October 2004 Archives

Ladies and gentleman, I present to you, Lil' Kim.

I know. I can't believe it either. No breasts hanging out. No crotch-shots. No ass cheeks. Almost no skin at all! In fact, I would almost dub this outfit overly demure, if I wasn't scared of sending her back over the precipice to Hootch Canyon. Instead, I raise a glass of Cristal to you, Kim, and congratulate you on cleaning up so nicely. I'm not wild about the bangs, but I love the shoes and overall, you look adorable. Adorable, and clean. Well played, my dear. I'm so proud.

I don't think there was a Wild West theme at this Mercedes-Benz event in honor of diabetes research:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Unless these two were going for a massive visual metaphor -- "The insane world of diabetes research is like the Wild West. Anything goes!"

You can just see her swinging those hips through a saloon door and heading behind the bar, huffing a cleansing fog of breath onto a moonshine glass and wiping it idly while the boys busy themselves playing poker. And then Alfred Molina lays down aces, so Tim McGraw pulls his six-shooter and upturns the table while Thomas Jane scoops up Ms. A and carries her to safety over his shoulder and onto the back of his trusty steed.

And, with luck, straight into a Barney's after a quick stop at the barber shop. For the love of God, man, the beard didn't work when it ate Kilmer's face, so stop it from swallowing your own.

This woman wrote, directed, and acted in a movie called Kiss The Bride. I just felt like sharing that, since I had to go look it up, as I was concerned she was yet another "designer" who would be inflicting her fashion sense upon the world.

That being, of course, the rainbow legwarmers. Her shins look like scrunchy racks and a discount accessories store. And I realize that heat rises and cold air sinks, but is she that tall that her body has two climates? Her bare shoulders and arms are comfortable, yet her calves needed to wear individual coats?

This is Jenny McShane. You may recognize her from the important work she did in Shark Attack 3: Megalodon, Cyborg Cop III, and Hit The Dutchman, the latter of which I'm not sure is a movie or a game show.

Jen showed up at a fashion show recently in this very special ensemble, befitting the kind of actress who can star in the original Shark Attack in addition to its third installment -- as two different characters, and without anyone being the wiser.

It looks like she took her flannel pajamas to a tailor and had them taper and cuff the bottoms (the better to show off her silver ankle boots, my dear). It's like she's at a slumber party for the children of strippers.

She's inspired me. I'm going to go see if I can turn my ski pants into culottes.

Remember that Sweet Valley High book where Elizabeth gets in the motorcycle accident and ends up in a coma and when she comes out of it, she thinks she's Jessica and so she acts all slutty and difficult and almost sleeps with Bruce Pattman -- even going so far as to let him touch her boob! -- until, right before she gives it up to Bruce, she drunkenly rolls over and conks her head on the coffee table, and that knocks the Elizabeth back into her?

I think that's what's happened to Hilary Duff:

Except, for "Jessica," read "Avril Lavigne." And, as clearly demonstrated by the photo above, Hilary/Elizabeth has not yet slammed her head against any furniture. So, by my calculations, this means that Hilary is about 15 minutes away from letting that kid from Good Charlotte grab her left breast.

Paparazzi, remain vigilant!

Throw a party in honor of a book about a piece of red yarn, and all the stars come out to play. To wit: BOTH Peldon sisters came out of their fug chambers to support something they don't actually wear:

Now, from the hips up, Courtney looks normal. From the hips down, she appears to have left on half of her wet suit. Or her bike shorts. Or her wrestling tights. I don't know what is going on there, but I do know it's comforting that she can find a way to fug up a simple white tank top.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, Ashley Peldon, sister of Courtney Peldon:

You know, she might've had me if she'd thrown a white tank under that coat, which is a bit cute on its own. But instead, she thought to herself, "You know what makes ME feel like a natural woman? SEQUINED PINEAPPLES," and threw on that that shirt and some lipstick that looks like she glued the Mystical Bracelet of Power to her mouth.

She's no Courtney -- not yet -- but the foundation is certainly there for a rich lifetime of fugly choices in the highly imitable (if you are blind, or super drunk) style of her scary sister.

