July 2005 Archives

This cover is mind-bogglingly unattractive:

It is fug on a Peldon-shaped platter. It is the festering volcanic pustule on the chin of the Fugtown Express's oily conductor. I do know that it's hard to compete with cover lines of such stunning genius as "My Designer Vagina Transformed My Sex Life," and "Leeches Stopped My Nipple From Falling Off." Really, I sympathize with Fergie, because outshining those gems is an uphill battle. But the fact remains that, if this photo is to be believed, Fergie needs to stop worrying about her heart so much and start phunking with her estrogen levels.

I don't know what Juliette Anarino does for a living, but she is running an extremely impressive campaign to unseat Courtney Peldon for the title of Queen of All Fug. To wit:

My.

Good.

Lord.

It's like she mugged Siegfried and/or Roy on the way home from a Lara Croft convention. If this is her opening salvo in the Race to Outfug La Peldon, I can not wait to see what her next step is. A suit of armor? A skirt made of bagels, lashed together with dental floss? Manpris?

If so, play on, Random Girl. PLAY ON.

We're officially issuing an All Points Bulletin for whomever is responsible for the crimes perpetrated against Jessica Lange's face:

Sweet cracker sandwich. The woman is only 56 years old. Do you know who is the exact same age? Susan Motherf'ing Sarandon.

Compare and contrast, if you will:

[Photo by Daily Celeb.]

What bugs me like a flea pancake -- aside from the strange latchkey hanging from her belt loop -- is the number of necklaces ringing her nape, one of which is so long that it swings down between her thighs. I feel like she looked in the mirror and said, "What would make this outfit rock and roll? ... Of course! Unexplained jewelry!" She's not the worst perpetrator of this trend (see: Duff, Hilary and Other One, circa last fall), but she's still going overboard. The necklaces are to her outfit what Paula Abdul is to American Idol: Unnecessary, off-putting, and generally only confusing the issue with needless hoo-ha.

Now, I know that working for an exciting, youthful network like CBS must feel like 24/7 Mardi Gras, but... it's not, so leave the beads to your former Wild On flashers, Brooke. To paraphrase the exit line from Rock Star: It's just not right to wear necklaces in excess.

I know most people don't know Pauley Perette, because -- to their credit -- none of them watched her in the Jennifer Love Hewitt mistake Time Of Your Life, and really, let's be honest here, nobody you know watches her in that JAG spinoff, either, no matter how well it's doing in the ratings. And if you did happen to catch her two-episode stint on Dawson's Creek as The Beek's therapist, you likely didn't get a good look at her face because you were so busy praying that she'd go literal for one second and actually shrink his head.

So, all that non-recognition just makes it more awkward when she shows up in a t-shirt with her name stamped on it:

[Photo by Daily Celeb.]

Making yourself into a walking ID badge at a media event... well, that's just a tiny bit misguided, don't you think? This doesn't say, "I'm in a cool bowling league when I'm not wowing you in that show I'm on -- you know, that show on CBS," nor is her name up there in a quaint "This is my old shirt from my days as a Sandwich Artist and I'm wearing it to prove that I remember my roots" kind of way. This is not a subtle, careless emblazoning. This is a billboard. And, at a network shindig pimping the new fall shows, it's also basically an embarrassing memory-aid. One thing I will credit Courtney Peldon with: When she shows up at an event at which she seems bizarrely out of place, she at least acts like everyone should know who she is and why she's there. She sells it. Pauley Perrette, I fear, looks like she is wearing a homemade cheat sheet.

Maybe there's another explanation. Perhaps she is an ardent fan of Jane Pauley, and is wearing this as part of a global fan-club effort to revive her cancelled talk show/reliable hour of naptime on the couch. Or, maybe she's a Pauly Shore devotee who can't spell. Or, and I think we've hit on it here, mayhap she simply worships the eerily skilled portrayal of "Pilot" by actress Jess Pauley in the hit film Stuff Stephanie In The Incinerator.

