November 2006 Archives

J.Lo.Hew is sort of growing on me lately, in part because I cannot get enough of her spectacular hair and eyelashes on The Ghost Whisperer, and in part because she's dating sweet, sweet Liebgott from Band of Brothers (whom I accidentally killed in one of my old recaps; I spent the rest of the 10-episode run feeling really guilty about it because not only was he alive, but in fact he was rather helpful at times).

Mostly, though, I have affection for her because I appreciate a girl who's not afraid to have curves. She's healthy-looking, and a little naturally bodacious back-and-rack could do a lot of starlets in this town some real good; also, J.Lo.Hew has never once made me to want to go find her mother, knock on her door, and give her what-for about her daughter's dangerous habits and lost youth. I'm sure her mother appreciates that as well.

However...

I do wish she would learn to CLOTHE her curves properly. More often than not, she's wearing something that makes her boobs look saggy -- or, here, all over the place; between what is spilling out of the bodice up top and how low it seems to be holding everything else, I can't figure out what's happening to her poor chest. The criss-crossing at her waist spreads just low enough that it's making her look like a spangly brocade pear. Unfairly, I would wager. What's more, the cut of the dress hits her calves at their thickest point, and the ankle strap on her shoes is having a slight cankle effect on them.

The whole thing is one big miss, and that's a shame, because she can rock what she's got and a lot of the time she just... doesn't. So snap to it, fair Liebgott. I mean it -- start snapping photos before she leaves the house, to show her what she'll look like on the red carpet. Don't make me ask you twice.

"Just stay cool, Diaz. Keep it together. I know Justin SWORE that it's not Britney who's been sending me those threatening letters with the words spelled out in magazine and newspaper clippings, which are signed, 'Luv, Britney,'with a little heart dotting the 'i', but I still think it might be her... He said she's not that dumb, but dude, has he SEEN her lately? She's practically writing her own Dumber and Dumbest movie with that Hilton chick, and I'm sorry, but she is NOT the type of person who can eat anything she wants and stay thin, which we all know I am, because any profile written about me between about 1999 and 2004 mentioned that, in addition to how often I like to belch. So he's better off without her and if she wants him back -- how did the letter put it? "I'M GOING TO HIT THAT, BOY-NAME, INFINITY MORE TIMES" -- she's going to have to work on her metabolism and all the burping, because Justin wants a REAL woman. But even though all the security guards know to watch for her, I'm still kind of nervous that she's going to run up and dump a vodka-Red Bull over my head. Maybe this was the wrong outfit. I can't run away in these pumps, and I'm not exactly hard to spot in this shiny gold fabric. In fact, I look kind of like I skinned two throw-pillows that I found at a Joan Collins Estate Sale and turned them into a dress. Why did I DO that? Why didn't Justin TELL me it was bad? Does he not CARE any more? Does he WANT to get back together with the Cheeto factory? DIDN'T HE SEE HER STUPID SHOW? I... phew, okay, Diaz, deep breath. Remember, we talked about staying cool. Just stick your hands on your hips and smile, and trust that one of those cops with tazers will zap her if she tries to get close. And, note to self: If everything goes fine, and you get inside safely, steal one of those tazers to use later on Jude Law. You know it's gonna come to that."

I was watching a commercial for The Holiday last night -- you know, the movie where Cameron Diaz and Kate Winslet switch houses, and romantic shenanigans ensue? -- and it occurred to me that I don't particularly buy Jude Law as a romantic lead anymore. I don't know if this is because I know too much about his real-life predilection for nannies and Sienna Miller, or if it's because he's morphed from being this guy:

To being this guy:

I don't really want that guy showing up at my vacation house and romancing me. I'm a little scared that that guy is going to show up at my vacation house and rob me. And while the suit itself is lovely,  this shirt/tie combination makes me want to show up at his vacation house and burn it down:

Something about him just gives me the wiggins, and the wee curly mullet doesn't help, either.  In the ad, there's a scene where he and Cameron Diaz are going somewhere in a car together, and they're all looking at each other coyly, and I am not thinking, "Aw, look! Those two are totally going to fall in transatlantic love!" I am thinking, "He is totally going to murder her and dump her body in some abandoned English field."  Which I am pretty sure is not exactly what they were going for.

On the other hand, maybe the movie is secretly about serial killers. What do I know? I just hope Kate Winslet makes it out alive. I love her.

Truly, I should just be thrilled that Hayden Panetierre of Heroes is dressing in classy, grown-up clothes that don't require us to pray she is a) wearing underwear; b) toting seat liners for when she sits down sans panties; and/or c) wearing a very tough-to-crack chastity belt, because she was born in 1989 and we can't abide the idea of anything born while we were in Algebra II deciding to flash some ladybits.

And in all honesty, there's nothing really wrong with this outfit here. But... doesn't she look distractingly like a campy flight attendant? Like maybe Jet Blue has decided to run a promotion wherein a star from a randomly selected NBC show of will start randomly working its flights, peddling peanuts and sodas and those yummy blue Terra Chips that I love so much? Granted, that would be a quick way to my heart, and certainly there's nothing wrong with being a flight attendant, but I'll wager if you asked any of them whether they'd enjoy wearing their uniforms for a big night on the town, you'd hear gales of laughter through which you could faintly make out the words "tight," "itchy," and "panty lines." (But they would NOT respond by stealing little bottles of booze from the planes and drinking themselves silly. Because if there's anything the hideous Gwyneth Paltrow "comedy" A View From The Top -- or as she called it, A View From My Ass -- taught us, it's that America is really freaking sick of Mike Myers. Oh, and also, that a good flight attendant with big hair and big dreams NEVER steals miniature bottles of booze from the aircraft.)

At any rate, I find it sort of unsettling that this dress makes me expect Hayden to chat me up and then charge me $5 for headsets so that I can watch Garfield: A Tale Of Two Kitties and ANOTHER $5 for wine because it's a domestic flight and even though LA to NYC is about as long as NYC to England, I still evidently have to pay to medicate any domestic unease with flying, which is a load of BULL, if you ask me, but nobody did, which is a real shame. And because she's not the evil overlord who made that rule, I'd rather she tried a different dress so that I don't inadvertantly get cross with her for it.

Besides, no offense to Hayden, but we'd rather have Conan O'Brien work our flight. Nothing like a little genial hilarity along with those microscopic bags of generic Snak Mix, not to mention that we'd get to ogle his towering cowlick -- which legend has it is propped up by an elaborate system of pulleys and a paste made from Easy Cheese and molasses. Also, he'd give us free wine. I know it in my heart.

This has been brewing for a long time at GFY HQ, but today, the Terror Watch squad would like to announce officially that Billy Crudup has been put on a high "orange" alert (see Appendix below) for his escalating skeeve factor.