I leave you with this:

I figured it out, guys! Courtney Peldon is in the circus. That's who she is.

Look. I like Paget Brewster a lot. Her name is cool. She was cute on Friends -- remember when Joey found out about her and Chandler and made Chandler live in the box? Those were good times. And she was really charming on the one episode of Andy Richter I saw. And her character even had my name, which I love. She's adorable!

However:

She appears to have lost her mind.

Can we not agree, as a people, in 2004, that it is not okay to wear a dress that consists solely of very small pleats? Especially when the dress is not really a dress, but actually a shirt from Pea in the Pod? I mean, I appreciate that this is an outfit that flatters one's hot legs whilst concealing any sort of bloating issues -- and what women doesn't appreciate a nice bloat-concealing ensemble? -- but it...well, Paget, kid, it looks like a lampshade:

"Hi, y'all! Come on, give it up for me! Yeah! I'm battling through a frightening attack of acid reflux disease -- you might have heard about it, because it forced me to use a vocal aid during my Saturday Night Live performance. That pesky acid reflux is a throat-killer! I was hoarse, y'all! This is dangerous stuff!

"But I strapped on my wrestling boots and my tutu and I'm fighting it, y'all, and tonight I'm standing here proudly in my black bra and green belt that matches none of what I have on with it, and I'm going to sing WITHOUT help! That's right, you heard me even through my decimated acid-reflux voice, which sounds exactly like my regular voice but with more of a complaining tone. NO HELP! Nada! And you are going to like it!

"Sure, it might sound like wailing, and sure, you might want to plug your ears, and yeah, they might start to bleed. And fine, okay, my Dad is a scary and controlling jackhole. But you have to be as brave as I am, yo! We can't let terrorists like acid reflux and my father win, y'all -- and I am going to lead the charge. In the immortal words of Enrique Iglesias, 'Let me be your hero!'"

Lindsay. Hilary. Are you here? Because you need to see something.

This is the guy you were fighting over? This is what started a feud that's gone on for, what, two years now? This squirrelly little wuss in a backwards trucker hat was worth all that? The kid is wearing sweatshirt sleeves on his blazer! And his mismatched striped shirt is cut way too low -- I never wanted to see that much adolescent underdevelopment. Oh, but the dog tags are a nice touch, considering that he is a veteran of The War of the Starlets. He's so brave.

Ladies, good job moving on from this. But... why were you there in the first place? Couldn't you have fought over, say, Chad Michael Murray instead?

I'm happy Alanis Morrissette freed herself from a hostage situation so she could come to the RMAs, but she could've cut off the electrical tape and gotten dressed before showing up on the red carpet.

Not to put too fine a point on it: what the hell is going on here?

Did she hitch a ride with Marty McFly on some less-publicized jaunt in the De Lorean, this one from 1985 to 2004? [I'm sure she was disappointed by our lack of flying cars.] In fact, I suspect that's McFly's demin jacket tied around her waist.

Coming directly from the past to the VMAs: Latin America Remix is the only thing that would explain:

a) The legwarmers. Seriously, are you an extra in Center Stage II: Left of Center? Then can the leg warmers, because they didn't look good on you in 1985, they didn't look good on you during their mercifully brief revival sixteen months ago and they don't look good on you now.

b) The polka dot Minnie Mouse skirt.

c) the dirty Chuck Taylors. Which, you know, I like Converse too, but there's a time and a place and the time and the place is usually Saturday, 11:15am, Starbucks and not AN AWARDS SHOW.

d) Did I mention the jeans jacket, in a wash and a cut not seen since back before we knew George Michael was gay?

The only thing missing is a puffy red vest.

Poor Natalia Lafourcade. Apparently, fug is her density. I mean, destiny.

Heather Graham is so confused:

Pants? Or macrame dress? Pants? Or macrame dress? Macrame dress with nipples showing, or marcrame dress with tank top? And what if none of it matches?

I guess, in long run, we ought to be grateful that she decided to wear everything instead of nothing at all. Even if "everything" includes a dress that she made during arts and crafts that one summer at Camp Kitchiwatchi. Because I think there was a real, real possibility at one point in her event preparation process when she thought about just wearing the dress and the dress alone.

