May 2005 Archives

I love this time of year -- the sky is clear, the sun is hot, and everything's in full bloom.

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

I try to judge the clothes. Really, I do. But sometimes, when you stare long enough at a photograph, you can't help but realize that the problem isn't the clothes -- it's the people wearing them.

Observe:

These, it may surprise you to hear, are not mannequins. They are (ostensibly) living and breathing, and alarmingly chiseled, soap stars -- one is probably 90 percent fake at best (Hunter Tylo, on the left up there) and the other (the superfluously lettered Ronn Moss) has mysteriously always been touted as "hunky" despite his hollow cheeks, Ginsu-grade cheekbones, perma-stoned face, and penchant for choking himself with flowing scarves.

And yet, as freaky and unsettling as I find the Ronnequin, nothing -- but NOTHING -- frightens me as much as Hunter Tylo's breasts. She denies ever getting work done, but if I didn't know that and saw this photo, I would say, "Wow. It looks like her ALLEGED plastic surgeon was playing some sort of infantile stacking game while she was ALLEGEDLY under the knife. Breasts shouldn't come out of a woman's chest at a 90-degree angle; cleavage isn't intended to be a geometry teaching tool. I would suggest that Hunter tell her ALLEGED surgeon this herself, but I'm not sure she can move her face or her lips any more. That thing is stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey -- I've never seen so much ALLEGED collagen, ALLEGED Botox, and ALLEGED bad work. Allegedly." But because I DO know she says she's never been under the knife, well, that changes everything. Now I just say, "Mother Nature needs to stop pranking Hunter in her sleep."

I need my eye drops.

Jessica Simpson woke up this morning and took a long hard look at her wardrobe.

"I don't like any of this," she said. "I hate all my designer clothing. I hate all my jeans. I hate everything that fits. I loathe anything in here that looks even vaguely clean." She was silent for a long, long, long, long, long, long moment. Thinking.

At last! "I know what I need to do," she announced to the small, yappy, fluffy dog at her feet.

"I need to go Federline."

From the waist down, Nikka Costa looks like your average young lady out and about and on the town:

From the waist up? Dorothy Zbornak.

I kind of get the feeling that Courtney Love has no idea how to control her new, larger body, and that parts of it are sort of sloshing around, uncontained, like a Big Gulp spilling all over your gear shift when you take a turn too fast.

Courtney, babe,  you just don't look comfortable. I feel like you're going to be tugging that shirt down all night. Invest in something that fits you a bit better. Or something. Man. Yeah. Honestly?  I don't know how to help you. Nothing there fits right. Your proportions are all off. In fact,  I'm just going to throw up my hands, and congratulate you on how cute Francis Bean is. She looks just like her Dad, doesn't she? In fact, -- oh, hell. I can't keep up the charade: YOUR BOOBS ARE HUGE NOW. I CAN'T STOP LOOKING AT THEM.  I'M WORRIED ONE OR BOTH MIGHT JUST POP OUT OF THAT TOP AND NOT IN A SEXY WAY, IN A "GOD DAMN I KNEW THESE BUTTONS WERE SUSPECT AND THAT'S WHY I TIED THE FRONT OF THIS SHIRT WITH A WEIRD LACEY THINGIE, PLEASE HAND ME A DING DONG BECAUSE NOTHING FITS AND THEY TOOK AWAY MY HEROIN" KIND OF WAY.

Seriously. A little more tailoring from you, a lot less caps lock from me. Is all I'm saying.

Continuing our recent run of Man Fug, I give you the Smoking Hot in Lord of the Rings, Problematic in the Real World Viggo Mortensen:

This looks like something he'd wear if he gave up acting and took up ice-dancing. Badly. To "Bolero."

It's SUCH A RELIEF to see how nicely Michael Madsen has  cleaned up his act, since his last appearance on Go Fug Yourself:

Those are some INCREDIBLY large, clown-like shirt buttons.

I feel like there was something else... no, it's gone. Oh well. The buttons! So big.

"Dear Ben and Girl:

I am writing a note from my very important tour of venues that don't make me sing more than three songs, which Marc says is my limit, because I am filled with glee. Because, aha, lookit here! You will be shocked to learn that, even if you have the Bennifer II, it is I who has the Electric Boogaloo! The flatness of my abs makes fireworks ejaculate! Good luck getting your stretch marks to have that effect on Ben, girlie!