Crudup has struggled mightily with facial outcroppings in the last two years, perhaps under the mistaken impression that his unlikely appeal in Almost Famous would maintain itself through whatever follicular configurations he debuted. But, he was wrong. Very wrong. It doesn't help that he and dreary-guts Claire Danes have had to spend the last little while as Those Cheating Pregnant-Lady-Leaving Bastards, but even without the taint of that nasty little situation and their ensuing collective frowning and aura of total boredom (like, "Uh... well, guess we'd better stay together, then, since everyone's watching... pass me my vibrator? Thanks"), we would still be completely grossed out by the amount of oil he's stockpiling in his hair. Not to mention the rust-colored moustache that, against every bit of my free will, makes me think of... look, I can't bring myself to use the proper term for this act on our site, so let's just say it's reminisce of the kind of painting party only South Park's Mr. Hanky could throw.

So, Billy, to borrow from your Mastercard commercials:

Shampoo: $5.99

A Gillette Fusion (you are going to need all 5 blades): $9.99

Shaving cream: $2.29

Not looking like Kevin Federline's older brother: Priceless (yet also a very affordable $18.27 plus tax, so why the haste?)

Additional Note: The GFY Terror Watch squad would also like to announce that Wilmer Valderrama has been ejected from the "Guarded" category for looking really rather presentable lately, and not at all as if he hasn't slept in three days. Congratulations, Wilmer. He has been replaced by Chad Michael Murray, who, while appearing relatively physically clean, is a Hilton-banging cheating douchebag pig-dog and therefore merits placement on the scale.

Thank you, and remember: Practice constant vigilence.

Appendix: SKEEVE WATCH TERROR LEVEL CHART

So, I have a long and tortured history with Nicole Kidman.  Or, more accurately, with her hair. See, I love her red Moulin Rouge hair. I spent a goodly portion of that movie thinking, "Man,  Ewan McGregor is cute. Her hair is FANTASTIC.  Ooh, he can sing, too! No, seriously, I want that hair to be coming out of my head." And so on. I mean, come on:

She's the prettiest consumptive ever! I would kill you to have that hair. I'm sorry,  I'm sure you're perfectly lovely and I do appreciate your readership, but I need to have long, shiny, wavy red hair.  When I have that hair, finally I will be happy.

And when Nicole stuck to that hair color (or an approximation thereof)  in real life? Oh, it was a delight!

Pretty!

Pretty! (Hi, George.)

Pretty!

Then, of course, we went through that long, painful blonde period. God, that was hard. Why, I asked myself, would someone with pretty, pretty red hair decide to wash herself out like that? Why? For one thing, what kind of example are we setting for Lindsay Lohan? (Remember when our biggest concern about Lindsay Lohan was her hair color, and not the fact that she NEVER WEARS PANTIES ANYMORE? I wish I'd known how lucky we were.)

So, when I got December's Vogue, my first thought was, "THANK GOD, WE'RE BACK TO THE RED!"

The first time I saw this photo, I thought that Virginia Madsen had suddenly and tragically fallen on very hard, very confusing, and unexpectedly incontinent times.

Then I realized it's just crazy old Paulina Rubio, wearing what look like the Wicked Witch of the West's version of ruby slippers and swaddled in bedclothes.

So, really, just another Tuesday.

Oh, no!

It appears that Amy Irving -- bored on a slow, chilly Tuesday -- decided to throw caution to the wind and join that cult that's always hanging around the Brentwood Country Mart.  What the heck! They've got these festive gold robes,  after all, and they keep promising her eternal life! And the outfits go with her favorite summer sandals! It's going to be fun.

Dear Diary,

So, I totally have a new friend to tell you about today! It didn't really work out with Nicole when she was blonde (and between you and me, Diary, she is even less fun with the brown hair -- I mean, what's the point of having dark hair if you aren't hiding weed underneath it?), and, like, oh my GOD, dude, Kimberly Stewart was really NEEDY. She called me ten times a day until I made her cry that last time, and I SWEAR I caught her rooting through my bathroom trashcan, picking out my old extensions and taping them to a hair clip. Which, EW -- it looked EXACTLY like a hair clip from a drugstore, and not the FUN kind of drugstore, so GROSS.

Anyway, so I found this new blonde person now and I think it's going to work out because even though she kind of already worships me, she attracts WAY better photographers than Kimberly did. And, she's going through a totally rough time right now because she's getting a divorce, so she wants to party and dress up and stuff and get really dirty and freaky, which is my FAVORITE THING EVER to do. Like, this one time, I put on my favorite red party dress of that week, and she got out this old thing she used to wear when she and her husband played that weird Ice Dancing game where they were at the porn Olympics, and we decided to go out and party. And it was, like, TOTAL sisterhood, you know? And it was SO SWEET because we were really cold, and she remembered that her ex-husband had a bunch of old pieces of panty-hose in his drawer from the olden days when he would stick his head in them and then throw over a 7-11 (she used that word -- "throw over" -- I don't really know what that word means but it is so Law & Order I can't even STAND IT and I think I'm so good now at saying the word that I should probably order up a part on one of the episodes, right? Do you think they deliver?). But anyway, so we had these pieces of panty-hose but there were only two, so we each wore one -- me on my right leg, and her on her left leg, which I swore was her right leg, but she kept telling me it was her left and that she would know what her own left leg looks like since she was BORN with it, DUH, and you know what? I don't know what her left leg looks like, and maybe it looks like it's on the right -- there ARE people who are born that way, I'm pretty sure, and if she's one of them, then maybe we should start some sort of charitable manicure program that benefits the Righty Left Children or whatever. It's a good idea.

Anyway, it was soooo fun -- she's like the sister I never had! Sometimes we sit up all night and drink vodka from baby bottles and talk about boys and divorces and our music careers -- apparently, she had some albums and shit, but I don't REMEMBER Pamela Anderson having a record or anything, do you? But she got all mad and screamed that she did too have more hit songs than I did, and she didn't seem to like it when I called her out and said I'd never heard of any of her songs and that she would need to PROVE it. In fact, she ALSO didn't really like it that much when I called her Pamela, but dude, I KNOW Pamela Anderson when I see her -- like, those things are KIND OF hard to MISS, you know? They're bigger than Nicky's head! So anyway I told Pamela to shut up and finish her Zima and she kind of got upset again but then once she was done chugging it and then shotgunning her Bud Light (she said her mom calls it a Trailer Martini -- how kicky and retro! Also, does Pamela Anderson HAVE a mom? Wicked!) and then everything was fine again.

Can't wait to see sister Pammy tomorrow! We're gonna get tattoos that say P&P Music Factory (even if she IS lying about having all those albums) and it's going to RULE. I talked her into it after the third bottle of Jagermeister. She said it would be even better because Kevin would hate it ("Kevin" is how you say "Kid Rock" in Michigan speak -- they are so funny up there!). Whee! Paris and Pammy!

Sloppy kisses,

P

Okay, Sarah Silverman:

Just as long as you don't start aping Paula Poundstone's ACT, too.

