April 2005 Archives

Thora Birch looks like Carson Kressly in a gay rodeo.

Either Demi Moore is hiding something, or Ashton gets off on the age difference so much that he's got her dressing like an elderly lady at a wake:

I just... I'm not even sure what that is, to be honest. It appears to be tapered slightly, and it seems to have a strange flowing ruffle befouling the front. With a stiff breeze, you might be able to fly her in the park.

But mostly, I'm just gawking at it. It looks alien to me. I cock my head one way, and it still doesn't work; I frown, lean the other way, and still can't make sense of it. Even Ashton seems to be thinking, "God, Bruce warned me about this stuff..."

Finally, Bai Ling has found a collection of people who think she is rather well-dressed:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Do you think any of these people in the now-famous Star Wars line outside Grauman's Chinese Theater are even aware that she's supposedly famous? They probably just think she's a Netflix PR rep who is dressed up as a Mos Eisley alien.

But, I think we've made a love match:

Generosity must be the new liposuction, for it seems that the flood of sincere affection and admiration that recently poured right out of Lindsay Lohan in sexy hat form has drained most of the remaining fat cells out of her: 

No wonder she's "exhausted" all the time -- she walks around dressed like a <i>chaise longue</i>. All she has to do is look down at herself, and she automatically feels like a nap. Although it might help her if she ate a Philly cheesesteak or three. You have a lot more energy for being "high on life" and "drinking soda at bars" if you're not starving yourself. I think she's taking lifestyle tips from the wrong Olsen.

Kristen Bell is an adorable girl, but this bermuda shorts thing has GOT to stop:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

First, just because against all odds some 1980s fashions have come back in style, it doesn't mean we have to embrace EVERYTHING that was popular in that decade. Second, linen shorts? With that Joan Collins top? Tsk tsk, Kristen. Alexis Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan would be horrified.

Judging by the outcroppings of downy, slightly mangy fuzz springing up in uncomfortable places, I'd say Anne Hathaway's shirt is finally becoming a woman. Who knew you could wear puberty?

I can't decide which Kelly Osbourne is more proud of: her breasts, or the fact that she skinned a drum major:

[From The Cobra Snake, via a reader.]

"Yeah, so, this one time, at band camp..."

If there's anything lamer than a trucker hat, it's when a celebrity decides to personalize them as a way of showing her "appreciation" for the people who worked with her on a set. Yet such was allegedly the approach Lindsay Lohan took recently. Upon wrapping a project -- most likely Just My Luck -- Lohan reportedly distributed hats to the crew emblazoned with the sincere and incredibly touching message, "Love, Lindsay."

Such a gift is the film equivalent of "I gave her my heart, she gave me a pen," except in this case, replace "pen" with "crappy hat," and replace "heart" with "false letter detailing her professionalism, last red cent when I signed that gag order, and final shred of sanity." A Love, Lindsay trucker hat is the kind of wearable valentine that sits at the bottom of one's closet, or hangs jauntily from the handle of the plunger in the corner of your bathroom and occasionally catches drips after a cleaning.

One savvy entrepreneur, mindful that such a gift is both inexpensive and hilarious, duplicated the hats on a Cafepress store. We applaud that person's incentive, because the more apparent it becomes that Lohan's gift took no thought and even less effort, the better. Yes, 'tis better to give than to receive, yada yada yada, but come on: If she was going to do this, she should have at least gone the whole nine yards and made t-shirts with her face on them that say, "I don't know who you are, and I kind of don't care, but I hope you love me!"

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

"Look, Natalie, sometimes fairy godmothers get tired, okay? Sometimes they're sick and tired of all your whining and crying, and "stepmother" this, "stepsister" that, "oh, well, it's just that the mice made a big dress for me"... Honey, screw the damn rodents, you know what I'm saying? I've been on my feet since 7 a.m., I've had to act perky and sing gibberish songs to depressed maids in kitchens all over this damn globe, I've been turning vegetables into horsepower ALL DAMN NIGHT, and frankly, I need a gin and tonic and a lusty cabana boy. My mojo is spent. So you will TAKE whatever clothing you GET, and LIKE IT, okay? And if you're not back by midnight... well, I won't know the difference, because by then I'll be passed out inside a bottle of Beefeater with Marco and maybe his cousin Brad. But suffice it to say that if there are photos of you in the papers tomorrow wearing nothing but a scrap of an old prom dress and a poster for Bobby Trendy Designs, well, you have no one but yourself to blame."