Because otherwise, she's just That Actress Who Wore Her Name On Her Shirt At TCAs, Assuming (Correctly) That We Wouldn't Remember Who She Is Or Why She's Invited, and that's sort of a depressing label.

Melissa Reeves, who plays Jennifer on Days of Our Lives, is not, as you might glean from her caftan, a dues-paying member of the AARP:

[Photo: BauerGriffinOnline.com]

Reasons to wear a caftan:

1. nice and cool
2. deliciously non-binding
3. you are in possession of a lanai
4. your name is Endora and you can apparate at will

Reasons to forgo said 'tan:

1. not super-flattering
2. seems a bit "pool party" for the red carpet
3. slightly elderly
4. the cut can make it look as though what you are actually wearing is the dreaded pants-caftan [AKA, the "pantstan"], one of humanity's most horrendous sartorial missteps.

I feel that the cons outweigh the pros, but who am I to judge? Maybe she picked this up when her character on Days was stuck on that mysterious fake desert island for like six months and just fell in love? Can I stand in the way of love that blooms on a mysterious fake desert island? I think we all know the answer to that.

I mean, on one hand, I'm thrilled she's wearing clothes. You shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, right?

But the horse is just so ugly:

One sleeve! Crazy boots! A formal shorts set that appears to be courtesy of my grandma's kitchen curtains! And, of course, a bright red purse and a bright yellow cap. Of course.

I dunno. I kinda liked her better naked. At least everything was coordinated.

Molly Stanton, you might have landed a plum role on a sure to be disasterous new WB sitcom, but to me, you will always be Charity from Passions.  Dull, anemic, whiny, mealymouthed, virginal, semi-magical-but-not-in-the-fun-way Charity.

And the outfit you wore to the WB's TCA party is not really making me sit up and take you seriously as...well, as anything, really:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

What are you wearing, and why is it so weirdly nautical? And also low-cut? And also wrinkled? And...are those appliques? Are you serious? Are they supposed to be approximating...nipples? Seriously, I know she's playing your mother on this new show and all, but are you taking fashion advice from Melanie Griffith? Because maybe you're new, but she crazy.

No one was a bigger fan of  America's Next Top Model's sweet little Kahlen than I was.  So cute! So sweet! So emotional! So forced to struggle through week after week with a molting weave leaking handfuls of hair onto her pillow.

And yet.

This is just not working. Everything about this outfit conspires to make her look short. Even her unfortunate Ryan From The OC Meets Sandy's Trampy Outfit From the Final Scene in Grease shirt makes her look stumpy. And the kid is tall, so that's quite a feat for her SHIRT to make her look short. She's all cut off at the shoulders.

Then she's all cut off at the belt. Which is fine, actually, in theory, except for the part where she seems to have placed the buckle not in the center of her waist, but over her left hip, and are the kids doing that these days? Because that's okay, I guess, I just wish someone would have let me know.

And then, we have the jeans. Oh, Kahlen. Sweetpea.  I know you are tall. But those jeans have been let out within an inch of their hemmed little lives and they don't make you look like you're wearing jeans that fit. They make you look like you're wearing pants that are too short for you. I know the tall girls have issues with finding pants that are appropriately long, but I feel like this is an area wherein Miss Tyra could give you some guidance. Call on Miss Tyra! Miss Tyra lives to help people, either with their interpersonal and familial issues, or their eating disorders, or their cutting, or their homelessness, or their pants.  You've got that phone number, kiddo. Use it.

[Photo by Daily Celeb.]

J.Lo.Hew clearly wanted to look like a princess to herald her return to network television -- this photo was taken at a CBS shindig -- but instead she looks like she's wearing a child's art project: A cardboard bodice covered in crepe paper. The crease at the waist and the unflattering way it creeps past her hips are particularly notable for the unflattering spare-tire effect they achieve, while the top seems to mask and flatten the breasts she once couldn't stop yapping about; perhaps she simply felt vengeful because people remember them before they can recall anything she's contributed to society.