Oh, and have fun wearing caftans, while I am in daring gold lame harness-looking-thingies that I had George Lucas make me so that I would look like a lounge singer in that alien bar from Episode IV: Jedi From The Block, or whatever that thing was that the kids love. Hip! I am hip. I tried to sew cinnamon rolls onto my head for the costume, but they made Marc cry and go binge on peas. Sometimes I don't understand him, but then I realize that's because he is choking on something and I have to Heimlich some embalming fluid out of his chest. I don't know how that keeps getting in there! But that has nothing to do with you and your stupid bloated uterus, nor my super hot capri pants with a big X that marks exactly where you can BITE me, Special Agent Sydney Crisco! Ha ha ha!

Now shut up and let me stop writing. It's time for me to stop doing my Nutcracker ballet -- wait, why does that always make Marc giggle? Ben Assfleck, why does Marc always say how appropriate that is? Ben?

Bah. Anyway, twirly time is over. It's time for the robot:

[Photo: INFDaily.com]

Or as my Marc calls it, "Foreplay."

Piss and Vinegar,
The One Whose Ring Was Bigger And Don't You Forget It, Ass Ape!"

Okay, Mary-Kate. We get it. We know you're into swaddling your skeleton in as many large layers as possible to compensate for your lack of body fat. But it's not fooling anyone:

The cowgirl-doily look wouldn't be flattering on anyone, with or without the giant picnic blanket knotted around her neck. But honey, my stick figures that I drew in elementary school had more meat on their bones. Very scary. What happened with you and Ashley? You were so cute together in New York Minute. Um, not that I saw it. But if I had, I probably would have secretly thought you and your sister were sort of sweet -- I mean, I assume, although of course I have no idea what my reaction to that movie would have been. right? Yes.

What about your counselors? What about the rest of your wardrobe? Did it ever occur to you that you wouldn't need seventeen baggy layers and a wad of plaid if you just had some of nature's insulation?

The thing that's most wrong about this picture is that her "boyfriend" is leading her down the street and not toward another rehab center. Please get her some help, Scruffy Boyfriend. Otherwise, it's going to end tragically, either from the disorder or from you having sex with her and accidentally snapping her in half. Then we'll get some kind of badly written television event in which Ashley makes her first solo acting debut playing Mary-Kate, and... well, that's quite a rabbit hole.

So somebody, please give Lohan and Richie and their ilk a good example to follow, and GET THE GIRL SOME HELP so that she stops losing weight in places where there is no weight to lose.

Also: Please make her stop wearing tents.

Kelly Clarkson is vexing indeed. She's an adorable girl with prodigious talent, but of late, some style choices -- or those of her people -- almost have us pining for the days when American Idol was dressing her like the prom queen.

Take, for instance, this ensemble, which looks like a morbid throwback to Madonna in the 1980s:

[Photo: infdaily.com]

She made it through the wilderness of From Justin to Kelly; somehow, she made it through. But I didn't know how lost she was until I saw tulle. Anyone who can wear a skirt made of neckties -- neckties! -- and live to tell the tale deserves a little bit more than a black mesh nightmare with a Michael Jackson tribute glove. She looks like she's going to the funeral of her own fashion sense.

And this is apparently what she wore when she sang at the wake:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

It would seem that the "necktie required" dress code contains a rather large loophole.

Wow, Bill Murray can't win -- on either side of him is a fug onslaught:

The lass on Bill's left, slouchy Julie Delpy, tends to be a princess of overt fug, here opting for a retina-blasting melange of color and pattern that could only flatter her figure less if it turned out to be a jumpsuit. And on Bill's right, in a sharp contrast to Delpy, there is the fairly placid fug of Tilda Swinton -- who, despite not having fallen for a stomach-turning color or pattern, did unfortunately select a dress that makes it look like she was gift-wrapped by a bored trainee in the Bloomingdale's customer-service department.

Bill looks more cheerful about her, though, possibly because he's hoping that if he tugs on her ribbon, a gift will present itself to him.

Justin did a solo album, Joey did Broadway, Lance did NASA. But it's Chris Kirkpatrick -- a.k.a. The One Who's Really Too Old To Be In The Band -- who's taken the most interesting approach to searching for career longevity beyond *NSYNC.