We felt so awkward about Cat Stone's nip slip -- which is less of a slip than a very deliberate skid on a banana peel -- that we decided to give her the Photoshop equivalent of nipple flowers:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Please note that their size is near-accurate and the placement is exact; ergo, they are both better headlights than those which come installed on most automobiles, and the left nipple is sulking. (Aw, muffin, don't worry -- someday she'll learn that, even though black is slimming, "opaque" is the main hue she should wear.)

In a move that's a bit like asking Joan Rivers to give you a face-lift just because she's had eleventy-five of them herself, heiress and renowned do-nothing Nicky Hilton has begun designing clothes. And what perma-puckered-up shop would possibly plant so gushy a smooch on Ms. Hilton's Mystic Tanned behind? That would be the L.A. boutique Kitson, once fun but now intoxicated on the juice of its own ubiquity, which has fermented in the spotlight liberally afforded it by celebrity-stalking magazines.

So get thee to Kitson immediately if you want to buy a pair of jeans for $100 that a) look like Nicky based them on those old Calvins she drew on in fourth grade, b) have had the pockets removed, but boast a shadow of dark denim there as a nostalgic nod to what once was; and c) make a skinny model's butt look diaper-clad, or as if it belongs in orbit around the sun.

(And while you're there, don't pass up the rain-and-ice cream-themed hoodie, which I believe is either abstract art decrying lactose intolerance, or a picture Nicky drew in her youth entitled, "It's Fun When Nanny Cries").

Over the past few weeks, the comments have spiraled out of control. We're closing them for the foreseeable future.

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Good luck at clown college, Jennifer Hall!

Here's the thing: I love Posh and Becks. She's so deliciously tacky and he's so...you know, extremely hot in that No, No, Don't Speak sort of way.

Said dichotomy is well illustrated below:

He looks luscious. She looks like her stage name is Luscious.

That being said, I hear her autobiography is really rather brilliant.*

* No. I've actually seriously heard that.

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

These pants are:

a) Part of a performance-art campaign that urges you to choose static cling and be proud of it;

b) Shrinking up in fright, because they don't want to touch crusty, untied brown boots that look like they've been outside all day doing yardwork;

c) The loving creation of an epileptic orangutan.

I just can't decide.

Remember when Renee Olstead played that cute kid in 13 Going On 30 whom Jennifer Garner befriends?

Well, fine, we didn't either, until we looked her up, but that's not the point. This is:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

No, it's not Hallowe'en, and yes, this girl is both a) fifteen, and b) under the delusion that she is Kelly Osbourne. What is wrong with her? She looks like a Goth showgirl.

Why does Keira Knightley look like an adult extra in Annie's slum scenes?

It's a hard-knock life, indeed.

Things I Learned Today:
There is a Zappa named Diva:

And she can't dress herself.

Seriously, the stripes? The tie-dyed skirt THING? The mismatched shoes? The messenger bag? The exposed skin? I mean, there's Quirky and then there's Legally Blind, and I worry she might be the latter.

The reign of the Formal Shorts must end.

[photo courtesy of Daily Celeb]

Seriously.

Remember that Simpsons episode where Homer invents a makeup gun, and shoots Marge with it, only to find out he accidentally had it set on "whore"?

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Also, somebody please tell Bobby Trendy that when we call him a tool, we are NOT spelling it "t-u-l-l-e." Put away the Barbie stole, please, Bobby, and go back to upholstering yourself into a chaise lounge. I can see you're already halfway there.

Ignoring for a moment why Janice was invited to an awards show celebrating the young and the hot (although, Face No. 3 is settling onto her quite nicely), it's very entertaining to see the Alpha Dog herself showing off her puppies. Photo after the jump, because it's definitely not safe for work.

Yo bitches. Cletus McK-Fed here.