Either way: Her hair looks great, but from the neck down, she needs to do some serious mirror checks before leaving her lair.

The other day, someone asked Jessica and me to list a couple really bad, terrible trends; immediately we both said, "Well, dresses over pants, obviously... but that one's kind of old now and I think we're past it."

This will teach us to be such unbridled optimists:

[Photo by Daily Celeb.]

Let's take stock. Color: Fantastic. Dress: Lovely. Cut: Flattering. Breasts: A little frightening, actually, now that you mention it, but the dress fits them and she's not flopping around like a dying fish, so that's a plus. And yet, it all falls apart, because under her outfit she's wearing spotted, shredded denim.

Why would Nona Gaye buy a perfectly lovely dress that could stand on its own, and then throw it on over the weekend jeans she was wearing while she painted her living room?  WHY, Nona? I feel like I'm banging my head against the wall here. Are people really still doing this? Are we going to have to sit through another season of frocks over pants? Must we keep fumbling for an explanation of why, for the love of GOD, why, somebody came up with the idea to throw on a pair of jeans under her Shelli Segal?  How many red carpets must a trouser-dress combo walk down before you can call it a dead fad?

Help me understand, because if we're staring down the barrel of photo after photo after photo of this trend, again, then I'm going to need some wisdom and strength. And a bottle of shiraz.

Ever topical and timely, our pretty little Princess Peldon has reappeared on the scene:

:

There's one of two things happening here. By wrapping herself solely in Von Dutch, La Peldon is either: (A) desperately trying to attract the attention of A-Kutch, in the hopes that she can convince him to leave Demi Moore for a younger, dimmer bulb, or (B) she is laboring under the delusion that it is still 2003. If it is the latter, I wonder what else she's doing that the rest of us have long since abandoned? Is she still trying to decide how she feels about John Kerry? Is she breathlessly wondering why Simon Cowell is so darn mean? Is she listening to a lot of  Chingy? Is she sadly showing up to the long-destroyed set of Boston Public, carrying a frayed script, and wandering around aimlessly for hours looking for David E. Kelley?  If so, can she thank him for sort of falling off the face of the earth for me? Thanks.

Somebody must really hate Scarlett Johansson:

Don't get me wrong -- this person clearly isn't enamored of Ewan McGregor, either, because it's not his best showing. He looks like an orderly who is really not that thrilled about having to clean your bedpan, because he just had to give Old Woman McGillicuddy a sponge bath and it was nearly the putrid death of him, but he's going to breathe through his mouth the whole time and smile, by gum, because it's his job not to be disgusted by other people's waste matter.

But this photo of Scarlett Johansson makes her look like a stoned ogre. Her eyes seem to veer off in different directions. Her facial expression is stiff and forced. And it's the worst angle on her nose. Can this really have been the best frame of the lot? Or was someone with a ScarJo vendetta going through the proofs? Is this really the type of cover art that would make everyone at the magazine say, "Yes. We have done it. This is the one," if they didn't secretly hate ScarJo with every fiber of their beings?  Has EW hired Soon-Yi? Are the Scientologists getting revenge against her for turning down the Tom Cruise contract -- er, I mean, for not being alluring enough that he would fall in love with her on-sight?

I certainly hope, for The Island's sake, that the sexy side of sci-fi it purports to reveal is not properly illustrated by this cover. They have as much chemistry as hand soap and pudding. She looks like she is refusing to touch him; he looks like he just realized he forgot to Lysol her belly before putting his hand on it, but he's gritting his teeth and bearing it for the time being. Who at Entertainment Weekly is having such bad sex lately that this is their idea of erotic titillation? Soon-Yi, is it you again? Have you become a photo terrorist?

Adding insult to injury is the shot of Peeping Johnny on the top right corner, all Wonkafied and Wintour-esque.