We dodged a bullet, people.

What's fuglier than Courtney Peldon on a red carpet?

A) Maggie Gyllenhaal
B) Chloe Sevigny
C) Britney's entire life right now, including the husband.
D) Not voting
E) All of the above.

This one's pretty easy, really: E.

Sadly, the first three are really beyond any of our immediate control, so we suggest making yourself a really strong martini and drinking yourself into whatever blurry stupor they are clearly in whenever they leave the house.

But, if you'll pardon us getting political for a quick second, item D is most definitely fixable; for women, too, taking advantage of the hard-won 19th Amendment can counterfug even the most Peldon of outfits.

If you want a funky way to encourage somebody to go to the polls on Nov. 2, check out the eCards on hipster cards, made by fashion designers and sponsored by the non-partisan folks at 1000 Flowers and November 2. They're a cute and cool way to remind people that they have a voice that needs to be heard. [We particularly like the card with the 'Diet Vote' can.]

Because politics can get ugly, but nothing's fuglier than apathy.

Cheers,
H & J

In the past, we here at Go Fug Yourself have been accused of not appreciating "risk-taking" fashion. Which is absolutely true if the risk-taking in question involves, say, leggings. Check out designer Mara Hoffman, at the After Party For Lower Eastside Girls Club.

Here's the thing. Leggings under a dress are never good. Cold legs? Meet tights. Or, my personal choice, suffering.

It's not that I don't appreciate High Fashion. I have a subscription to W, for goodness sake. I just don't think that "edgy" absolutely has to equal "ugly."

I mean....leggings, people. Leggings. We can not go back to a time when it is okay to wear leggings out of the house. I don't even want to go back to time when it is okay to wear leggings inside the house. We decide that leggings under a dress is okay, and it's just one small, slippery step toward leggings on their own, and then leggings paired with a giant tee shirt. A giant tee shirt emblazoned with an iron-on of the Nelson twins. And then, the next thing you know, we're all in alegbra class again, and no one wants that.

Fight the leggings, hipsters. Fight them. I know they are comfortable. I know that. But so are tights. And tights don't make you look like you've just escaped from the wardrobe wagon of Just One of the Guys. Please. Stay strong. Stay leggings free.

It's for her role as a bounty hunter, but... I am not loving Keira Knightley's new haircut.

Granted, I've been perplexed by her wide-ranging appeal, but I at least think that the dark hair in a longer cut would have flattered the dress and possibly de-emphasized the lack of pasta in her life. [Ravioli is a friend, Keira. Let it love you.] The short 'do just sort of weirds up her features. (And is she wearing... a scarf? Would she like some fabric for those shoulders?)

Mary Stuart Masterson did this look, but we probably only need one Mary Stuart Masterson -- unless Domino the Bounty Hunter has a thing for floppy-haired red-headed guys with a diamond-stud fetish.

You know what? On behalf of bounty hunters everywhere, I object. Sure, this Domino person is real, but that's what fictionalization is all about, Anonymous Hairdresser. Creative license is a beautiful thing when it can circumvent a fug. Where is it written that bounty hunters have to have bad butch haircuts, anyway? Why can't she hunt people down and deliver the smack with something a little more flattering on her noggin? What about long hair? Or couldn't she get a good short haircut?

Snap to it, people. Make shit up. This is Hollywood.

For months now, I have had a shoe nemesis, an enemy in the ranks of otherwise loyal and lovely footwear. It befouled displays and yet completely eluded me whenever I embarked upon a quest to locate its picture, for use in this space. It was as if the shoes were taunting me.

I became feverish in my quest. I Googled the style name. I would seek them out at department stores and boutiques, specifically to stand there and fume at their simple fuggery. And I would show people whenever I could, so they would know that the enemy has a toe strap and a 2 1/4-inch heel. In short, it became personal. Inexplicably personal.