[Photo: PacificCoastNewsOnline.com]

Yeah, yeah, I know. I know, a'ight? But she really wanted a damn baby and the bitch who signs the checks gots the power, you know? It was all blah blah baby blah blah baby blah blah fertile blahedy blah something about Justin blah. Damn, I just got tired of hearing it, you know? And I thought if she had a baby and shut up already, maybe she'd stop buying so many damn dogs. Did you hear that bullshit about the incest puppies? Christ. I told her a thousand damn times that the dogs aren't fucking related and that even if they were, who gives a shit? They're fucking dogs dude, and her whining about it was totally harshing my buzz. And then she started crying again and shit, and, dudes, I just COULD NOT TAKE IT anymore. So I hit her with El Spermination. Maybe this will keep her busy for a while so I can take off to Vegas with my BOYZ. [Big ups to Fresno! Yeah yeah!]

On the DL, I gots to admit, dude: I am kinda proud of my swimmers, you know? I am FEE-IRTLE. [Or FED-IRTLE? Heh. Heh. Heh. God. I'm good.] Who KNOWS how many babies I got in this town? Hells, I've tapped A LOT of ladies between here and the Nevada border. I know I gave that one chick the syph, but who knows what else I been giving 'em, if you know what I mean and I mean mini-Feds. I'm making myself a damn basketball team, dude. Maybe we can go on the road and get away from Loudmouth over there.

Dudes, she's starting whining about my clothes. Yeah. She's all in a muumuu and shit and she's crying that my shoes are untied and my manpris are all tore up and why can't I dress like a grown-up and DAMN BITCH, my manpris are all tore up because your damn dogs keep trying to bite me and end up coming away with the hem of my pants, bitch. Thank God I buy XXXL. Damn.

And then she made me get these damn hair extensions because she was tired of people calling me "90210" and then we saw a rerun of You Got Served on STARS and she was all up in my grill about how hot I look with hair and shit and what the hell else am I supposed to do? She changed the PIN on our ATM card AGAIN and not to 1234 this time. So I gots to get the hair until I figure that shit out and I can blow town again.

A'ight. I gots to get out of here. I've got like seven child support payments to mail before the 15th.

Late.

K Fed

Whoa, easy there, Poppi Longstocking:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

I wonder if those braids are like drawstrings: pull one, and the other gets shorter. God, she's so insane it actually defies description. Are they remaking Newsies?

Has Wilmer always looked this much like a tired, strung-out serial killer?

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

The glint in his eyes says that he'd really, really like to skin you, if he weren't so darn fatigued. Dude, go home, go to bed -- go DIRECTLY to bed. Do not pass Red Bull; do not collect any illicit substances. Just sleep.

Wait, stop long enough to hang up your clothes, because for once you don't look like you just got off work at Midas. But if you could get some night cream for those bags... God, just looking at him is making me yawn.

Her transition from hobo to haute couture, while also shaving off a few pounds, has been one of the best unfuggings in recent memory, but Nicole Richie is starting to go a little too far with her physical transformation:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

She is freaky skinny now. She's getting like Puffy McBulimiaface herself, Renee Zellweger: a rail-thin frame topped with a giant, scary bobblehead.

Please eat, Nicole. If I pulled a cake out of the oven and dipped you into it, I would know whether it was done baking. You shouldn't diet yourself down to wood-shaving status. Open your mouth, shovel food into it, chew, swallow, and then KEEP IT THERE.

Erika Christensen would very much like to run from whatever is scaring her, but unfortunately, her feet were devoured by recruits in a tragic Scientology accident:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Three words, and you can all sing along with me at home: HEM. YOUR. PANTS.

Oh, and P.S., Betty White would like her bridge tunic back.

We here at Go Fug Yourself have made no secret of the fact that we're both baffled by Courtney Peldon -- Who? Why? How? What is that thing she's wearing? -- but we've also grown to love her for her insane taste, scary-large fake boobs, and general ubiquity.

So we're pleased to learn that today is Ms. Peldon's 24th birthday. We'd like to wish her a very happy birthday indeed, because without La Peldon we wouldn't have choked on nearly as much righteous indignation in the past year.

We can only dream of what glorious celebrations might be taking place today, to honor this sweet creature. Fortunately for us, we can sate that craving through history, with photos of Courtney's 23rd birthday party; we can at least revel in The Fug That Was. And there's no better place to start than with a view of the cake that her friends and family lovingly ordered for the pointless starlet:

On my birthday, I won't be happy unless my relatives order a giant sheet cake from Von's that is decorated with a photo of me posing in a bra and panties. For Courtney, clearly the only way to express appreciation for her presence in this world was to ask people to eat her breasts.

