienna Miller: "Stop Talking About Things You Don't Know Anything About."'

"Soon, you will know me as The Blonde From The Alfie Remake, assuming I'm still in that film somewhere. But just in case that doesn't work, I want you to hold a special place in your heart for me as somebody who soldiered through a difficult fashion situation:

"As you can plainly see, the dress I bought for whatever event this is didn't end up coming with supportive shoulder straps of any kind. The top was hanging limper than John Travolta in his marriage bed. It was a bad seafoam-green nightdress straight out of my grandmother's Lord & Taylor drawer, and it was comin' on down like it was the next contestant on The Price Is Right.

"Did I let that get to me? No. Did I cry a little and call Jude and ask him to tell me that I'm pretty? Maybe. I'm not telling. BUT … did I save the day by taking gaffer tape and building myself a harness, rooted at my neck and crotch, that would hold up the garment while I walked the red carpet? YES. Did I design the tape harness to make sure everyone's eye was drawn to my crotch, and therefore away from my fairly ugly dress? YES. Did I make sure I slouched on the red carpet so that none of the tape would rip off accidentally? YES.

"And did watching all those MacGyver episodes finally pay off? YES. In your face Richard Dean Anderson.

"Now, if only I'd thought to put on some lipstick..."

The Elks Lodge of the Greater Tallahassee region presents Mardi Gras Night, hosted by Ivana Trump!

Beads! Boobs! Bingo! And make sure you don't miss Ivana's stirring cabaret act, I, Mermaid.

Can someone please explain to me what happened to Janeane Garofalo?

And yes, that is her. Can't quite believe it myself. The short, short bangs? The bad, bad hair? The skinny, skinny arms? What is going on here? I read on Gawker that she's been sighted in and around the greater New York area looking like suck, and here's photographic proof.

I mean, she's always dressed like a homeless bike messenger and I guess I should be glad that she's not doing the hardcore Fake 'N' Bake anymore -- remember, about a year and a half ago, when she was the color of a clementine? -- but now she just looks terrible all around.

I remember reading, years ago, that she'd rustled up an eating disorder around the time of Reality Bites, but she certainly looks much smaller now than she did then. And with the weird, unflattering hair and the aforementioned tendency to dress like Darlene Conner...I sort of suspect there's something going on there. You know, with her body image. In that I think it's...not so good. Admittedly, this is sort of her schtick: she doesn't care how she looks, she wears whatever she wants blah blah blah, and I get that, and it would be weird if she showed up to a premiere in a shiny little Gucci number. But, for all her posturing about not caring about how she looks, she seems to be putting a lot of energy into making herself look bad. If I weren't so totally cold and dead inside, I'd say it was sort of sad. But because my heart is cast in stone and filled with coal, I'll just say this: Janeane? See a professional. No, I mean about your hair.

Maybe it's the gin talking, but I think I'm falling in love with the Peldon sisters:

Look at them! Brown Peldon is wearing a jaunty James Spader in Pretty In Pink If He Were A Girl Whose Grasp of Current Trends Is About Six Months Behind The Rest of Us-type fedora and clutching her bedazzled-Coke bottle handbag, and Blonde Peldon is...being supportive in a midriff-baring satin top? I don't know.

They just seem so happy together. Can't you imagine their lives? They've got money from...something...and so, instead of working, they spend most of the day trying on a series of increasingly shiny outfits, jumping on their respective beds, and brushing each other's hair. Later, there's probably some crying about, you know, their empty, empty souls or something, but then there's probably also some sunbathing and a pedicure so it all evens out.

I smell a Peldon sisters reality show, people. And it smells like a potent cocktail of peroxide, Nads and sweet sweet desperation.

Here's the thing: Josh Hartnett is really, really cute.

So....why? Why would he do this to himself?

I must admit, I'm not a fan of mustaches on men in my generation, period. A mustache looks right on my Dad. It looks good on Tom Selleck. But I feel like it looks...creepy...on a boy more or less my own age. Scuffy? Okay. A mustache? Cut it out. Or off. Because people don't want to kiss you when you've got that...thing...around your mouth.

Not to mention the fact that, if you're going to grow a mustache, grow a fucking mustache. Commit to the mustache! Get the little combs and brushes! Grow it, groom it, own it. This wispy little thing looks like it could be eliminated after a brisk session with a sturdy napkin. I've seen more impressive mustaches in the Jolen Creme bleach aisle of Walgreens.

Go hard or go home with the facial hair, Josh.

Mischa Barton, the weak link on The O.C., is quite the little fashion plate. She constantly puts herself out there in designer frocks, usually looks nice if a little bit on the Mary-Kate side of the Olsen line, and is generally fresh-faced and pretty despite having the acting range of the Post-It note I just pulled off the bottom of my shoe that says, "Jude."

Fresh face. Big smile. So why is she dating a giant tub of grease?

This is, unfortunately, the kind of fug that's hard to write without feeling a twinge of The Mean: The personal fug. Because although I have problems with his wardrobe above, I more often just generally wonder -- with complete befuddlement -- what the hell Mischa sees in this guy. He's usually sullen, and he looks like you could squeeze him and yield enough oil to run a KFC franchise for a week. When I come across a picture of him, I always think, "This person clearly smells like feet."

Sure, she's wearing a dress that looks like a bejewelled serpent is crushing her, but he's standing there like some sort of glam-rock lounge singer who can't open his mouth to speak because if he does, a giant gob of drool -- and maybe some chewing tobacco -- would drop out. His jacket there seems to be made of some weird scaly, shiny material -- and I will never get why guys try to wear neckties without buttoning their shirts. It's an "I Just Got Out Of Work, Am Nursing a Flask of Bourbon, And Am About To Roll Up A $20 And Put It Behind My Ear, So A Stripper Can Grab It With Her Vagina" effect.