I should probably just relax and be grateful that it's former Big Brother UK winner Kate Lawler in this outfit, and not Lindsay Lohan, given the latter's recent predilection for looking like a metal groupie, or the daughter of a Hell's Angel who's working overtime to prove she's badass enough to get her own Hog. But, for once, this isn't about LiLo -- it's about Kate, who should consider herself bloody lucky that the minutiae of her life are no longer subject to national votes of approval or distaste, or else I'd call 100 times to register my shock and horror. This thing is at that hideous crumpled necktie, and the way that random strip of leather looks as if it's chaining together her arms (which are being thoughtfully cuddled by some old legwarmers) in some sort of homage to bondage. And the booties! Look, unless you're an infant, or you're displaying a collection of noteworthy derrieres, you should never, ever wear anything that requires the deployment of the word "booties." Trust me.

Perhaps she's trying to pitch her own reality show. Entitled Leather Daddy, it would entail Kate visiting different disgruntled house-husbands who are desperate for a dash of naughty spice in their otherwise bland lives, and taking them shopping for some mad-hot cowhide couture. See Nigel try and cook spaghetti with his chains on! See Gavin pick up his kids at school while wearing his hood! See Alfie's wife try and take him seriously when he hooks himself into the Brazilian love-swing! It'll be a hit.

Let's face it:  if there would be one item that we would lash out against, unilaterally, it would obviously be shiny pleather leggings:

And yet, loathe as I am to admit it, Katie "Jordan" Price is kind of pulling them off. I have no idea how she got them ON -- baby powder? Vaseline? Prayer? -- but she's kind of working them.

Of course, it's entirely possible that I am feeling particularly charitable toward her because I just watched the video she and Peter Andre made for their cover of "A Whole New World." If you have not yet seen this, do yourself a favor and indulge. As Celine Dion sang so memorably in "It's All Coming Back to Me Now" -- a music video which looks like a three-minute advert for minimalism compared to Jordan and Peter's effort, by the way -- "there were moments of gold, and there were flashes of light. There were things I'd never do again, but then they'd always seemed right. There were nights of endless pleasure. It was more than any laws allow." Truly, the six minutes of black and white deliciousness that is their music video WILL provide you with endless pleasure. More than any laws allow. Enough, in fact, to make you accept black pleather leggings topped with a superfluous belt (because last time I checked, leggings don't have belt loops). It is that powerful. Consider that my gift to you.

Periodically, as their busy spa and Spider Club schedules allow, celebrity experts will join us to answer your questions about how to fug up your life as thoroughly as they do theirs. This week's expert calls himself Peggy Post With A Penis, priding himself on his encyclopedic knowledge of etiquette, the history of social behaviors, his posture, and his immaculate sense of personal hygiene.

Dear Aunt Fugly,

I'm at a loss. I hosted Thanksgiving for my in-laws, and when we asked if they wanted any leftovers to take home, my mother-in-law said yes... and then took everything. The turkey carcass, the mashed potatoes, the stuffing, even the leftover pies. She packed it all up in shopping bags and sailed out the door promising to bring the dishes back washed. I was shocked! We cooked the meal, paid for everything, and then didn't get to have any of it the next day. Worse, my husband doesn't understand why I'm so annoyed and thinks I'm overreacting and being selfish. And that's why he really wasn't impressed when he had to come bail me out because I TP'd my mother-in-law's front lawn that night and got booked by the Beverly Hills PD. But seriously... she deserved it, right? What should I do? Who's right?

Sincerely,

My Turkey Done Left Me

Yo, Turkey,

Sounds like you GOT PLAYED, Playa.  Some people might call your mother-in-law a freeloader, but I call her a hero.  Is she single? Tell that bitch to hit me up: 1-800-FOR-KFED.  I will be all over her popozao.

But tell your husband to shut his damn mouth: chicks with records are hot, and you sound feisty. Maybe you and your mother-in-law and me can all get together sometime, if you know what I mean. You know, just the three of us and some PBR, chilling at my studio in Van Nuys. The dude next door has a hot tub. We can totally hop the fence.  It'll be SWEET. Blow up my cellie, girl! Holla!

Dear Aunt Fugly,

So... God, I'm nervous even writing this. Okay. Deep breath. See, I am a newlywed. And we're having our first Thanksgiving together. And his... traditions... are a tiny bit different than mine. For one thing, he doesn't want to have it on Thanksgiving because he thinks that's not what the Pilgrims would want, and whenever I try to explain that having Thanksgiving on Thanksgiving is kind of the whole POINT, he tells me that I haven't done my research and that he has and I should just let him handle things because he's a pilgrim expert. Also, believes that if we just leave the turkey on the counter overnight, Xe --  uh, I mean, some kind of cosmic force that he thinks is all-powerful -- will stuff it with good fortune. But I always thought it was sort of unhygenic to do that. He then wants us put on robes, rub our daughter with truffle oil, and read aloud passages from Battlefield Earth, because he says it's some kind of special auditing ceremony for babies who can't speak yet to confess their sins. Also, I like to say grace before we eat, but he likes to stand on his chair and throw his arms up to the sky and shout, "PURGE OUR THETANS, O GREAT ONE!" And then he starts laughing and clapping. Which, let's be honest, kind of weirded out my parents the last time so I told them it wouldn't happen again, but I'm not actually sure I can stop it. So I guess what I'm asking is, how the Hell did I get here, and yes, HUSBAND, I did say "Hell," because six months of your stupid free classes is nothing compared to a lifetime of being Catholic and I STILL BELIEVE IN MY OWN THING AND THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT THAT OWWWWWWWWWWWWW I think the chip he put in my brain just zapped me. What was I saying? Oh yes -- have you ever taken a Personality Test?

Sincerely,

Everything Is Fine And I Am Fine And My Baby Is Fine And We're All Just Fine Here, Thanks!

Dear EIFAIAFAMBIFAWAJFHT,

Bitch, I have no idea what you're even talking about.

Hiiiiiii Aunt Fugly!

Y'all, I am having an AWESOME THANKSGIVING this year! First I lost weight... to be exact, 180 lbs of STANK-ASS HUSBAND! THAT'S RIGHT CAMERON BOY-NAME, you had better LOOK OUT FOR MY ASS NOW! Especially because I totally went and partied in Las Vegas with Paris and danced around in my tights because I don't NEED pants because I'm not KNOCKED UP any more and I'm not ATTACHED any more and I have all this money and all I want to do is smoke and drink and NEVER LISTEN TO ANY MORE RAP MUSIC EVER. And THEN when I got home my mother totally threw herself at my feet when she saw me and started weeping that she is the most thankful for my brain this year. Y'all she has NEVER said that to me before -- last year she drank all the cooking sherry and then threw the bottle AT my brain and, like, I'm not sure what she was talking about exactly . Something to do with peas, maybe? But she knows I don't eat green vegetables, like, HI, they're the color of GRASS, which my ex husband REALLY LIKED TO SMOKE IN MY HOUSE EVEN WHEN I TOLD HIM NOT TO, so she should know better than to think I would eat anything that color. Maybe she was just sad we're at war. But not this year! We ate like KINGS and my ex ate at DENNY'S and I hope they SPAT IN HIS CRANBERRY SAUCE... which I totally did last year (sssshhhhh, don't tell).