Apparently, Chris has devoted himself to being able to step in seamlessly in the tragic event that Kevin Smith is unable to fulfill his assigned duties as Kevin Smith.

Observe:

There is Silent Bob, looking uncharacteristically ball-cap free. And here is Chris:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Uncanny, no? In the event that Smith is rendered incapable of being himself, the world will never be the wiser.

I think everyone has one favorite outfit that they love so much, no one around them has the heart to say, "You know... actually, no." And the reason I believe this to be true is that it's the only explanation I can fathom for why anyone who loves soap actress Tonya Lee Williams allowed her to leave the house in the following:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Wearing a black slip under white fabric is a fairly troublesome misstep, but in a more generally problematic sense, the dress is a hideous accident of cotton. It looks like Laura Ingalls Wilder's underclothes. And yet no one said anything -- not even a casual, "Hey, Tonya, Bloomie's is having a sale on flesh-toned lingerie," or, "Tonya, it's not Halloween -- save the J.C. Penney's Whites Sale costume for October," or even, "Oh, Tonya, it's so nice to see you, give me a big hu... OOPS! Oh, honey, I'm sorry, I was so focused on not spilling my red wine that I didn't see that chair there... No, your dress! Is it ruined? I hope it's not ruined! Gosh, I'll feel so awful if it's ruined here's another dress I happened to have handy that's in your size that I just bought coincidentally please for the love of God go put it on right this second."

Even the guy with her is kind of like, "Yeah, she's wearing a melting wedding cake on her head, but I love her and she seems happy, so... please just take the picture so I can go inside and blind myself with rum."

Edited to add: I don't know how you guys do it. We didn't recognize him without a) the dreads, b) the spandex, and c) the chest-bumping with the dead one, but rumor has it that the above arm candy of Tonya Lee Williams is The Boy Who Lived. You know, Milli. Or Vanilli. I don't know. I do know that it's damning if you're out with a guy who wore bike shorts for a living and even he is kind of like, "Damn, girl... I'm just gonna smile and look the other way."

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

This woman is a trend casserole: hat, cropped sweater, tube top, waist chain, low-rise rolled-up capri jeans, and knee-high boots, all thrown together and served up like so many leftovers. Unfortunately for her, casseroles tend to go bad after a few days; fortunately for us, a photo is forever.

Added 2:56 p.m.: Apparently, a photo is forever, and e-mails are plentiful. It's been brought to our attention that we got so drunk on the fug cocktail above -- and were so disinclined to stare at her crotch -- that we missed noticing that poor, sad Fugly Casserole up there left her cat flap open. Yes, the only zipper on her trousers that actually NEEDS to be there is hanging undone and unexamined. We can only hope that this isn't one of the trends she's mixing and matching, lest people with truly scary kitties take notice and take action.

Deanna Carter does her best imitation of the Barbie that sat on top of my grandmother's toilet -- the one whose ruffled crochet skirt concealed the extra roll of Charmin.

For the record, I have no desire to squeeze this Charmin.

Okay, look, you. Yes, you, all you party people here at Wango Tango -- I see you thinking. I see those wheels turning, wondering if I am dressed like this because I have just escaped from some kind of insane asylum, and am medicated into thinking that I have wandered out onto the lawn to tell you hoodlums to stop peeing on the begonias. I know you are wondering if my Mark is trying to make me hide my light under a piece of gaffer tape. But you don't get it, hahaha! I win! I have lived in Miami so long, I have had a fashion epiphany! Eureka! I have created geriatric punk!

But you're still looking, and thinking. Don't think I don't know. I see you watching your magazines and your Alias and talking about Jen II and Ben Affleck and wondering if I am raging furious about her fruity ovaries! But you are all crazy. DO I LOOK FUCKING FURIOUS? DO I? I did NOT get so angry that I got tangled up in my necklaces and can't get them off. Does this look like angry hair? No! This is my "Edith and Mergatroyd down at the salon say I look prettier like this" hair! This is my "Get out of my hot tub, you paparazzi shitclown" hair! THIS IS NOT ANGRY HAIR ABOUT THAT WOMAN AND HER STUPID FAT WOMB.