And then things took an eerily prescient turn:

She's so happy with her knife. So innocent. So blissfully unaware of her fate. Courtney! Stop! Put it down. I know you're probably ashamed that you're wearing a green shirt with some sort of Satanic cat on the front, but please, don't let the devil's pussy infect you! Put down the knife! Knives are stabby! For the love of God and fug, put it --

Sigh. It's so sad to see yet another young girl turn to cutting. [And let's not even start on wondering which part of her body she chose to eat.] Odd that only half a year later, a friendly instrument of slicing just like this one would find its way through her for real.

We're happy you're well now, Courtney. Please come back to the fug. You haven't been out and about much lately, and when you have been, nothing terrible has graced your form. We're going through withdrawal here.

Somebody please tell Mariah Carey that if you can't decide which stretchy, shiny fabric to wear, the solution is not to wear both. She looks like one of those badly decorated hotel rooms with aggressively pastel fabrics and nondescript "soothing" artwork on the walls. That, or the decor of the downstairs cocktail lounge at Sweet Harmony Castle For Retired Persons somewhere in southern Florida. Old Jim-Bob's heart condition is not going to like that neckline.

"Calm down, everyone, calm down -- it was just a tiny accident with the laundry. Apparently I'm not supposed to wash colors and whites together in hot water...? It's all fine, though, the housekeeper's been sacked for being on her lunch break when I did it. But we're okay; the dress fits. Just ignore the fact that I look a bit like a pistachio ice-cream sundae with sprinkles. Thanks."

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

In this terrifically unflattering ensemble, Deborah Gibson looks like some sort of smug flapper-hooker. And, hey, I read on her Web site that she considers herself "the traditional all-around entertainer"; in a way, that bespeaks "oldest profession in the world." I'm sure she'd sing "Foolish Beat" during the "encore" if you asked nicely -- and with those convenient slits in her skirt, it's really easy to slip her some currency.

Hi, y'all. Sorry it's been so long since we've talked, but I have had a lot of stuff on my plate, you know? Like, a lot. I am just so exhausted. Seriously. Look at me:

I just don't even have the energy to even, like, brush my hair anymore, you know? My mom used to do it for me when my arms were too tired from dancing, but she's real mad at me right now. She said something the other night about my "passive-aggressive acting out," and I don't really know what that means but it doesn't sound very nice and she slammed the door after she said it so I know she's mad.

I had a real bad weekend, people. Okay, so I've been really really busy fighting all the false tabloids. Writing angry letters is really tiring, first of all, because I have to keep getting up and going to the dictionary, but it's totally worth it because it's a cause I really believe in. I mean, I am so tired of reading about how I'm all pregnant and Kevin is all going to Vegas and whooping it up while I'm stuck in this stupid condo throwing up while those guys are painting our house in Malibu and I don't even like that house. I mean, I AM pregnant and Kevin IS running off to Vegas and drinking with those trampy-ass strippers and I swear to God if I catch him touching one of them I'm going to snatch him bald but I really don't know how they know any of that except for that ONE phone conversation I had with that one girl who works for the Star.

Anyway. So I've been doing that. And then we came to the Miramont for the weekend and I was getting ready to go to brunch with Jamie Lynne and I was putting on my jeans and they don't even fit anymore because I'm getting so fat from this baby and then I just started to cry because I didn't have anything else to wear and I couldn't find Kevin because he told me he couldn't listen to my voice for one more minute and then he left the suite and went and got his own room - using my credit card because I am beginning to think that he's just with me for my money and let me tell you I AM NOT HAPPY ABOUT THAT -- but I really wanted some bacon so I had to put on this stupid muumuu that Jamie had bought in the gift shoppe as a gift for our grandma and then we went into brunch and I couldn't stop crying and I could barely eat my hot links.