But really, I have to call a spade a spade: Yeah, his jacket's kinda feh, but I just kind of think he, as a guy, is fug. Maybe if he ever acted happy, rather than carefully bored and superior...

... then I wouldn't be bothered about what he's got on, but when she generally appears to smell good and dress cleanly, it's very disturbing to see her hanging onto and constantly tonguing a guy who is as appealing as a walking pustule.

Majandra Delfino was perfectly cute on Roswell. Then, she disappeared, and that evidently made her both surly and so desperate to be noticed that she stopped wearing trousers:

Will no one learn that leaving things to the imagination is way sexier than wearing what amounts to a glorified shirt (or hot pants, Beyonce)? I feel like these people need a style scrapbook: Look how pathetic J.Lo looked when she let her entire body hang out of that green slip she wore with the boob tape, and then look at how foxy Joan Allen looked the year she was nominated for the Oscar and a Golden Globe -- and even today. She outsexes a Majandra or a Beyonce because she wears classy stuff and she understands how to clothe herself to achieve understated glamour.

The worst thing about this is the way the dress hangs and wraps, making Majandra look thick around the middle, when I'm sure she's nothing of the sort. She's another slim starlet who's putting clothes on her body that diminish her looks. It's so confusing to me. You have a body that clothes almost always flatter, Majandra! Why would you pick something that's in the one percent of garments that will make you look bad?

Also, wipe off the lipstick -- you're no Courtney Love, and that's a good thing, so don't let your mouth wear you.

I don't know who Latin Grammy Awards Attendee Tatiana is, but it looks like those bitches at Disneyland's Tomorrowland Terrace wouldn't let her off work in time to go home and change.

She'll be bringing our Mickeytinis out any minute now.

Courtney, give up. I don't care what that guy told you to get you to sleep with him -- you're not getting the part of Jeannie.

This outfit is 360-degrees of fug. The decision was never about whether or not it's bad, but which part of it is the most wrong: The tye-dyed fabric, the fact that it's jumpsuit-esque, the fact that the pants blouse mid-calf, the fact that the picture makes it seem like there's a chance she's wearing light stockings with her open-toed shoes, the limpness of her hair, or the pink lanyard thing dangling from her skull?

This looks like it was made for someone ten inches shorter than she is. There's some uncomfortable pulling and tightness in the crotch region.

Here's a thought, Courtney: JUST STOP SHOWING UP. It's much easier.

And don't even get me started on her sister's dress. It makes my eyes throb.

The other weekend, Jessica and I were sitting around crimping each others' hair and twisting our jelly bracelets when she said, "You know what I miss? High-waisted pants."

"Oh, God, me too," I said. "The kind of pants that give you a belly even when you don't have one -- like ski pants often do."

"Yes," Jess nodded eagerly. "It's TIME. My pubic bone just needs a rest, you know what I mean? Low-low-low rise jeans have worn it out, and it just wants to go into hiding for a while."

"But they can't just come back without an extra little touch," I decided.

At this, Jessica leaned forward eagerly, casting aside the legwarmers she'd been fondling and fiddling with her Swatch buckle. "What I'd really like," she said, "would be for somebody to take high-waisted pants up a notch. I mean... up. To another level. To new heights."

I gasped. "Not...boob-high?"

Jessica nodded. "But I don't dare to dream," she sighed.

And so God stepped in -- and by God, I mean Mia Maestro:

Our prayers have been answered, Jessica.

"Hey, Rose."

"Hey -- nice to see you again... Blond Person! Remind me again who you are?"

"I'm Diane Kruger. I'm in that new Josh Hartnett movie with you."

"And I am...?"

"Rose something. Basically, you're The Other Chick From That New Josh Hartnett movie."

"Oh, okay. Do other people know who we are?"

"No, nobody really cares, but that's what the premiere is for -- to make people notice. What are you going to wear?"

"I have this great little taffeta skirt that totally shows off my pot belly, and a cotton tube top in a similar-but-not-close-enough shade of green that makes me look really slouchy! I'm so excited. My shoulders are already rolling forward in anticipation."

"Oooh -- make sure you use a lot of hairspray with that look. And if possible, have a faint tan line."

"Done. Thanks, Rebecca -- you're the best."

"It's Diane."

"Right. So, what are you wearing?"

"You are going to LOVE this. Okay: I had this old bridesmaid's dress, right, this kind of midnight-blue thing with stitching on it. But it had a giant stain on the skirt, because one of the groomsmen got too excited in the limo, you know? But everyone kept telling me it was such a great dress, and one I could wear on another occasion, right... "

"... Oh, I think it's a bride's duty to pick out a bridesmaid's dress that you can wear again...."

"I know, it's just sensible. But my stylist wanted me to wear this de-rigeur black and white thing with a fitted skirt and ruffle explosion at the bottom, but the top gave me quadra-boob! It was terrible! So you know what I did?"

"No, but I have a feeling it's going to be ABsoLUTE magic."

"I had this brainwave -- I took the top of the blue dress and the bottom of the white dress and STITCHED THEM TOGETHER."

"No!!!"

"Yes!! Ohmygod it's going to be so bitchin'."

"You are a GENIUS, Naomi!"

"Diane. I'm Diane."

"Right, right. And what movie are you in again?"