I just don't understand. If I didn't subscribe, I wouldn't buy this issue -- as it was, it arrived unbidden, so I had to see it sitting on my coffee table without having been sufficiently prepped for the horror. The resulting yawp was one of terror and betrayal.

My only consolation comes in imagining that Ewan and Scarlett's twee rubber bracelets are actually stamped with a slogan that encourages people to stop buying twee rubber bracelets.

I think Jessica Simpson is getting gymorexic on us:

Lady J.Simp is sculpting herself a nice little masculine face and tree-trunk neck, topped by some shoulders that show the beginnings of some butch muscle striation. She looks like she's reinventing herself as a thug female Eminem. I'd hate to run into her in a dark alley -- although maybe that's because I would hate to run into her in general. She's exercising her features into stark, pointy, horsy relief, and it's beginning to alarm me.

I'm not even sure I want to talk about the cutoffs.

Except, I do. I get wearing your husband's (or Knoxville's? Or... her father's? No... no, I don't want to think about that) sweater. Or his boxers. Or his t-shirts. But, making cutoffs out of his jeans? No. Sorry, J.Simp -- no. I know no one who does that. Not even if they're missing the pant-wearer, yearning to relive the glories of illicit Louisiana nights. If she wants ratty culottes that badly, she should just hop on eBay and make it happen. Or, hell, call up Old Navy -- I'm sure someone from the braintrust over there is eager to follow up the Boho Reek craze by reintroducing the Bermuda short's billowy cousin.

However, I'd prefer that she can it altogether; if she doesn't, then Ashlee will start up with this, because she does everything Jessica does, and then we'll hit a fugly slippery slope.

At first, I thought these were bike shorts, and was concerned that Jennifer Finnegan had -- in a fit of Tour de Lance inspired moxie -- cycled to this CBS party:

[Photo by Daily Celeb.]

Then I realized that, no, they are not bike shorts -- they're just ugly shorts, and Ms. Finnigan has simply been gripped by the Formal Short Fever whose sweaty delirium has so relentlessly imprisoned the celebrity world. I mean, she looks utterly silly. From a distance it's as if her evening gown got all tucked up into her Spanx.

Aw, cheer up, Kelly:

Somebody can fix that overgrown Franciscan bowl cut you're sporting.

Unless it's a wig, in which case, it's your own fault you look like the Goth embodiment of a circumcized penis.

Well.

I'm out. Blu Cantrell broke me.

I thought this was Mena Suvari at first:

But no, it's just Stephanie Seymour, ostensibly trying to make up for showing her assets to the world by wearing a full-coverage outfit -- which I appreciate, truly, except that she's chosen a billowing skirt and shirt that are both clashing and shapeless. Paisley is a very bold, compassionless thing that should not be taken lightly -- and certainly not with a skirt of competing busyness that sort of looks like a domestic accident. It's like my mother never used to say: You can have your child spill his or her watercolors all over a tablecloth and call it couture, but really, it's still a tablecloth.

Here's the thing. I just don't get Sienna Miller. I don't. I know she's supposed to be this Charming Boho Princess, and we're all supposed to admire her and love her and want to emulate her and dress in similarly sloppy boho-ian outfits, complete with, like boots stolen from a sherpa or something, and sure, I know she's boning Jude Law, and good for her, because he's hot, despite the fact that he's been dressing like a shipwrecked maitre d' lately.

But come on:

Are you kidding me? Even the woman behind her is all, "I'm wearing culottes, and I look better than she does." This outfit is not okay.  This outfit is, like, living in a yurt on the outskirts of the Siberia of okay.

Why is everything she's wearing all chopped up? Is this -- perish the thought -- Federline-chic making its way across the pond? Was she watching Chaotic one night and suddenly thought to herself, "damn, those manpris are HOT. I suddenly feel the need to saw the hems off everything I own!"  Is there no end to the horror that El Federlino hath wrought? Can't we stop the madness?

K Cla, K Cla, K Cla.

I don't know how many times I have to say it.