Then suddenly, miraculously, the sandals appeared on the Nine West Web site. My nemesis has been digitally captured, for display all around the world. And so I present to you one of the ugliest pairs of shoes, in my very subjective opinion, that I've seen in a long time:

Do not let this innocent photograph fool you: In person, they are much scarier. The pink is not this bright and summery, but has a dull, stale lavender hue to it. When I first saw them at Bloomingdale's, I stopped and studied them. I tugged at the stretchy fabric. I frowned and pursed my lips, unsure exactly what Nine West was trying to do. So I called my roommate over to get a second opinion.

She recoiled a little. "Maybe they look better on," she coughed uneasily.

And so I put the lilac monster on my foot, and lo, they look worse on a foot than they do on a table.

Also, do not let the sale price tempt you: These shoes will fug up the feet of you and everyone that you care about, if you just give them a chance. Stay away. Far away.

People really do need to understand that the reckless use of ruffles must cease in order to prevent an epidemic. The angle of the flaring bottom makes Marisa Tomei look like... I don't know, a human chess piece. And the white shoes with the black ensemble? Why, Marisa? What of Labor Day? Did all those laborers... um... labor... in vain?

And for a bonus, this photo of her profile randomly makes me laugh:

There's "aging badly," and then there's Rupert Everett:

Ouch. And you used to be so dashing, Rupe -- can I call you Rupe? What happened? Brow lift? Face lift? Scalp lift? Why don't you try letting something fall for a little while, and see how you like it.

Please?

Julia Ormond thanks you all for your support of her acting career, but her decision is final: She will pursue her dream of becoming a synchronized swimmer, and there's nothing anyone can say that will deter her from the goal.

Vanessa Paradis looks like a homeless Virginia Woolf at the premiere of Finding Neverland.

The shapeless, sack-y dress. The pale, drowned face, complete with frozen purple lips. The haphazard, straggly bun. The bedraggled, misshapen fur -- are those rocks in her pockets, or does she just keep this coat crumpled up in a ball in the corner of her closet? And, of course, the crowning glory: the white shoes. I firmly believe that unless you are a bride, a nurse, or Nancy Sinatra, you should not be wearing white shoes. And you really should not be wearing them in October. And you really, really should not be wearing them with black tights. Clearly a sign of mental instability. (And yes, I know that contrasting tights and shoes are chic this year, but I cling to the notion that when Vogue advocates such a look, Vogue means, say, black tights and burgundy shoes. Or even brown tights and pink shoes. But not the tragic black tights and horrifying white shoes. Because, Anna Wintour, that is a path down which I will not follow you. I'm sorry. No. No, I just can't. Stop bothering me. No. Seriously. And while we're at it, the high-waisted pants? Not going to happen. And tell the editors at Lucky that I'm not buying this stuff from THEM either, next time you see them in the caf at Conde Nast.)

I'd like to point out the real star of this snap, however. Note the woman behind Paradis. She's making the quintessential "Oh, honey, no" face. Bless her. She's one of us.

Katrina, all the gold chains in the world won't make the shoes and the bag work with that rainbow of aggression that is your outfit. Is that a leather mouth under your breasts?

Donald Trump may love a good woman, and he may love a woman who can sell, but I think he'd agree with me in asking you to repeat to yourself three times an hour, "Do not dress like I am for sale. Do not dress like I am for sale." Hookers aren't fashion icons, Ms. Campins. No one picks up a whore because she was wearing a really edgy dress.

Go change.

Don't go getting all excited, but it appears that Sydney Bristow may have finally vanquished her most formidable opponent: Ben Affleck's rampant, spreading bloat and its most cherished companion, puffiness.

Voila:

Should I lay off the smack, or does it appear that he's getting close to his fighting weight again? He hardly barely looks water-logged at all.

Well played, Ms Garner. Well played.

Rod Stewart mistakenly believes that the Royal National Institute for the Blind Gala is going to be attended only by the blind, and, thus, wears his bathrobe as an overcoat:

This photo was sent by an eagle-eyed reader:

Why is Britney shrieking?

a) She's looking in a mirror
b) Something, somewhere, is itching and burning
c) She found the greatest onesie for her future spawn that has "I'm Jailbait (But This Is An Old Jumper)" emblazoned on it.
d) She just caught sight of the wedding ring on her finger and has awoken to what she and her life have jointly become
e) She is realizing that she passed a dumpster on the way into the store without even stopping to dive in and see if anybody threw out any snacks, or perfectly good unbroken condoms that can be re-rolled for reuse.
f) Wouldn't you be, if you were Britney?