So I guess what I'm asking is: Don't you think my ex should SUCK ON IT? And aren't you glad I'm back? And do you know any guys? Hot ones? Who sing and dance? And were the lead in a boy band? And have ugly manly girlfriends I can SNAP LIKE A TWIG?

Kisses,

B-Train To HOTVILLE

Dear HOTVILLE,

I strongly suggest you check yourself before you wreck yourself. Maybe your ex has a KILLER PLAN to make YOU suck it. No one breaks up with K Fed over text message, especially when you KNOW I can't READ real good. Damn. That was harsh, yo.  I'm writing a slow jam about it right now. It's called "You Have a Text Message from CheetoLover21" and it is a total panty-dropper.  But not YOUR panties.  You can leave those suckers on, beeyotch, because K Fed isn't interested anymore. YEAH!

And you can tell your MOM to stop calling me and laughing and then hanging up. I KNOW it's her, dude. God. It totally ruins my buzz, like, EVERY TIME.

So,  in conclusion: BITE ME, and I want the weed I left under that rock by the pool filter back within the next three days or I'm calling Child Protection Services and telling them that you don't recycle bottles OR CANS. Good luck with the custody battle when they find THAT out! YEAH THAT'S RIGHT. I'm playing with fire! Federline is on the OFFENSIVE.

BOO YAH!

Although most of our time here at GFY HQ is spent thinking of synonyms for "ew" and playing drinking games, today is Thanksgiving. And so we set aside everything we've been working on -- a blueprint for extracting Katie Holmes from the Cruise compound once and for all, which we would have put into action already, except we're waiting for a call back from Josh Jackson; a scheme to send Lindsay Lohan several pairs of pants; and a very competitive Scrabble game -- to put on our buckled shoes and Native American headdresses while our cups runneth over with gratitude, and perhaps also rum.

We are thankful:

1. that Nicole Richie finally canned Rachel Zoe
2. that Britney finally canned Kevin Federline
3. that the Coca-Cola Company still cans Diet Coke
4. that our tireless Intern George is finally getting the recognition he deserves
5. that Courtney and Ashley Peldon have a plan B
6. that SoapNet is about to get back to The Brenda Years during their twice-daily dose of 90210. Three cheers for bodysuits!
7. that Suri Cruise turned out really cute.  Seriously, we can't help it: we think she's adorable.  And that kid's going to have enough problems without having to add "Years of Emotional Angst About Appearance" to her list
8. that we've managed to kick and scream our way through another year without being attacked by dogs, crocodiles, piranhas, birds, venomous snakes, or Dina Lohan
9. that, in this year of Traumatic Celebrity Break-Ups, Posh and Becks are holding it together
10. that we've got such lovely readers. Thanks for your support this year, guys. Have we mentioned that you look really hot in those pants?

Happy Thanksgiving from Go Fug Yourself! Go forth and consume carbs with great abandon.

Chris Brown seems like a nice kid, even if he did show up wearing the exact same thing the red carpet wore. Awkward.

But I do think this is an excellent cautionary picture against the perils of cuffing your baggy pants, particularly when done with wanton disregard for proportions. His torso looks nine feet long; his legs, by comparison, seem like three feet with a possible lack of knee. Those are practically South Park proportions. And if eloquent animated epics like "Woodland Critter Christmas" and the shocking yet stirring tale of Lemmiwinks the Gerbil King's crusade through the Ass of Doom have combined to teach us anything, it is this lesson: Bad, strange, often calamitous things happen to people with South Park proportions. Oh, and also, a catata fish in a feathered helmet can be a powerful ally -- but that's really more of a creed.

At what point did Gwen Stefani decide to become the cheap Halloween-costume version of herself?

Between the outfit that looks stolen straight from Serena Williams' tennis bag of misguided on-court couture to the aggressive Gucci-logo knockoff on the belt to the $4.99 wig from Dr. Boo's Costume Emporium and Terror Barn to the tinted Elvis shades that aren't actually blocking any light (and therefore are only there because she actually decided they look good), I am overall disappointed in Gwen's post-pregnancy return to the red carpet, toned gams notwithstanding.

Her on-stage getup wasn't much better.

It's terribly appropriate that the day after she fired Rachel Zoe, Nicole Richie shows up at the AMAs looking like the proverbial million bucks:

I've long held that Nicole actually really benefited from Zoe's influence at the beginning of her make-over, and she was one of the only starlets Zoe dressed who I thought could actually pull off the boho thing.  But the general disdain that we here at GFY HQ have for Zoe is no secret -- there's the fact that all her girls began to look exactly alike, and exactly like her, and then there are, of course, those nasty but widespread rumors about how, exactly, Zoe allegedly gets her clients so slender -- so there's something schadenfreudelicious about Nicole ditching her in favor of  "more positive influences."

Whatever positive influences she's surrounding herself with now, they've certainly had a positive influence on her appearance. I covet her dress, I love her make-up (thank god she's ditched the fake-and-bake), and her dark hair is very becoming.  Also, not be indelicate, but...nice rack, Richie. We're glad to see that your boobs are back.

But most heart-warming thing of all -- sorry, it's Thankgiving, and around the holidays the cuddly sweethearts inside our crusty and evil exteriors occasionally make a break for it -- is that she looks happy. Who knew that firing Rachel Zoe would turn out to be the best beauty treatment she could get?

Am I the only person baffled by how Nelly Furtado insists on stomping around with her face twisted into such sour contortions that it appears she is plagued by a foul stench?

Tight cheeks, pursed lips, squinty eyes, tense jaw... something's amiss. What's the whiff, Nelly? Whither the pong?

Is it that your InstaBangs still smell like the bag they came in? Is the carpet moldy? Is the girl behind you looking away because she did something of which she is now a bit ashamed?

Maybe you just forgot to take off your WhiteStrips -- or, tragically, never remembered to put them on in the first place. Perhaps you're sucking on a sour Jolly Rancher. Holding a lit cigarette in your mouth that you're trying to hide from prying lenses. Secreting a razor blade that you can spit out lightning-fast at your enemies once inside. Trying not to cry because you just bit your tongue, or your shoes hurt, or somebody just shouted out, "And what will you be skating to tonight -- the theme from Ice Castles?"

Or ... are you just naturally a teeny bit smarmy?

Please advise.