I love you and all. But this has GOT TO STOP. A shirt that you thread through your belt loops? No. Just no. First of all, I can't imagine how difficult it is to get in and out of the bathroom in this get-up, but I suspect it puts the old Overalls and Body Suit [Winner of both the Toughest Bathroom Outfit Award of 1993 AND the Toughest Bathroom Outfit of All Time] to shame.

But let's just say that, since it's your concert, you can take as much time to pee as you like.  Do you not care that, with the gloves and the jacket, you look like Stevie Nicks from the breastbone up, and with the....other stuff.....you look like Xina from the breastbone down? Those, unlike peanut butter and chocolate, are not two great tastes that go great together. Your outfit is more like gefilte fish and caramel: two tastes that need to be kept as far away from each other as possible. Possibly with judicious use of a restraining order.

Seriously. I mean it when I say that I love you. But there are some things that our love can not endure, and your crazy-ass concert ensembles are on that list, right after "allegedly slept with Justin Guarini." Please fire your stylist, and then I can go back to thinking about how much fun we'd have trying on jeans at the mall and talking about stupid boys and then going out to the local pub and getting really trashed on Pabst and stumbling home to watch selected scenes from Annie and then waking up in a dried pool of our own spittle the next morning, worried about the Guarini-related drunk dials we may or may not have made at some point in the Pabst-drinking. Because it generally seems like you're adorably normal and thus should not be cavorting about in anything that smells of Dominatrix. Okay?

Good.

Mother Gastineau presents her Tribute to Tissue at the Wedding Crashers premiere:

I guess she's providing a service: if anyone at the premiere was moved by the wedding scenes in the movie, they could just reach over to her and blow.

Keira Knightley was pissed. Even some serious retail therapy couldn't make her feel better about failing to nab that coveted role in the Cyndi Lauper biopic.

Fergie is going to be the greatest little man-bride ever when she marries Josh Duhamel:

[Photo courtesy of Zap2it.com.]

Poor hot Josh. He could do so much better. For instance, he could be dating somebody who doesn't SCARE THE BEJEESUS OUT OF ME with her dead eyes and her shiny abdomen and her habit of wearing outfits that look like the rugby uniforms at some all-girls Catholic school in Beverly Hills.

On the plus side, I cannot wait to see what she dons for the wedding. I can only dream that the "something borrowed" will be on loan from someone equally challenged, like Gwen Stefani, a Peldon, or Mary-Kate "Dereliiiiiicte" Olsen.

Depp, you're killing me.

[Photo by Daily Celeb.]

I know we've discussed the fact that your facial hair is for the Pirates of the Carribbean movies, so I won't beg you to shave. But I will ask you to stop hiding your light underneath some sort of bad-P.I. leisure suit. You look like you'd contentedly hide in someone's dumpster in order to get proof that somebody is secretly bonking the chiropractor.

And all of this is ever-harder to digest while you are standing in front of a poster of yourself in quite possibly the most repellant costume and makeup job you've endured in recent memory. Seriously, if death is not an option, I'll take Ed Scissorhands.

You know what you need, Depp? Vanity. Spruce yourself up, pal. I know it's supposed to be all admirable that you eschew Hollywood's many shallows, and that you don't even suffer living in this town because you are So Above All That. But Johnny, let me level with you: You still star in movies. You still show up at premieres and awards shows. You are still a cog in the Tinseltown machine, even if you insist on living in France and never taking care of your hair. So why not embrace it with some nicely tailored clothes?

Come back down to our level a tad and pretty yourself back up. Be vain. Trade in your high horse for a small pony: You can still sit up there and enjoy the view, but you're close enough to our level that we can see your pretty face.

Oh my God, Samaire Armstrong, what happened to your scalp?

Remember how, in Rosemary's Baby, she ran out one day and went to Vidal Sassoon and got all her hair chopped off, and everyone was sort of feh about it, and kept telling her she looked like a boy and the truth was that her hair was kind of totally great, but she just looked like hell because she was carrying the Child of Satan in her uterus and was thus in great psychic AND physical pain? Yeah, you look like that. Except without the "kind of totally great part."