Allow Ms. Thora Birch to demonstrate one of my biggest beauty pet-peeves: Dyed-to-match, or at least lightened, eyebrows.

When people go blond and bleach out their brows -- especially if they are fair-skinned -- it washes them out and detracts from their eyes, generally really ratcheting back the cute (see: Barrymore, Drew, Never Been Kissed... perhaps this is why, Drew).

Look at Thora. It looks like she shaved her brows off, and the effect is that her forehead goes on for ten miles. [And before anyone accuses me of being hateful, because some people have alopecia: I agree, alopecia sufferes are the real heroes, but Thora Birch does not have alopecia.]

All it would take is some Nice-n-Easy to darken those right up so that her eye area has some definition. Better, if she goes to a full-on salon, she could get a weave, because her hair is kind of thin and damaged and appears to be retreating from her very aggressive forehead, which is annexing patches of her skull at an alarming rate.

However, more problematically: Thora Birch needs to eat some carbs. People shouldn't make carbohydrates the enemy. Carbs love you. They want to insulate you and prevent you from becoming a shrunken bag of bones. Sometimes, they want to help you take a nap on your keyboard in the middle of the workday. Let them.

The best thing I can say about this photo is that I might be in love with the pink coat on the woman in the background.

Amber Tamblyn is not a stick, and I love her for it, but she's also not a dramatically pear-shaped spinster schoolmarm -- the effect presented by this choice of dress. You could lie her down on a table and a nearby funeral director would go, "Ah, just the tablecloth I need for this wake today."

Also, Amber needs to get her colors done. She defaults to a shade of lipstick that's between Fire-Engine Red and Hooker Scarlet, and it completely dominates the rest of her lovely features. It's all I can see when I look at her (well, that, and what appear to be shoes made of fabric that matches her depressing skirt).

But seriously, the mouth looks like she stole it from Ronald McDonald, and that's sick and wrong. Nobody loves a clown, Amber. Nobody. Not even God.

Here's the thing. I think Selma Blair is quite pretty, when she's got a modicum of body fat on her skinny bones. She usually dresses quite nicely. She gets a pass from my division of the fashion police on most occasions.

However. Girlfriend needs folicular assistance. Check it:

What is with the hairline? Sweet fancy Moses, it's eating her face! Selma, Selma, Selma! Rita Hayworth had her hairline plucked. Catherine Zeta-Jones had her lasered. Please, for the love of God, do something about yours before you end up in Teen Wolfe: The She-Male Years.

Or, you could just keep your bangs:

See? Pretty. And no one will know about your teeny tiny twohead. Problem solved.

I don't even know anymore.

It's not like I'm surprised. It's more like I'm wondering when we're actually going to see her entire vagina. I'm about to start taking bets. I'll take the under on 6 months. Who's in?

Britney's got a new single coming out, the cover of Bobby Brown's "My Prerogative" that's attached to her Greatest Hits album -- the premature appearance of which suggests that nobody really believes wholeheartedly that she'll have a "great" hit ever again, so they might as well strike while the Frito Pie is still hot.

As such, it's nice to see Britney already thinking ahead about her future, and turning to alternate sources of income -- specifically, what one can only assume is preparation for a gig as a Clearasil spokeswoman:

It's like she rubbed her chin in Crisco, which might well be close to the truth if she was anywhere near the loins of her new husband.

Zits are tough. And what's a girl to do when she can't find her legendary wrinkled cut-offs, probably because they're wadded up on the balcony underneath a pile of empty Colt 45 bottles, three used condoms, and a spittoon?

Why, she turns to her very best distressed grass-stained pants, that's what:

And for good measure, she gets a gigantic Coke stain on her shirt.