Ah, sorry. It is just so hot up here, on this stage where I sing professionally. I would like to see that Gardner hussy sing her silly love tunes to Ben on a stage this big! Ben doesn't even like singing! He told me once that if I didn't stop singing he was going to eat his own ears! Aha, so how will she feel once she is raising a baby with Vincent Van Affleck over there? Hahahahaha!

But I don't care. I do NOT care if he knocked her up like a goddamn door. LOOK AT MY ABS. I can't do crunches with a fetus living in there! She can HAVE Ben's wang! It is all bloated and puffy anyway! I prefer it when my men look like beef jerky. So adios, bitches! You can think all you want -- I AM SO HAPPY I COULD JUST BEAT THE CANDY OUT OF YOU UGLY WHISPERING HUMAN PIÑATAS! ... Now, where the HELL am I?!?

Oh my God, Lindsay. Pull it together.

I am about to sound like your mother -- or, rather, what your mother should sound like were she not too busy dealing with your deadbeat father to notice how strange you look -- so get ready. And stand up straight.

Young lady, do you know who you look like with your hair like that? Are you ready for this? Hilary Duff.  Yes, I know you're thinner than she is, and that's an entirely different discussion, although I suppose this all does prove once and for all that your boobies are real. Yes, I said "boobies." Don't "Mooom" me! As I was saying: do you really want to be running around town looking like a girl who was in a silly TV show and then made a couple of movies with boys on the WB? Do you? I didn't think so. And I know the hair is allegedly for a role, but I really hope you're not thinking about keeping it that way, because blondes have more fun or some cockamamie reason, because, missy, let me tell you a thing or two: you look like every skinny blonde starlet in town like this, thing one, and thing two? Thing two is that, for your information, redheads are all over the runways this season, so your real hair color -- in addition to looking so pretty on you, sweetie -- is really very chic. Yes, it is. Yes, it is. Blondes are a dime -- don't you dare walk out on me when I am talking to you!

I haven't even started on your outfit. What are those SHORTS? Why don't you just cuff them and we can start calling you "Baby" and making jokes about putting you in the corner.   You just look so messy, sweetie. And you're such a pretty girl, why is everything so baggy and ill-fitting and layered and wrongly proportioned?

You used to be so adorable! Come here, and look at these pictures with me. Look at you here!

What happened? Is it because you're hanging around with those girls? I told you I don't like you spending so much time with that Nicole Richie. I used to think she was all right, but she spends so much time in the bathroom. No! No -- don't you dare try and tell me she has irritable bowels, Lindsay. I will give YOU an irritable bowel if you interupt me one more time, so help me God. I have SEEN that girl and if her bowels are irritated, it's because there's nothing moving through them.

No, it's not "ew," it's sad, and I don't want you hanging out with her anymore. Honey, seriously. I just want to help. I want to help, and for you to wear either shorts, or pants, but not these Federline-inspired shortpris. Okay?  Now, I know you've had a hard time since you and WhatsHisName, Wilber, broke up -- sorry, WilMER, WilMER, although I don't know what kind of name WILMER is -- sorry, sweetie, I know. It smarts. It still smarts. Come here and let me hug you.

There, there. Now, let's go to Barney's and get you some real pants. We can TP Wilmer's place on the way home. Go get your shoes.

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Are those... could it be... is that a JUMPSUIT? A satin jumpsuit? On someone other than Joan Collins (who would have paired it with a kicky turban)?

I... I'm hyperventilating.

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Having watched Cinderella one too many times, Rachel Sterling was agonized to learn the hard way that mice and birds -- though jolly -- are terrible tailors and should not be trusted.

Dennis Rodman's outfit at the Maxin Hot 100 Party is SO FUGLY that it almost swings around hideous and misguided and into BRILLIANT in a kind of deranged way.

Is he....is that...was he...does that....what?

I liked him better in the wedding dress.

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Jennifer Hall's first class at clown college: "Hilarious Stances: How To Bend Your Body Seventeen Ways In One Pose." I hear her grades are also excellent in "Whimsical Footwear and You," and the all-important "Show Your Underwear Band 101."

She needs help with her costuming, though -- she looks a bit too much like the Artful Dodger all done up for a night on the town.