Girl, you need some more hair.

[Photo by Daily Celeb.]

This photo is amusing to me for two reasons:

1) The fact that little Muniz in the Middle is trying to look edgy and funkified... with a t-shirt that reads, "The Bearded Goon II: Son of the Goon." That is doubly amusing when you can see the stubble on his face trying oh-so-hard to shove itself out of a follicle, and failing. Poor Malcolm. I think "goon" is the wrong four-letter G-word for him.

2) The fact that Frankie has with him a date who looks 35 on a good day, has a whiff of "works with my father" or "I'm bringing my cousin to the prom" about her, and is wearing a shirt -- or possibly a dress, I suppose -- that both sends my eyes into seizures and recalls her grandmother's old kitchen curtains.

What is going on with the generally delectable Mr Jude Law here?

He looks like he mugged a gay pirate maitre'd.

Hilary Duff takes her campaign for the leading role in the rumored remake of Angel: High School Honor Student by Day, Hollywood Hooker by Night to a whole new level:

Yo, bitches. K-Fizzle here.

I just snuck out of the house to pick up some shit at the mini-mart while Whatshername is home sticking Oreos in our new deep-fryer. [Dude, that's not a eupha...eupharm...something clean you say when you mean something dirty. Seriously, it's like she's sticking something into that deep fryer all damn day long. Something about craving something and batter being good for the baby? Whatever. I don't know. All I know is how good my baby batter is. AW YEAHS, BITCHES, I SAID IT. Heh.  Heh. Dude, after my record drops I am totally going to get a gig at the Stand-Up Club or whatever that place Pauly Shore runs is called, because I TOTALLY CRACK MY SHIT UP.]

Yeah, anyway, I just ran out to get some water and some Cheetos and some beef jerky and some ice cream sandwiches and a couple of Twinkies and then I had to run by my dealer's house because B said she didn't want him to deliver my shit anymore because he was "a bad influence on the baby," or some shit, and then I was like, (a) the baby isn't even OUT yet, (2) it's not like he was a bad influence on all those other kids I have, I'm pretty sure, but then she said some BULLSHIT about not paying for it anymore and then, dude, I swear to God, she reached for my hand and TRIED TO PUT IT IN THE DEEP FRYER and, man, HORMONES, dude, dial it DOWN. So I ran out to give her some time to chill. She has been seriously so crabby ever since she caught me going through the safe.

Anyway, I'm trying and shit. I feel like I should at least try and stick it out for the kid, for a little while. And because she's been whining about my shoes for like the last SIX MONTHS, like, I will tie my shoes if I FEEL LIKE IT, bitch, I finally decided to shut her up and got a new pair. Check it:

Stylish AND functional, right? I love how it makes it look like I've got camel toe ON MY FEET. Heh. God, that's weird. It's like I'm a woman from the ankle down. Well, two women. Who have five legs inside their pants....well, three legs in one pant leg and two in....because of my actual toes...shit, now my head hurts.  Analogies or whatever are fucking hard. But look how clean my socks are! Right out of the plastic bag, bitches. Ain't nothing too good for me now. As long as I can find my dealer's house and Her Majesty don't stick the manpris in the deep fryer, nothing can touch me, you know?

Peace izzle,

K-Fed

Some of you may know July 1 as Canada Day. Others may celebrate it as the beginning of the Battle of Gettysburg, or as the joyous day that both Princess Diana and Alan Ruck's mothers screamed in pain as a baby shot out of their birth canals, thus giving the world both a future princess to stalk and Cameron Frye. Others may never be able to think of July 1 without choking on frothy, suffocating rage at the unjust 1948 New York City subway fare hike (a whole DIME to ride? INCONCEIVABLE -- we are still fuming).