Poor Assica. So unprepared was she for the exertions of being The Favored Simpson, she completely forgot to wash her hair and have Ken Paves rip out her ratty extensions. Which is why Joe should never have allowed her to stand next to somebody who probably has two shampooers, three professional weaveologists, and six personal hairbrushing lackeys on her staff.

Ms. Knowles, on the other hand, has made the intriguing style choice of borrowing her pumps from a West Hollywood impersonator named Beshlongce, who we imagine croons tributes like "Bootyvicious," "Humpin'," "Saliver," and "Rim the Alarm" while dancing on top of a Cadillac parked outside Rage.

She is also apparently beginning to see some advantages to gallavanting around town in buttock-length skirts:

Just yesterday, I was talking about how cute I think Jaime Pressly looks now that she's got a wee Presslyette percolating. I do wish I could say the same about Tori Spelling at the AMAs last night.

I hope this isn't a Donna Martin Original, because that company is never going to get off the ground if it is:

Judging from the expression on her face, I think the woman standing behind Tori is thinking the same thing I am: "Damn, Donna! That dress is too short! The lingerie-inspired overlay ain't fooling anyone! You can't sit down in that thing!"

And truly, unless this super short number is actually a clever homage to the mini-skirts of Amanda Woodward -- in the sense that we're pretty sure that if Amanda Woodward were to be impregnated (which, of course, she was, but it was tragically an ectopic pregnancy, which was quickly followed by such stressful events as having her apartment blown up, getting cancer, having a lamp thrown into a hot tub in which she was canoodling, and having to shove Antonio Sabato, Jr. off a balcony), this is the sort of look she would go for. Roots included. (We know: Tori isn't coloring her hair because of the BABY, while Amanda didn't color her roots because she was too much of a bad-ass to care. Play along anyway!) -- I can not condone it. It just makes me nervous. It's so short. It looks like it's riding up. Every time she sits down, you know she has to pretend that she's just demurely setting her hands in her lap, when what she's actually doing is pushing the fabric of her skirt down so that no one can see up it.  (A lesson I learned with the Short Demin Mini of July 2004.) And shit's going down with Tori right now, with all the drama with her mother and a new baby and a new reality show and a husband that could very well be trying to get Britney Spears's number, now that she's on the market again. Doesn't she have enough to worry about without worrying about flashing the world?

Take this time to be good to yourself,  Donna Martin. Reject the Hoochie Maternity Wear. We'll all be so much more comfortable.

American Idol winner and Faith Hill arch-rival Carrie Underwood made the classic rookie mistake of adopting one look during the Red Carpet Arrivals segment of her evening...

[i.e: Demure! Age-appropriate! Debutante-y! Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth!]

...and an entirely DIFFERENT look during the show itself:

In Abbie Cornish's defense, it is REALLY HARD to figure out what to wear out to a premiere when you know that America a) now knows you exist,  b) but only because you're allegedly the girl Ryan Philllllippppppe was hooking up with when he was supposed to be keeping his Man Area only for Reese Witherspoon. You don't want to look too sexy, because then people are going to be all, "WICKED TEMPTRESS! This VILE HARLOT clearly LURED Ryan into her WEB OF DEVIANCE with an UNHOLY PARFAIT of BOSOM and BOOZE!" But if you go too demure, you get, "I find it HARD TO BELIEVE that THIS prim prudette could tempt a man from the WHOLESOME DEMURITY of AMERICA'S SWEETHEART. CLEARLY HE IS GAY OR ON DRUGS!" (People shout a lot, in our experience).

So, this is what she came up with:

She could have just had a tee shirt made that said, "I SWEAR I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH IT. PLEASE DON'T LOOK AT ME."

There are some actresses who just look so lovely when they're pregnant that we hope they choose to have a whole passel of kiddies (see Witherspoon, Reese. Although we understand if she's not really in the mood right now).  It appears we can add Jaime Pressly to the list:

How cute does she look? Jaime is hilariously trashy on My Name Is Earl, and while I know she's, you know, an actress and all, there have definitely been times in the past when she's shown up places looking a little bit like a her character: blonde, shiny, and a little bit hard. But she looks amazing right now -- natural, and comfortable and, actually, really happy. And the dress is classy and understated but not boring. Well played, Jaime:

Yeah, give the kid some credit already!

I think all this talk of deja-vu has Denzel Washington's brain addled and working backward.

To be on TRL, not historically known as a bastion of old-world class and formality, he donned a sleek pin-striped suit. He looks suave. He looks distinguished. Slick. Instead of just being Denzel, he looks like "Denzeeeeeeeeel," which is how Oprah used to say it when she'd talk about him on the show, at which point women in the audience would start shrieking, grabbing each other, jumping up and down, and fanning off their loins before swooning.

And yet, to the actual movie premiere of Deja Vu, he went a slightly different direction.

Jamie Foxx:   Don't touch me when you're wearing something you stole from My Size Barbie. You're totally harshing my cool.

Beyonce: I have to touch you, Jamie. If I move my arm at all, my boob will pop out. I can't have my boob pop out on Oprah.

Jamie Foxx: Didn't I see that outfit at Stars on Ice? Tara Lipinski was playing a tulip.

Beyonce:  Seriously,  Jamie. Don't move a muscle.  You're the only thing standing between me and endless humilation on YouTube.

Jamie Foxx:  Sorry, kid. That's what you get when you come out dressed like one of the cocktail waitresses at Disneyland's Tomorrowland Stage. Speaking of, can you bring me a g & t?

We didn't want to worry you guys, but we were getting kind of concerned about Bai Ling. We hadn't seen her out and about since late summer. Any number of things could have happened to her:  she could have been hit by a bus leaving her waxer's, she could have tripped over one of her platform shoes and conked her head on her coffee table, she could have suffocated in a tragic Wig Closet incident. The good news is, whatever kept her occupied for the last three months doesn't appear to have been fatal:

The bad news is -- tacky red lace cut-outs and the fact that this is pretty much a nightgown aside -- and comparatively speaking,  she doesn't look that bad.

Sure, the focus of this past weekend's Italian production of I Know Mothers Cry At Weddings, But Should Mrs. Holmes Be Wailing? was probably supposed to be Kat(i)e's dress. But you don't invite Victoria Beckham, the glorious spice blend known as Posh, and expect her to be wallpaper. No, much like what we think went through Brooke Shields' head when she accepted her invitation to the TomKat Contract Fulfillment Ceremony, you include Posh at your formal occasion because you say to yourself, "THIS I've got to see." And also possibly because she befriended your comatose bride during several shopping sprees and some Paris fashion shows, but mostly, it's because you want to look at how hot her stilletos are while also wondering what new glories she'll pull from that den of wonder known as Her Wardrobe.

Mercifully for us all, Posh did not disappoint, stringing together a buffet of delights more filling for the fug fan than any solid that's passed her lips in three months.