And you'd think that would be all the bad things that would happen to me but no, then I found out that Bit Bit is PREGNANT and the Puppy Daddy is MY BROTHER BRYAN'S DOG. That is INCEST, y'all. INCEST is totally wrong and gross, which I have learned from watching Passions recently, and also from the Bible and stuff.  What am I supposed to do? My dog can't have an incest baby, but I can't get the dog an abortion but what if her puppies have two heads or little fish gills or something? That is NOT RIGHT. I don't have TIME to deal with INCEST PUPPIES. I have A LOT GOING ON.  I am fighting the false tabloids and I am trying to help Kevin make an album although HE IS NO JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE and I am NOT just talking about SINGING but you didn't hear that from me. I am ALSO trying to create a warm and loving womb for my fetus, like I read in some book about babies and stuff, and I am ALSO trying to quit Red Bull because it's bad for the baby AND I caught Kevin stealing money from my purse the other day and I am beginning to regret even marrying him because for one thing LOOK AT HIS PANTS and also I don't understand why he won't tie his shoes even though I used to think that was cute, it's starting to REALLY BOTHER ME because he LOOKS LIKE AN IDIOT and also HE KEEPS TRIPPING AND I REALLY REALLY THINK MAYBE I SHOULDN'T HAVE MARRIED HIM PLEASE PLEASE CALL ME JUSTIN PLEASE.

God. I am so tired. I can't even handle any of this anymore. I'm just going to take a nap after I call the bank and change my ATM PIN so Kevin doesn't take off to TJ again. Last time he didn't even bring me any Percocet. I am beginning to think maybe he is not really a very thoughtful person.

Dear Roberta Flack: Unless someone inflated you mid-song, there's really no reason for your shirt to be popping off your body. And please, please, rethink the turquoise and purple. But at this tragic point, I'd settle for an iron and a top that fits. Thanks.

Sophie, Sophie, Sophie. C'mon, honey -- what's hidden up in there? Your stash? The Dormouse?

This woman, Sarah Buys, is apparently Tom Parker-Bowles' fiance, and is apparently a fashion editor at Harpers & Queen:

She therefore, if she has that alleged fashion expertise, ought to have reconsidered pairing a black polka-dot blazer with colorfully spotted -- but cute, with a different outfit -- shoes. You can't mix plaids; why mix dots? And why so many of them? She's spottier than a pubescent boy. And... I don't know, I think that's some sort of Girl Guides beanie perched on her head. Are those merit badges? [I think one of them is for Skill in Choosing a Non-Aggressive, Non-Feathered Hat.]

But the crowning glory of Ms. Buys' ensemble is the back of the skirt:

Before you ask, no, it's not like that just because she's climbing up onto a bus. And no, she didn't go to the bathroom and accidentally get it tucked up into her tights. The skirt is deliberately like that -- all bunched up like an unmade bed, ready to show the world a flash of her granny girdle. The people at Harpies & Queens must be so proud.

Remember that old Dana Carvey character from Saturday Night Live, called Massive Head Wound Harry? He'd walk around with a giant open wound, set at a jaunty angle, taking up half his skull.

I feel like Laura Parker-Bowles might have been watching The Best of Dana Carvey before she showed up at her mother's wedding:

I'm not sure what that is on her head -- it's a hat; it's a gold-painted model of an atom; it's a hidden weapon that, when thrown, decapitates your foe; it's the world's most untimely bubble-gum accident and there wasn't a nearby pair of scissors with which to cut out the tangle... The list goes on.

What the had isn't, is attractive. Everyone around her needs to watch out -- that thing could severely injure someone's precious, precious eyes. Don't get too close, for the love of God.

Charles: Er... I say, 'Milla, don't mean to be a bother, but... something rather naughty is trying to attack.

Camilla: Ooohh, filthy! Do hush up and smile, Pickles. If you talk like that I'm going to get all bothered.

Charles: No, Randy Pants, what I meant was, there's this enormous thing erected on your...

Camilla: You are a horny old hound! If you touch me with that, Wiggle, then I simply won't be able to keep my skirt from going over my head. You know I don't totally adore playing the bagpipe in public...

Charles: Don't tease me, Love Pouch -- I was just referring to the rather aggressive-looking creature that's about to tear off your head.

Camilla: I don't know what you're talking about, Trouser Snake, but in about two seconds I'm going to rip off this hat and use it to hide behind while I give the crown jewels a good polish.

Charles: I... Hat? ... Oh.

The dress ended up understated, flattering, and elegant. But the hat... oh, Camilla, the hat. Has Mischa Barton gotten to her, too? Is the bony waif's fug vibe going transatlantic? Why on Earth would Camilla want to look like an awards-show statuette on her wedding day? It's like Charles just accepted a trophy for Excellence in Using The Public's Love of Weddings As A Way of Waving Off The Stench of Public Scandal. Or perhaps Camilla didn't choose the hat at all, and was in fact just crowned "Best Supporting She-Male" by a grateful British press corps.