I can't wait for The Best Letter I've, Like, Totally Ever Written, Y'All, because I'm eagerly anticipating the chapter wherein she explains her apparently unquellable impulse to communicate through bawdy t-shirts and trucker hats. "Carpe Assum -- Seize the Ass," her hat proclaims. Okay, Brit. We get it. You're edgy. You're nobody's princess. Neither am I anyone's princess, yet I still find time to clean my clothes, wash my hair, and actively not wear trucker hats with "clever" messages on them. Why don't you give me a call? I can show you how.

[Photos courtesy of Lime-light.org and an eagle-eyed reader.]

Thanks to an eagle-eyed member of the Fug Army [the Fugmy?], we have been notified of an alarming development in the appearance of Mrs Warren Beatty, the traditionally very lovely Annette Bening. Ms Bening has been somewhat absent from the public eye of late, due, I presume, to the fact that she spat out four babies in a fairly short period of time and is probably really very tired.

She has also, apparently, been very busy transforming herself into Clay Aiken.

To wit:

Annette:

Clay:

Now, Claymates, put down your burning torches. I pass no judgement on the Clay here. God knows, people go nuts for him, so whatever he's working, it's working for him. But if Annette Bening wants to transform herself into a twentysomething pop singer with a rabid fan following, I think she maybe should have chosen a woman.

And Cameron wonders why Justin won't marry her?*

Maybe because her years of hard-living [read: alleged drug use] have caught up with her, and she's looking more and more like an elderly Madonna 2.0 [read: Esther]? Except Madonna would never wear a side ponytail under a fedora.

I can only assume that Cammie is suffering from another outbreak of her infamous acne [I can't wait for the next article in People magazine: "Cameron's Tragic Battle With the T-Zone"], and is covering it up with layers and layers of power, thus explaining her alarmingly chalk-y complection.

Nothing, however, explains the eye-liner.

Except maybe the [ALLEGED!] drugs.

*Since posting this, we have been informed that this picture is rather old. It was forwarded to us by a reader. Overcome by the fug, I didn't check the dates on the photo, and it was used. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. We are now therefore dutifully noting that Cameron, apparently, has a long history of fugliness and looked old before her time before we even realized it. However, it must be said that this purple fedora and ponytail probably have not factored into Justin Timberlake's ALLEGED reticence to ring her up. We do, however, stand by the ALLEGED rumors of ALLEGED drug use.

This photo of Keanu Reeves came from an fug-eyed reader:

What is Keanu thinking? Is he marveling that strange things are afoot at the circle K? Stunned that ER is still on the air? Saying to himself, "Wow, that Spears kid has moxie"? Silently counting back to the last time he bathed, and realizing he's gone an impressively long time without soap? Pointing to his beard as if to brag, "Lookit! I can grow pubic hair on my jaw!"? Or is he simply trying to remember who he is, and what he once looked like?

Somebody please send him a Gillette care package.

Meanwhile, here's Billy Crudup:

There's something slimy and skeezy about the new, wan outcropping on his chiseled chin. It seems to accentuate his demonic angles. And with the hair grease it gives the impression that he thinks he's about to sell you a pre-owned Dodge, with all of the innate, exciting social status that comes with a new Dodge, yet none of the sticker shock.

But you know what, Billy Crudup? I don't want your tainted used car. [Yes, that's right, I said used, sucka-bitch -- what of it? Go pre-own a shower or something.] I don't want to come within twenty yards of your hair grease that looks like it hasn't been changed in a month. And I want you to keep your titian-haired Nancy Drew of a chin in the bathroom, until such time as it has been eradicated with a razor or a bucket of Nair. You look squirrelly, kind of like you might run out on your eight-months pregnant girlfriend to take up with your beanpole co-star and... oh. Ah.

Well, carry on, then, I suppose, Billy.

I didn't realize funeral homes employed court jesters. Thank you, actress Sylvia Miles, for bringing your rather unique new profession into the public eye. If I am ever bereaved or aggrieved, I have only to think of you tap-dancing atop a hearse in this, your uniform, and I will feel better.

Dear Karenna Gore,

Why so schlumpy?

Love, Jessica

Seriously, this hurts me more than it hurts you.