You have to admire her versatility. In the span of one weekend, she showed up as:

1. A crabby school teacher: This strumpet of academia's affection for lip gloss is matched only by her companion's addiction to raiding his grandfather's closet. Bonus: The sweater at least comes with its own lifetime supply of Werther's Originals, so he can toss them into her mouth at her appointed snack times, since she wouldn't dare eat any of the apples left by her trembling students (too much chewing).

A.J. McLean has faith.

Faith, plus some moths in his closet, an overactive liquid eyeliner, and a raging case of temporary blindness. Other than that, though, he's doing just fine.

Yes, child stars grow up. I know this; I do. But I can't look at Alexa Vega without automatically picturing her from the first Spy Kids film -- which my older sister and I might have rented at Blockbuster a few years ago, but not without being embarrassed of our choice given our age, which led to a loud conversation at the register about whether "little Emma" would enjoy it, or be a brat about it, because "Emma" could be such a pill sometimes, like when she'd had that tantrum where she threw her Legos out the front door. We're not sure the employee believed us, but we were pleased with our chicanery.

At any rate, Alexa was 13 then; she's 18 now, and things happen when actresses hit that age (see: Lohan, Lindsay, The Leggings Obsession and Dilated Pupils Of). But that doesn't mean I have to like it.

And so, I tend not to like it when I see Alexa proudly showing off her baggy, oversized Mickey Mouse tank that would expose boob WERE HER BOOBS NOT APPARENTLY COVERED IN A GOLD LAME BRA, which is peeking out at me cheekily just so that I get hives. Seriously, that belongs on somebody at Spearmint Rhino. Not on her. Don't grow up so fast, Alexa. There's plenty of time for stripper clothes once you're in your twenties!

Let's get one thing straight:  I actually don't dislike what either one of them is wearing.

The long hair and the flowing sleeves and goth-y eye make-up and impenetrable expressions make them look like priestesses in an arty film set in the Middle Ages, during which one of them  would spend a lot of time flitting around a turret holding crystal breakers full of mysterious and possibly dangerous potions. She would wear shoes lined in fur, and a crystal around her neck. The other would play a sort of charismatic, seductive temptress who sleeps with men in order to get a sample of their DNA so as to help her sister create a potion that will allow them to rule the world.  She would spend a lot of time naked, and carrying a serpent. Men would know that she was likely to kill them after having her way with them, but they would take off their capes and doublets and submit to her wiles anyway. It would all be very dramatic, and the absolute opposite of what you would expect from Michelle and Michelle Tanner.  I kind of like it, even though I can think of several reasons why I shouldn't.

However, I DO have a comment: Ashley's new hair color has thrown me for a loop. Newly Brown Olsen IS Ashley, right? It took me twenty minutes to figure that out.   Give us a smile, Brown Olsen.  It can't be that bad.

Oh, Jordan.

Of course you're dressed like a bride as envisioned by the cast of Strictly Ballroom.  I expect you to start tangoing dramatically at any moment.

You know, there are celebrities who are so over-the-top with such regularity that their campiness becomes a delight -- like Cher -- and Jordan is one such celebrity for me.  As much as we mock her -- and as easy as she is to mock -- imagine how disappointing it would be if she showed up looking modest and understated. In fact, I challenge her to go bigger! Start wearing live birds in your hair, Jordan! Wear a skirt stitched together with Christmas lights that you can turn on and off with the flick of a switch attached to your right boob! Invest in a bodice made entirely of tinsel woven together with baby hair! Go big or go home!

There are a lot of reasons to love Jamie Lee Curtis -- she's the original scream queen, she did that funny striptease in True Lies, she was in Trading Places, she's married to Christopher Guest and he's, you know, fairly talented himself -- but for me, it was A Fish Called Wanda that yielded unconditional adoration of her. I love that movie. Love. There's something about her delivery of the line,  "KEN! SOMEBODY just CALLED!" that kills me. Plus, the giant red glasses she wears are kind of amazing. If you can look hot through those, you can do anything.

Anyway, the reason I'm opening up to you in this tedious manner: I wanted to be up front about it. Full disclosure. I love Jamie Lee, always have, always will.

However, that all said, I'm still pretty sure I'm being unbiased in suggesting that she looks, to  put it bluntly, freakin' awesome these days. Maybe even better than ever.

Okay, so I'm not sure if the leg blotches are self-tanning errors, or birthmarks. I understand birthmarks -- I have a large, opposite-looking one on my knee where, apparently, all of my entire body's available skin pigment went -- but given that I've never noticed these before, I have a sneaking suspicion they're tanning-lotion snafus. Which is really too bad. I'm not a fan of self-tanner in general, but she's in front of blinding camera lights and that can make a girl look ghostly, so ... honestly, it kind of makes me love her more. In the imagined words of Us magazine: "Stars -- They're Just Like Us! They bungle self-tanner!"

But, who's focusing on her legs, anyway? I can't stop staring at her face. She's radiant! Her skin looks fantastic. The short gray hair suits her terrifically. And her figure looks incredibly sleek in this dress.

See, starlets? This is how it's done. [Well, aside from the tanner thing. Maybe don't do that part. Your skin looks perfectly lovely in its natural state.] She is not wearing leggings. She is not wearing formal shorts. She is not layering twenty different things in the vain hope that the rest of the world will see it and decide to copy. She is not spilling out of her top, not wearing Uggs to a premiere, not peering at the cameras through pupils that won't focus. And every time I re-read that sentence, my eyes play a joke on me and process it as, "She's not peeing at the camera," and although that concept is ridiculous, I'm thrilled to report that she's not doing that, either. She doesn't look as if she smells like two days ago. She doesn't look desperate; just devastating. She's a 48-year old hottie who isn't trying to run away from her age, nor is she giving in to it.

Well played, Jamie Lee. Well played indeed.

"Hey, dudes, I'm Chad Michael Murray.  Or,  as my friends call me, CHAMM.

Listen, it's been a rough couple of years for me. There was all that to-do when my wife and co-star left me after only a few months of marriage because I might have been fooling around with Paris Hilton, or someone like Paris Hilton. I didn't really come out of that looking very good, I guess.  And then I randomly got engaged to a 17-year old extra I knew from the set of  the show I work on with the ex-wife.  I know, but it's cool, it's cool -- she's 18 now, and she's going to graduate from high school any day. Everything is great.  Ratings for my TV show are totally up, and I like to think it's because of my work as the sensitive teen basketball star with the heart problem whose mom is having his dead uncle's baby, after his dad -- Kelly Taylor's date-rapist John Sears, like, that guy is NEVER cast as the nice one --  shot his uncle dead on the day that his school suffered a Columbine-esque incident. Or maybe people just respond to the well-rendered realism of the show. We'll never know. But what I'm here to talk to you about today, dudes, is how to use accessories to rehabilitate your public image.  Last week, we talked about how the well-chosen man-necklace makes you look like you might have musical talent, or at least know how to surf. Today's topic of discussion is: the scarf.  Even worn indoors,  for no practical purpose, the right scarf -- tossed nonchalantly over your shoulders -- makes you seem sensitive, and probably cuddly, and totally reliable and faithful. But because my scarf has a skull and crossbones on it, I  also seem like I might be a little bad. But not in a cheating-on-you-with-Paris -Hilton kind of way. No! In more of a...hey-sometimes-I-forget-to-recycle kind of way.  And what lady doesn't like a little bit of that every now and then? That's right. So pick up a manly -- yet cozy! Can't forget the cozy! The cozy is what draws them toward you -- scarf today, and soon, you too will be shackled a teen for all eternity. Ah, I'm so lucky.