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Nothing says I Got Hammered At El Compadre Before My Book Signing And Thought It Would Be A Great Idea To Wear The Tablecloth In Case It Got Kinda Chilly At Book Soup like a radioactive stripey poncho.

See, this is just wrong:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb]

I could start out by noting that the proportions of this outfit are totally, totally off: the long shirt/cuffed jeans/short boots makes her look outrageously stumpy. But instead, I’ll note that each component of said Proportion Disaster is singularly awful. The tunic-length, lingerie-inspired, slip-thingie? No. There’s a way to wear that and this isn’t it. [The way to wear it, by the way, starts with deciding against cinching one of your grandmother’s Dacyron Demi-Slips from Sears and pretending it’s a fashion statement.] The jeans? Oh, honey. No. I get the cropped thing, but these look like they were rolled up because you were out mucking around in the garden and you didn’t want to sully the cuffs. They’re not even…well, even.

Let’s not speak of the boots, which shouldn’t ever even be paired with this outfit.

Frankly, I blame Mary Kate Olsen for all of this. Derelict-Chic is hard enough for her to pull off, and she’s riding high on the combined goodwill from New York Minute [admittedly, said goodwill comes only from me, and I have no defense for it, other than reminding everyone that said film does include a make-over at an establishment called House of Bling], and because she’s so skinny and sad. This aging little starlet, whomever she may be – I have already forgotten her name, in fact, although I think it might be Hilary Something Or Other – has no such cache to fall back on. So I wonder if she should try falling back on, you know, not dressing like a deranged cowgirl who’s been startled out of a deep sleep in the back corner of JC Penney’s Intimate’s section.

Every once in a while -- specifically, once -- we here at Go Fug Yourself HQ get a letter from a reader that we decide to post. Usually, we leave celebrity dirt to the geniuses over at Defamer, but with apologies to that sexy bitch, we can't resist posting this and we hope he holds back his white-hot rage until we've had a chance to slather on some sunscreen.

And now, we're going to make like Bai Ling and open the fug box to share it with anyone who cares to look.

I was at that Xbox party in LA last week and I am so excited you had not one, but two fugs there. I thought Ashlee was bad until: I was standing in the VIP area when an Asian girl with a bad wig and stripper sparkles all over her face walked in with an ex-frat guy slobbering all over her. ... I knew exactly who she was, though I must admit that I was thrown off a bit 'cause I could not see her vagina... her cheese-cloth-over-nipple ensemble was unmistakeable! Bai Ling was in the hizzie!

After the slobbering guy lifted the rope so Ms. Ling could scoot her cootie-ridden self into the VI-VIP area, a guard came over and blocked her entrance and said she could not go, because Wilmer Valderrama was there already. She tilted her head and squeaked, "I don't understand...?!?"

I think I may have actually sprayed my drink out my nose at her, I laughed so hard. 'Cause really... I don't understand, either.

We wish we could shed some light on what we hope is a burgeoning Ling-Valderrama feud -- perhaps she scares the bejeesus out of him; maybe she likes to sit on his lap, and he fears the fug is contagious -- but all we can do is speculate, and dream of the bitter dance-offs that we pray will still ensue the next time these two sparks are accidentally allowed to coexist under one roof.

We are as surprised as anyone when Bai Ling shows up somewhere looking, well, human. So we would be remiss not to throw her a bone for the following ensemble:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

See how easy it can be when you embrace things like fabric? Maybe Bai Ling went on a modesty kick after claiming she was cut out of Star Wars, Episode III: Revenge of the Sith because of her upcoming Playboy spread -- forgetting, of course, that we've already practically been there and seen that, and besides, in the words of Lucasfilm, "It was only one scene" that got sliced a year ago, and you probably did it all for the Wookiee, the Wookiee, anyway, so CRAM IT, Bai Ling.

Ah, but for every crest, there is a trough; for every sensible outfit, there is an insanity binge:

She looks like Little Ho Peep. Even Scarlett Johansson, who is wearing riding boots with those pants for God's sake, is all, "Fine, I'll pose, but if she asks me to help find her sheep, I'm gonna rip off that wig and slap her with it until she cries."