I admit, I quite like Jennifer Garner. I am invested in her personal happiness. I think she's adorable. And she used to dress quite nicely.

However. Things seem to be taking a turn for the worse. First, her Emmy dress, which looked like the unholy union of a doily factory and a jujitsu studio. And now....oh, it's the little things that clue us into the fact that something's gone horribly wrong with J. Gar:

Black leather trench.

Brown leather bag.

Darker brown suede boots.

No. No, no, no. Now, listen: I'm not one of those Accessories Nazis who screams that your handbag must match your shoes. However, I do think they ought to be complementary. And three different colors and textures of leather in one outfit? Is not complementary. Each of these pieces is fine on its own, but together they make her look like Wilson's Leathers vomited on her in the limo. Did she not think about her outerwear at all? Did she just put on the first coat she found in her closet and grab the purse she took to Whole Foods earlier in the day? What's wrong with J. Gar? Have we just caught her on an off night -- I mean, it's a sartorial misstep, to be sure, but it's not like she showed up dressed like Carmen Miranda -- or is it something more...sinister?

Has she been affected...by The Affleck?

From a recent reality television event in Hollywood comes three cautionary tales:

1) Heidi Strobel of Survivor:

Heidi teaches us that breasts are not meant to look like eggs. And any top that pushes your girls around in such a way that they look like a giant duck gave birth on your chest -- well, that is not a top that should be worn outside the house. And let's not even get into her "tan."

2) Jenna Lewis, also of Survivor:

Those are cute shoes. I think Jessica has those in red. And the skirt isn't that bad. Oh, and I like leather jackets, generally. And the sequined shirt, while not my personal style, is very LA club-scene. So what's wrong with this picture? Everything, in that none of it really belongs in the same ensemble. There is a fine line between fresh showgirl and fresh-faced school girl, Jenna, and it doesn't like to be straddled like a man on a sex tape. [P.S. Lopsided hair doesn't make you look cute. It makes you look like you rolled out of the limo drunk and half your updo fell out.]

3) Finally, here's Trishelle from The Real World:

I'll grant that Trishelle usually looks worse than this, but it doesn't negate the fact that she's wearing a red satin sack that appears to be fitted only slightly, and down by her pelvis. She probably just wants to draw attention to her favorite and most-used body part, but instead it just makes her look like she has a drawstring. But the worst part -- it's more visible on a close-up -- is the little swatch of flesh-toned fabric poking out on her left shoulder. Yes, Trishelle wore a high, v-necked camisole under this low, straight-cut camisole-style dress. She looks like Miss Hannigan.

The lesson here: Miss Hannigan, while the real hero of Annie, dresses less for public consumption and more for bathtub gin consumption. So unless Trishelle is on her way to locking herself in the lav with a glass, a ladel, and a giant paddle for stirring, then she's wearing the wrong thing.

I've never been a bigger advocate of granny panties than I am today.

The whole emsemble on the woman on the right has a distinct and alarming "Empress's New Clothes" vibe to it, where the woman mugs and poses as if nothing is wrong, while people (see: woman in the background) watch in quiet disbelief and think, "I wish I could look away from this person's buttocks, but as they are hanging out in plain view under a filmy skirt, I can't really help it and can feel myself growing stupider by the second."

The kicker? This woman, Jemima French (not to be confused with Jemima Khan, the socialite dating Hugh Grant, who mostly only shows off her knickers in the form of a bikini she is wearing while lounging on a yacht and making out with him), is -- or at least tells photographers she is -- a fashion designer. But if this outfit is any indication, Ms. French is probably not a very good fashion designer. Indeed, she might be a very stoned fashion designer. As if there weren't enough problems with a translucent skirt, a gauzy top, black lace undershorts and a garter belt, she paired the aforementioned Lingerie Of The Undead with the frumpiest, clunkiest pump on the planet.

Run, Sadie Frost. Release that woman and run.