Next week: Is that a friendship bracelet I'm wearing, or a scrunchie? The all-important difference."

I'll say this for Eva Green -- you have to admire her flair for the dramatic. Given that she's not prodigiously well-known in the U.S., I can see why she pulled out all the stops to get noticed at the Casino Royale premiere.

First, she arrived on the red carpet in this little doozy:

I'm not sure what the fascination was with psuedo-strangulation at this event, but between her and Daniel Craig's fiancee, I'm beginning to wonder if The National Society For The Promotion of Auto-Erotic Asphyxiation sponsored some of the fashion.

Apparently they dropped out of the after-party, though, so Eva ditched the noose-chic outfit and replaced it with ...

First and foremost, a hearty congratulations to Intern George, named -- again! -- the Sexiest Man Alive. But we knew that already. Hoo boy, you should see him stuff envelopes.

And in honor of this auspicious day, starlet Camilla Belle illustrates for us the danger of waist-less frocks. Comfortable? Yes! Trendy?  Somewhat. Flattering? Not always.

To wit, observe Camilla waistless:

Versus Camilla, waisted:

These photos were snapped a mere two weeks apart, so I doubt both that she's gotten herself sprogged up, or that she's developed an appetite for bacon so overwhelming that none of her clothes fit anymore in between these two events.  Camilla Belle is really a lovely girl, with a great body, as evidenced in Picture Two.  And while we are fully supportive of ensembles which allow us to drink heavily and eat plenty of hor d'oeuvres without worrying about popping out of our gowns, there has to be a happy medium between Can't Eat Can't Breath Can't Sit and Check Out My Tent! Don't you think?

Wow, Channel 4 must have been really desperate to get Joss Stone if it was willing to relocate this entire event to her gynecologist's office.

Speaking of which, Joss, you might not even need to hit the stirrups, after all -- anyone within ten feet of you can probably let you know with certainty how your ovulation is coming along.

We understand that, after the world whined and whinged when Daniel Craig was chosen as James Bond, studio execs felt the need to excite people anew about Casino Royale through gimmicks and publicity stunts with a Bondian flair for the hyperdramatic. But really, this is taking it too far -- it just seems needlessly cruel to rig the dress of Craig's fiancee so that it throttles her more and more intensely with each successive time anyone a) gets up from his or her seat during the screening, or b) utters the words "Pierce Brosnan." I mean, where was this technology when the world REALLY needed it -- on Britney's wedding day? Are you telling me the success of a Bond reimagining is MORE vital to the foundation of our society than a clean, toned Britney Spears, unmarred by the greasy maulings of the world's leakiest sperm bank? Please.

Daphne Rubin-Vega, still royally pissed about being pretty much the only member of the original cast of Rent not to be cast in the film, decides to go on the offensive. Her weapon of choice? Her abs:

Take that, Rosario Dawson! Those are some firm abs. Tragically, we can not sign off on the rest of the look, as it includes the following GFY Crimes Against Humanity:

1) Visible thong
2) Image of another person's face  rising out of your  ribcage (this is  not,  however, as  serious offense an offense as having the image of your OWN face rising out of your ribcage)
3) the overall aura of being about 20 minutes late for her Fly Girl audition in 1993

Exclusive! A secretly obtained excerpt from The Secwet Diawy of Baba Wawa:

Nov. 13, 2006: Twuly, I'm at my wits' end, Diawy -- sometimes, I want to scweam with bottled-up wage! Have you ever twied going to an event with Opwah? The woman does not STOP wunning into people's photogwaphs! It's all I can do not to THWOTTLE her. It's a GALA and I'm wapped up tighter than a Cwistmas gift in twenty-thwee layers of hot-pink taffeta, stwiking my most distinguished pose in fwont of all these people with camewas, and WHAT DO YOU DO but sneak in and upstage me with your Cwayola-colored makeup and EVEN SHINIER clothes? Don't you WESPECT who I AM? I am BABA fwickin' WAWA, Winfwey! Wosie and I could fold you up and fit you into ONE of my EXTWAOWDINAWILY MASSIVE SLEEVES. Do you hear that? So DO NOT CWOSS ME, or else you will take a little time to enjoy the view, all wight... the view of my DEATH PINCH. MAYBE THEN YOU WILL WEGWET THIS!

Okay, so this fug significantly less random to our friends in the glorious U.K., as Ms. Buchanan fronts a band over there called Sugababes, and is notorious within that collection of fine young ladies for being the only founding member still sticking with the group.

Which may or may not be a good idea, considering that one of the duties incumbent upon carrying the glorious title of "Sugababe" is showing up in public wearing tragic and problematic trousers.

She's looking down, all, "Daaaaamn, were these armpit-rise when I bought them?" These square waist-eaters make Mom jeans look positively trampy, like they've been out all night until a sleazy 11 p.m., sitting in a parked car with a boy inhaling second-hand smoke and sharing a bottle of soda without using a second straw. In fact, it's entirely possible Keisha's jeans are actually Chastity Capris, with the buttons doubling as a complex combination lock for added security. Tragically for Keisha, nowhere on the note subtly taped to the floor does it say, "Step 4: Run, Keisha. RUN, FOR THE LOVE OF PANTS, RUN!"

Of course, there is hope. If she sticks with it, the sisters Peldon have a scent custom-made for the likes of her. [You must forgive us our renewed obsession with these "actresses" and junior entrepreneurs, but since they've been with us here since the beginning, well, we're far too delighted by this turn of events in their lives to look away now.] Concocted by Brown and with the prose description winningly written by our favorite cherubic blonde mascot -- whom I saw with her sister and mother out in the wild on Saturday night! At the movies! Imagine! -- the perfume is called The Pop Star, and Courtney makes it come alive for us thusly: "In between musical acts she snacks a white chocolate chunk shortbread cookie nut cookie with macademia nut pieces, cookie crumbles, and a kiss of vanilla bean frosting!"

If that doesn't say "Sugababe," I don't know what does. So if Keisha can't escape the prison of these trousers, at lease she can smell like she sleeps on a dessert cart.

Like a treasured lifemate, Blu Cantrell just keeps on surprising me. Even when I think I know her inside and out, she comes up with something new to awe and amaze:

This time, it's black and white stripped knit leggings.  Jailbird longjohns, if you will. Blu, it's fashion choices like these that keep our relationship evergreen, and for that, I thank you.  I wouldn't be surprised if you ended up with a big, expensive present on November 17th -- Salute Your Fug Day -- chosen and wrapped with love, by me.