I love British celebrities. Specifically, the so-called glamour models like Jordan, who is Britain's sartorial equivalent to Lil' Kim -- proprietous, careful, not at all interested in giving us a living illustration of her birth canal:

She appears to be making some sort of maternity-as-straitjacket statement; that, or during her time on I'm A Celebrity..., she mastered the at of MacGyvering some clothes out of whatever you can steal from somebody else's tent.

It's lovely to see that being pregnant hasn't stopped Jordan from defaulting to "nearly naked." I think I can see the baby's head crowning. Get back inside, pal! You think it's scary up there? I've got news for you.

Anyone who's seen the most awesome Behind The Music ever made -- the one for Poison [although, frankly, all of the hair bands make for awesome Behind The Musics, what with all the people losing their arms in bus accidents and people waking up with needles in their arms and people violating innocent breakfast burritos] -- knows that CC Deville RULES when it comes to talking about his downward spiral of donuts and drugs.

I wonder what he would say, were he featured on Behind That Misguided Outfit:

I seem to recall him, on Behind the Music, working a sort of Hillary Clinton meets Doris Day pageboy bob, and in a way, it's comforting to see him -- what the hell am I talking about? Nothing about this is comforting! Look at the frighteningly orange face! He looks like a transient from the neck up. And the suit....sweet Santa on a sleigh ride, the suit! I get that he's, you know, a ROCKER and all that shit [although plaid equals punk to me, and CC Deville, although delightfully forthcoming about how his house of whores turned into a house of HORRORS and whatnot, is not really punk], but this outfit doesn't scream "ROCK AND ROLL" to me as much as it whispers, "I just escaped from a mental institution specializing in kicky restraints, and now I'm going to eat your face."

Ananda Lewis showed up to an event wearing this would-be Ugg replacement boot (if the Ugg would ever actually die):

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

We are certainly heartened to know that Mukluks are every bit as stupid-looking as we assumed they would be; we are also thorougly confused as to why the wearer's ankles would be rendered so chilly as to need their own additional fur wrap.

We would ask Ananda about this, but she's way too busy trying to figure out how and why her life took her to being first an executee on Celebrity Mole, then a correspondent on The Insider. If she and Mark McGrath would get together and procreate, their child would be born with career angst that breaks the scale.

Possibly realizing that his favorite daughter's angelic image was over the moment her leg went over Johnny Knoxville, quintessential creepy dad Joe Simpson apparently stopped forcing Other Daughter Ashlee to differentiate herself, and instead molded her back into a Jessica clone:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Cleavage? Check. Hearty, alarmingly orange "tan"? Check. Light hair in a bob? Check. Heavy eye makeup? Check. Ill-conceived clothes? Check, check, check, although Ashlee never had trouble with that one. (Unfortunately, singing sappy ballads is a bit out of her reach, as studies prove that whenever Ashlee holds a high note, the Earth's crust cracks, gas prices soar, and a kitten explodes. Ergo, Joe's going to have to make Ashlee brush up on her lip synching skills, which right now are about as polished as a junkyard Pinto.)

Maybe Joe is only trying to trick Johnny into knox-ing boots with this one instead of Jessica. That way, maybe the family cash cow will forced to consider returning to her starved marriage, thereby allowing Clan Simpson to milk her for a new show about about counseling and pre-nups.

The most important thing that happened at the Coachella music festival last weekend was not, in fact, the bands' performances, or the fact that I got through it without a sunburn. No, the most culturally significant event of the weekend was captured on camera by none other than the ingenious Uncle Grambo over at Whatevs.org:

What you see above is not an uncomfortable moment in which a homeless guy hits on the girl with tightest hot pants he can see. Nor is this a girl smilingly offering to help pick the ticks out of a grown man's beard. In fact, as documented by our favorite uncle, this is a stirring, beautiful reunion between public blower and blowee -- yes, The Brown Bunny's Chloe Sevigny and Vincent Gallo.

We are heartened to see Ms. Fugigny is still clinging to her blindingly white Ray Bans, while simultaneously proving to the world that a) high-waisted pants are the spawn of Satan's sewing machine, and b) there is such a thing as too tight and too short. And we are frightened to see that nobody has shorn Mr. Gallo, but given how nasty he always looks from the neck up, we trust that somebody in Security at the very least turned a hose on him, mistakenly -- or not -- taking him for a ticketless vagrant.