Actually, I confess: I generally think Camilla gets a raw deal and isn't as fugly as the press portrays her to be. But I can't help her when she goes and wears hats that look like the an unfriendly wind just ruffled through her faux-Farrah feathers. Unless she's just trying to distract from her husband's ever-more-balding head by shaping her own headgear to resemble the world's worst female combover.

Some mornings, don't you wake up and think to yourself, "self, where can we get a snide tee shirt that articulately expresses our feelings towards those members of society whose clothing doesn't meet our exacting standards?"

Of course you do. We all do.

That's where Go Fug Yourself tees come in.

Yes. They say, "I hate what you're wearing." Because, let's face it: you do.

And they're made by Glarkware, so you know they're good.  Don't you want one? 

Order one now!

Note! This is a Glarkware Now Or Never item, so it's a pre-order, limited edition type thing. Order by April 30, and they'll ship between mid- and late-May. And then they're over and done with, never to be made again.  So you should probably go ahead and order one now, don't you think?

Info and updates are available on TWoP's Now or Never Info and Status thread.

Big thanks to the kind folks at Glarkware for hooking us up.

I shudder to think what Janice Dickinson would have to say about Jay Manuel's kicky skirt.

[Reader-submitted photo]

Or his open, waxed-chest-baring shirt. Or his spangly cummerbund. Or his frighteningly groomed brows. I mean, there's a reason that the good folks over at America's Next Top Model don't let Jay [or, as they often call him on Television Without Pity, Small Orange Man] into panel every week. I think it's because Janice might finally, gloriously, beautifully, snap and attack him, and then they'd be in all kinds of trouble with legal.

He looks like the deranged lovechild of a gay go-go dancing headwaiter and Sister Mary Catherine, my seventh grade  Civics teacher. You know, if that were physically possible. Which it is not. Much like his skin tone.

Somewhere -- like, about mid-thigh -- this dress went from "funky" to "something the reprehensible Bobby Trendy would try to turn into a couch, and sell for $3,000 to insane pill hounds." In about ten minutes I expect Anna Nicole to pounce on Paris and dig around in her folds for a spare Percocet.

Wilmer Valderrama was in the middle of re-piping his septic tank when his publicist called.

Publicist: Wilmer? Where are you? Are you stuck in traffic?
Wilmer: Wha?
Publicist: Can you hear me? Are you stuck in the canyon?
Wilmer: Huh?
Publicist: WHERE ARE YOU?
Wilmer: At home.
Publicist:  Why haven't you left yet?
Wilmer: Wha?
Publicist: WHY HAVEN'T YOU LEFT YET?
Wilmer:  Huh?
Publicist: You're supposed to be at a PARTY. It's an important photo op! Now that you're not dating Lindsay anymore, we've got to keep you in the spotlight! Do you know how long it took me to get people to stop calling you "Fez"? One more month and they might actually get "Valderrama" right.
Wilmer: Wha?
Publicist: That bitch at Access Hollywood keeps calling me and asking for interviews with Wilber Maldenado.
Wilmer: Huh?
Publicist: WILMER. I don't care what you're doing.  Get in the car and get your ass over here.
Wilmer: But....
Publicist: I DON'T CARE. You need to be at this party NOW. I think US Weekly's stringer is getting read to leave! Get in the car NOW and get here.  I don't care how bad you smell.
Wilmer: Huh?
Publicist: NOW.

Click.

In a further example of Chloe Sevigny's unerring taste and vision, the actress is brazenly showing the world that nothing complements a sweatshorts jumpsuit quite like full-on Roman sandals:

Thank God Chloe can still be relied upon for the kind of horrendous taste, even in relaxation, that leads to the deployment of heretofore unused phrases -- like, for example, "sweatshorts jumpsuit."

But more importantly, thank God she hasn't given up on those white-framed sunglasses. Because as long as those are out there, fug is never far away.

Meet Samantha Jade. I'd tell you what she's done to wrangle an invite to the Nickelodeon Kid's Choice Awards, but I have no idea. And IMDb is no help. And when IMDb is no help, you really are in dire celebrity straits.

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb]

I suspect most of the wrangling she's done -- judging from her outfit -- involves steers.  Or snakes, since she appears to have fashioned a primitive halter strap from the hide of a defenseless rattler.  Or even cotton -- sweet, innocent cotton -- which has clearly fallen prey to her merciless shears in the name of ugly tops. 