But at GFY headquarters, the date July 1 lives in infamy for another reason entirely: It's the day we plopped out of the snuggly confines of the offline world and were promptly abandoned -- weeping, cold, and swaddled in rags -- on the steps of the massive depression-era orphanage that is the Internet. There, we would, and do, sit on windowsills singing, with the occasional choreographed dance number to lessen the monotony of waiting for Daddy Warbucks to come and buy us an office with cable and free Diet Coke.

Yes, it's our birthday. Go Fug Yourself turns one today, meaning we've spent a full 365 days of our lives gurgling, crawling, spitting up, attempting solid foods, and finding our shaky legs -- all in the name of begging famous people to wear bras, hem their pants, use mirrors, and replace all their rotten, lying peeps.

In honor of our milestone, we thought we'd take a short look at GFY by the numbers, just to try and quantify what exactly A Year In The Life means to this blog.

Number of entries: 591

Number of those entries that you can't see, because we haven't found clean images: 121

Number of times we have cursed that whole issue: Approximately 1 bajillion

Number of entries featuring the word "Peldon": 24

Number of allusions to Annie: 11

Number of allusions to The Golden Girls: 8

Number of times people have asked us if we are gay men: 21

Number of times they refused to believe us when we told them we are not: 7

Number of mentions of the word "bloat": 15

Number of references to nausea or vomiting: 6

Number of times we have been accused of being fat and ugly and jealous: too many to count

Number of times we've cried ourselves to sleep with twinkies hanging out of our fat pig mouths: 47... wait, 48.

Number of people who don't get that we're trying to HELP Britney: 5,782

Number of times an outfit has forced us to lie down: 4, although we're sure that's just because we only mention it judiciously

Number of uses of the word "deranged": 13

Number of uses of the word "lovely": 21 (And you said we were evil!)

Number of references to blindness or scorched retinas: 25

Number of celebs we have seen wearing our t-shirt: 22

Number of celebrities we actually like: More than you think

Number of celebrities we would not fug, simply because we like them: Zero, bitches!

Number of times we have lied about seeing celebs wearing our t-shirt: 1

Amount of time off we are taking as a summer vacation: One week

Amount of pleasure we derive from having found all you other delicious bitches to keep us company: Infinite.

Generally, I have been willing to suffer through a lot of what Alicia Keys does lately, simply because I'm so grateful that she has stopped glueing an entire Michael's shelf of glitter to her eyelids.

But...

[Photo by Daily Celeb.]

In addition to being the kind of pants I feel like a guy designed because he figured, hey, chicks probably like ribbons -- when actually, those hanging bow tails bumping up against my ankles would be akin to water torture -- I also feel the need to point out the obvious: Those are some snug capris. Judging by the creases of strain across her groin, her crotch would really like to bust out of that prison.

But an even bigger problem than the pants is that shirt. Not only does it offer an unflattering view of her stomach and corset-bra, but it appears to be throttling her.

Cute shoes, though. It has to be said.

At first glance, this photo just looks like Paris Hilton is taking the gardener to the prom:

But then you look closer, and you realize you are stepping into a really vapid vortex of self-obsession:

Sweet LORD, Man-Paris, get a grip. Why are you wearing that out in public? When you're WITH her? I'm happy you're proud of her, and that you think her bod is bodacious, but save it for a time when she's not standing next to you in some kind of bizarre before-and-after tableau. Perhaps Girl-Paris is actually in the act hustling him out of a party, because she is, like, a totally hott businesswoman now, and the only way partial nudity will make people take her seriously is if she's slobbering all over a hamburger.

Courtney Love is, like, SOTALLY TOBER.

[Photo: WENN]

She looks good from her waist to her neck -- that blue is gorgeous on her -- but everything else is just a hot mess. The weird-ass, poorly-cuffed, jeans? The overly-pumped-up trout pout? What appears to be Joan Crawford's bed jacket tied around her waist? I'm begining to feel like I'm stuck in the middle of Whatever Happened to Baby Courtney?.