The only thing that would've made this better would be if their happy hug had been followed by a nostalgic tromboner recital. But then, our retinas can't take that kind of scorching, and we don't think his wang has a spit valve, so it's just as well.

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

"What up. y'all? I'm gonna be an aunt! Auntie Jamie-Lynn! I'm so excited for the little one -- Britney tells me that I can't wait to babysit, especially because Mama Lynne stopped talking to her the other day for five hours when she caught sis practicing making a bottle of powdered formula, but with Red Bull instead of water. But it's okay -- Mama Lynne has such nice thick hair, she didn't need that clump of it anyway.

"But I do wish she'd stop making me wear these weird things. Ever since the pregnancy announcement, she's been trying to do this weird, like, voodoo stuff, y'all. Like when Mama made me this loincloth out of two old placements Britney used to line Bit-Bit's puppy carrier -- she told me it was blessed with a spermicidal aura that would protect my womb from the poisonous sperm of dumpster maggots. I don't really know what she was talking about, but when I tried to take it off, she ran after me with a nail gun. I think I pulled a muscle in my back, so I can't really stand up straight, y'all, but that's okay, because Kevin said humpbacks are sexy. At least I think that's what he said. He was sort of laughing through a mouthful of Funyuns at the time."

With this dress, Jennifer Connelly was well on the road to stylishness... until the roadkill:

And I mean that literally. I think... yes, is that a flattened pigeon? Poor thing must've zoomed right into her chest. Never stood a chance.

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Anyone whose fashion sense is a rip-off of Jessica Simpson, the emaciated Olsen, and a 1987 high school yearbook needs an intervention.

Am I alone in wishing Camilla Parker-Bowles had chosen this for her royal wedding? The Queen would have fainted:

This foretells a glorious trend of Ad Space Couture -- the Gala Event equivalent of hiring a plane to fly over a football field with a banner. Picture it: Karolina Kurkova showing up at the daytime Emmys in a dress that says, "Hi Mom in Omaha! Love, Joe-Bob." Or at a Broadway opening wearing a cape in which Frank begs Martha, "Please keep it! We can get married!"

Or, better, at the Oscars, with a shimmering train made out of a satin down comforter similar to the one she's wearing now; one that reads, "We Hate What You're Wearing." Divine.

I love Marcia Cross so very much. The blackmail! The baby-stealing! The multiple personalities! The framing Sidney for framing Jane for running Michael over with a car! The wig-ripping, my God, the wig-ripping! And that's just Melrose Place.

So this really hurts me:

Marcia, Marcia, Marcia. Why would you pull back your hair like that? You have such beautiful hair. Hair that I covet - so red, so shiny, so willing to be ripped off your head after a night of wild sex with your charming asshole doctor husband, whom you - let's be honest - would really like to see dead, although you would settle for getting him disbarred and taking all his money.

And Marcia! Marcia, Marcia. The dress. It's so frumpy. It's so unflattering. The colors wash you out so very much. The length, it is so weird. Would Bree Van De Kamp wear something so muddled and poorly cut and lacking in bright colors and/or argyle? No. Would Dr. Kimberly Shaw wear something that made her recede into the background so severely? Never. Unless she were hiding the bushes in front of Dr Michael Mancini's beach house before dragging his unconscious body from the bedroom and into the garage to be asphyxiated by carbon monoxide, of course, but that would be purely for strategic reasons. Why are you doing this to yourself?

Please don't let this happen again. You rock. And you could ruin me by either blowing up my apartment building or somehow finagling a way to get me admitted to a mental institution to give me an unauthorized lobotomy, so I really don't want to get on your bad side. Can we please return to our regular scheduled Marcia Cross Love Fest now? Thank you.

To my beloved amigos on The Block,

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Hola, my sweet bestest friends! Yes, you! From The Block! You know who you are! [And that is good, because my manager doesn't remember, and if he doesn't know, I don't fucking know and it means you haven't written me fan mail, which is only because you don't have the address, no?] [But, you can't have my address.]

Anyway, I just wanted to say hello, in case you miss me checking in with you. It has been so long! I have been through so many songs I wrote myself, and borrowed diamonds, and handbags, and phases -- currently, I am in the modest phase, can you not see? Of course you can't see... my ass! Ha ha ha! I have also been such a joker. Marc always says that he is sure that I am funny. He also says that I have never been more fascinating, now that all I do is walk around behind him and smile, and talk about babies and throw darts at photos of that Britney. Marc says I look so much nicer when I am letting him lead me and I am staring at the floor.