You know that old adage about looking at yourself in the mirror before leaving the house and removing one accessory? Ms Jade would do well to heed that adage, and save countless cows, snakes and human eyeballs.

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Hi y'all! It is, like, so exciting to be at an event on my OWN, for once, without Britney -- she's taking the dogs to Mystic Tan -- or my mama, who's at home reading the pre-nup over and over again. She hasn't put that thing down in months! Something about "ratfaced pimpbag"...? Maybe? Is that by Louis Vuitton? I don't know! But she loves purses, so maybe. Mama doesn't tell me anything, mostly because she's always off in the corner rocking back and forth and moaning, and when I try to get her to watch my show, Zoey 101, she just mutters the words "chastity belt" and then starts to cry while she chants something about dirty moneygrubbing pig-ignorance. Maybe she doesn't like my manager?

Anyway, I did get some styling tips from Britney, though, before I came. Like my hair. She told me to dye it brown because then you don't have to wash it as often, and that way, you can not bother with the shower until you can smell yourself without even having to stick your nose in your armpit. That's her system. She really loves the environment, and is trying to save water, and stuff. Then she helped me add the wrinkles to my shirt and pants, because ironing is so last millennium. When she stepped all over my pants it left them with this really cool uneven-hem look, which I love. And she told me not to worry about standing up straight, because only boring people do that, and anyway, if you slouch then you're closer to, like, the fans, and stuff.

And then she let me borrow this jacket she made out of one of the baby blankets she's stocked up on. Kevin ripped it up one night before he disappeared for Las Vegas again, so while Brit was cleansing her system with vodka -- she told me that disinfects your organs better than one of those colonic thingies -- she turned the blanket into a little coat for BitBit, but it didn't fit. So I get it.

She's going to be the best mom! Especially because she doesn't sit alone in corners rocking back and forth.

I don't know. Maybe it's because I literally owned this dress as a child -- albeit in a much, much smaller size, as it came with my Miami Transvestite Barbie -- but I almost sort of like it.

Mariah so crazy. I almost expect -- and, indeed, practically wish for -- her to wear this gown with little sparkly angel wings and a tiara. Or with glitter splayed over her chest, symbolizing the wounds suffered by her lover, who had been recently shot because he...well, let's face it, I can't quite remember the exact details of Glitter, but you know where I'm going with that.

Indeed, is not Mariah someone SO crazy that, when she arrives in a Bubble Yum commercial made flesh and bone, you almost feel like it could and should have been JUST THAT much more over the top? Do we need more taffeta? More tulle? Hotpants? I do not know.  I want to see more of her Crazy.

Paula Abdul seems to believe that simply attending the Nickelodeon Kids' Choice Awards means that she needs to dress like one of the titular young voters:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

This looks like something Snow White would wear on laundry day. Did I miss the memo that said the Nickelodeon voters were also picking out what the attendees would wear? Because this looks like the work of a pre-pubescent girl on a sugar high. Or maybe Laura Ingalls Wilder, if she were thinking of becoming a Vegas stripper but wanted to dive in slowly.

Even the woman behind her seems skeptical. Sneering, almost. As if to wonder what any poor pair of breasts did to deserve such shoddy treatment. Memo to Paula: Wearing a corset two sizes too small doesn't make them look pert; it makes them look perturbed.

Do you think they meant that through thick and thin, in hygiene and in filth?

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

For the love of God, who told him that grease was nature's perfect styling gel? If you squeezed him into a pot, you could fry a chicken. I know making Star Wars probably completely sucked the will to live right out of him, but ... really, that's no reason to stop bathing.

Yes, to the surprise of almost no one, Go Hug Yourself was an April Fool's Day joke. It was the kind of prank we knew few people, if any, would actually believe, but it amused us sufficiently that we wanted to do it anyway. Because the idea that our hearts might not be made of the stickiest, filthiest tar really did make us laugh. And so we enjoyed the pretense that we think babies dressed as daffodils are the cutest, cleverest things since Michael Bolton's Time, Love, and Tenderness album.

But we're back. Although we might play around with the other site, too, for a while, just as a lark. If you found it amusing, then please, play along with us. Because as it turns out, being sarcastically nice is almost as fun as being sincerely critical.

Almost. Which is why it's good to be home again.