If I'm not mistaken, she is pregnant, which accounts for the billowing. But -- and I know this may sound revolutionary to people like you and me, who aren't models -- I do think it's possible to have a violet maternity frock and not pair it with a brown tweed poncho, orange shoes, a purse of a different color in the purple family, and red lipstick so bright that cars in Montana are stopping at what they think is a red light. I swear I've seen pregnant women actively not wearing this combination, so here's hoping that she stops before she has a sweaty affair with Roy G. Biv and goes a little more monochromatic.

Having watched this season's premiere of Saturday Night Live, I was relieved to see that Ben Affleck seems to be getting his horrible creeping bloat somewhat under control. His body appears considerably less squashy -- thanks to a man-corset? You didn't hear it from me -- although his undereye bags still make him look like he recently regained consciousness in the alley behind the local Boobs 'n' Booze. He remains a mere shadow of his former handsome self, to be sure, and he certainly seemed steeped in bitterness at certain points during the episode, but it does seem as though Jennifer Garner is forcing him to take first baby steps toward debloatification, although she's been unable, as of yet, to completely irradicate the fine sheen of flop sweat that seems to engulf him 24/7.

To wit:

Sadly, I guess he's still too mired in the slow motion trainwreck that is his life -- and those, my friends, were his words, not mine -- to shave.

What is this? Her lower half looks lumpier than oatmeal. It's like the top half belongs to an entirely different dress, which she is still wearing underneath but which got a stain on it, so she grabbed a piece of satin and a nearby ribbon and made herself a second skirt. And then she slouched for good measure, making a bad choice of waistline even worse. Way to go, Maggie -- it's nice to see you carrying the fug torch.

Her boobs are drooping over the leather corset like the last desperate goo being squeezed from a toothpaste tube. Her face says, "And so WHAT if the people in the front row can see straight up my Fallopian tubes?!?" And her birthmark says, "You think a womb view is bad? I've seen 50 Cent's wang and it's not worth a nickel."

Founding Fugee Alexa Vega makes a not particularly triumphant return to the pages of Go Fug Yourself thanks to the pants she chose to wear to the premiere of Hilary Duff's sure to be amazing film epic Raise Your Voice:

The shirt? Cute. The shoes? Cute. The hair? Cute. The... pants? Can we even call them pants? Because they look like they used to be jeans, until her ride to the movie broke down by the side of the LA River and she decided to roll them up and wade to the premiere, but she misjudged how high she needed to roll said jeans, or something, so they got all wet and she had to just shove them over her kneecaps and trudge the rest of the way through the sludge, and because she couldn't live with the feeling of Wet Jeans slapping against her leg for the rest of the night, she decided to leave them like that, in all their jean/knicker/demin pantaloon-y glory.

That was not a good call on her part.

Because the world always needs a new winter-boot money pit that hipster sheep in LA can wear without reason:

Meet Regina boots, which run $239 to $450 at a New York boutique run by an Aussie woman who loudly decries Ugg boots as only being worn by Australian thugs. Curious that her salvo in the battle to eradicate Uggs is to pimp another fugly piece of footwear that Pamela Anderson-types can wear with hot pants. It's sort of like offering to replace the trucker hat with a trucker-newsboy hybrid that has all the space for ironic messages, but with none of the mesh.

Thank you, lady. You've given us "C" in what promises to be a multiple choice question of neverending growth, "What is the most hideous pair of so-called 'trendy' boots? (A) Uggs, (B) Mukluks..." Thanks a pantload. Unless dog-sledding is about to become the new poker, in which case, you are both a sporting and a sartorial psychic.

Oh my God, what happened to Assistant Director Walter Skinner? [Also known as actor Mitch Pileggi.]

Clearly, he's finally been tossed out of the FBI and is now living in Washington's alleys and vacant lots, on the run from shadowy mystery men who need information that only he has, information that will help them bring down the X-Files, forever. No, for real this time. Yes. Really, this time. Actually, for real. Forever, seriously, you guys. And so he's on the run! Wearing an unsightly baseball cap that he appears to have rescued from the gutter! Rummaging through dumpsters for food! Failing to shave regularly!

Or he decided this was a good look for the WB's Rock the Vote party. You know, one or the other.

I ask him, please, Mitch -- rock the MACH3. You look like a vagrant. Agent Mulder looked better when he was dead. All the times he was dead.