But this photo, this one is for you, to show you that J.Mo -- my modest side! -- is in full effect and is incredible. I am in my prime. I am satin! I am pleated! I am wearing sleeves that could eat The Block! There is more fabric in this dress than in the sum of what I used to wear in a year. I'm so into fabric! Fabric is the new naked! Marc told me, the last time we lay next to each other in the bed, that when I am lying there hidden by white satin sheets, I look like an angel. And so I took my sheets and I sewed and I strung and I made myself a dress that I can also use as a slipcover when I am on tour! I look like a goddess! I am a muse, and I have inspired millions! Look, I just inspired Marc to eat some cashew nuts -- you don't know how hard that is; he doesn't like to eat between skipping meals -- and a P.A. on the set of my new movie told me that I inspired her to become an acting coach! I am changing lives! These sleeves, the ones your lovers could fit in -- and they want to! --  have tricks up them.

And yet, I just... I have been pensive lately, see. Don't you see? Look at my face. I am pouty. And my Marc, he always says I look drunk when I pout, so I try only to pout when I am acting in a movie and the script says that my character is drunk, or sad, or brokenhearted, or relieved, or confused, or secretly happy, or outwardly joyful, or laughing. Yet here, I pout. Why? Because you never call. You never write. I write. Oh yes. I wrote a whole song for you to let you know that even though I'm on Oprah and I'm rich enough to buy The Block -- ten times! Twenty! -- I still really know where I came from, and you can tell by the number of times I say "block" and "Bronx" and by the way I now live in Miami (that is code for "block," friends!). And by the fact that I married a skeleton with a mullet. Aside from the fact that we are madly, desperately in love, and we sing songs and stroke each other, my Marc is a symbol of our passion, preciosos! He IS The Block: Hard, sharp corners, small enough to walk over about a million times a day. When I make sweet, passionate like with Marc, it is like I am liking each one of you! Five minutes a day!

I do all this for you, and it's been years now, and nada. None of you ever come to visit or come to my premieres. No, you leave me to hang out with my rich friends and my cowhide husband, shitting on gardenias and carrying handbags and wearing enormous satin sleeves -- all without anyone around to envy me! Who am I if no one wants to be me? Why, then I'm no better than America's Other Sweetheart, Meg Ryan, and... dios mio, I don't want to talk about that!

Anyway, I have to go, all this pouting is making me want to go stand a few feet behind my husband. But one last time -- behold me in all my Casper-inspired glory, so that I can haunt your dreams like the fashionable ghost of love that I am!

Besos,
Mrs. Jennifer Lopez Noa Judd Anthony

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

I fear the top of actress/producer Julia Verdin's dress was gnawed off by whatever it is that attacked the bottom. As for the rest... well, she's on her own. But that thing around her waist is either the world's largest merit badge, or the World Embroidery Championships' title belt. Because it sure as hell doesn't belong attached to a metallic-silver bra and a BeDazzled skirt.

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Okay, Gwen. Let's talk for a sec.

This isn't the first time you've pulled this one out of the trunk in your attic, but it should be the last. Now, I don't hate the blazer. I don't hate the shoes. And I might have been able to overlook how tiny that swatch of cowhide covering your crotch is, or the strange, clashing pattern of the oddly chosen ascot around your neck, were it not for the leggings.

The leggings, Gwen. The LEGGINGS. Please fight them. It seems like you're battling through the Harajuku obsession; please don't give up now. It's too important. We, the people, need your strength now more than ever.

Oksana Baiul: Former figure skater, current figure hater:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

These two fabrics look like they are at war with each other, drawing battle lines across her hips that do unflattering things to her body. But it's the overall effect of the cut of the dress that ooks me out the most. She looks like a mermaid bride.

What are all y'all looking at?

Haven't y'all ever seen a pregnant lady wear a tablecloth to the video store? Jeez.

If you give Randy Quaid five bucks, he'll read your palm:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

You know, I find that not enough men take ownership of maternity smocks. So well done, Randy. Well done. (For an extra $5, do you do Tarot?)