Inside it will be a stylist.

Sarah Jessica is finding out the hard way that the one Halloween costume that's tough to recycle into your daily life is when you go as Lady Vader. Further, I don't think the Empire's dark lord would have approved of her defiling the rubberized shrine by pairing it with a flimsy gray tee and a visible bra.

That said, even the cockles of Darth's charred heart would be warmed by Sarah J. wearing that glittering bandanna around her neck, presumably as a tribute to fallen drag queens -- the fashion equivalent of pouring some out on the curb for your homies. I mean, it's an iron lung, people, not one of stone. He still feels. Deeply.

We're pretty sure this particular carpet wasn't always red. No: Sarah Silverman was all kitted out in her very best faux-hipster grunge duds, once again straining to prove to the world that she, like, totally doesn't care, when Hollywood's most vicious foot-fetishizing monster swept through and relieved her of all ten little piggies. The vile beast's rampages are as frequent as ever; you'd think somebody would make some sort of pesticide that would rid the celebrity world of this rapacious gobbler.

Maybe that's the true, secret genius behind the Peldon sisters' perfumes: They don't just aim to make the entire population smell like they just had a wicked carnal romp on a dessert cart, but have in fact actually cooked up a cunning pedal-parapheliac repellant so that no one else will hobble around this unclean town on raw, open wounds. Bless their little entrepreneurial souls.

I know, we can't believe it either. But seriously, check it out:

We don't know what prompted the Tara Reid Tour of Contrition and Sobriety, but we'd like to take whoever convinced her to pull her shit together out for a drink. Heather and I wondered -- while she was hosting The View -- if maybe she'd had some work done on her face when she got her boobs fixed, and it's hard to say. I think it's possible that maybe she just finally got a series of decent facials and stopped smoking. No matter what she did, it was well done, because she actually almost looks like the last five years didn't even happen, like Taradise was hosted by her skeezy twin sister. This girl looks like someone you could conceivably see starring in a romantic comedy.  So never let it be said that we don't give credit where credit is due. That is an impressive change from this:

Seriously. Nice job, kid.

Last night, at a Hollywood Function:

Tom Cruise pretends to listen to Alicia Keys, but really, he thinks, "her bangs. They're so smooth and even, yet so long. They're glorious. I wish mine would do that. How ever does she manage that? Would it be rude to ask? I wonder."

COURTNEY: Forget being engaged to Crispin Glover! I've finally found what will make me famous! PERFUME! WE ARE GOING TO MAKE PERFUME!

KAJ-ERIK ERIKSEN: I have finally found what will make me famous -- this t-shirt!

BROWN: I have finally found what will make me famous -- being the better-dressed Peldon!

KAJ-ERIK ERIKSEN: I mean, come on, I kind of even look like Justin, right? Or maybe, like, his distant Canadian cousin? There's got to be some nepotism I can milk from this shirt, because meeting Girl On My Right on Boston Public didn't really work out so well for me.

COURTNEY: It's going to be amazing when the whole world smells like me! All 45,000 different scents are based on desserts that I used to look at longingly on the craft-service table! Cake, icing, truffle, buttercream, cookies... it's all there! God, I can't wait until we win an Oscar for these. "President Courtney Peldon, accepting on behalf of her company." YES.

BROWN: I mean, it's so easy! I'm basically just wearing a green sailor's dress with a satin cummerbund, and I look totally chic when you stick me next to Ms. Mothballs over there and Erik-Erik Erikerik, or whatever his name is, wearing that stupid shirt he made on Cafepress.

KAJ-ERIK ERIKSEN: Although, you know what, I'm on The 4400, so technically, I don't need this appearance. I have work.

COURTNEY: It was so awesome of my mom to make me this sweater out of my old ballet tutu! It's so multi-purpose. I can use it as Kleenex, I can use it to mop up spills with extra absorbency, and I can reach over a lit candle and accidentally tragically let the flame catch on my sleeves the next time I want my own mortal peril to make the news... "Perfume Mogul In Near-Death Inferno." Imagine the flowers I'll get at Cedars-Sinai!

BROWN: When do you think I should tell Courtney that she works for me? I mean, nobody's around town calling her a perfume artisan, or saying she is already "the best smelling woman on the set," which you KNOW is true, because I am always standing very close to people and they wouldn't let me if I wasn't totally aromatic. I mean, it's nice enough that I'm letting Courtney even stand NEXT to me in that stupid rag. I can't BELIEVE I have to let her think she's, like, involved. Just the other day I caught her practicing some stupid speech where she was all, "You can't spell Courtney without 'CEO,'" and it was seriously all I could do not to go on her IMDb page and add really embarrassing trivia to it.

KAJ-ERIK ERIKSEN: ... Wait a sec, and what is up with the name of this company? "Starring...!" I know all the stupid scents are named after types of actresses or whatever, but seriously, it reminds me of the time I met with that agent and said, "I just finished watching this TV movie, Little Girls In Pretty Boxes, starring my friend Courtney Peldon," and the dude just looked back and me, frowned, scratched his chin and said, "Starring... ???" I mean, come on.

BROWN: Whatever. If I stick with these two, people are probably going to start beating down my door in no time, because I look pretty cool by comparison. And I smell like vanilla dipped in sugar and rolled in pie-crust covered in cinnamon and drizzled in truffled things. What more could a girl want?!?

KAJ-ERIK ERIKSEN: My teeth are rotting from whiffing these twits. God, adding it all up, what am I doing here? Just stay cool, dude. Keep it together... it's almost over... almost... over...

Dear Oksana Baiul:

Okay, fine. We're LOOKING AT YOU. Are you happy now? Sigh.

You are like the Lindsay Lohan of the skating world. You started out so sweet and adorable and lovable and clean, winning our hearts at a very young age, as did she. Your mother is dead; her mother is deadly. Your beloved coach tragically died;  Lindsay's handlers probably occasionally wish they were dead. You eventually turned to booze to dull the pain;  according to her own statements, La Lohan likes to party.  You crashed your car into a tree; Lindsay wipes out approximately three times a week.  You wrote two books, Oksana: My Own Story, and Secrets of Skating;  Lindsay has probably read a book, and if she were to write one, we would absolutely buy it. We remember your successes fondly,  and although we are very happy that you went to rehab, we wish you didn't dress like an addled cocktail waitress employed at a 80s Hair Band-themed bar called Poison's, although we do wish such a bar existed, because we would start working from there; we remember Lindsay's successes just as fondly, and know she would probably start hanging out at Poison's as well.  Which is all well and good -- and now we're kind of excited about hanging out at Poison's with LiLo. She would totally read entries over our shoulders and yell out which of our victims were "[insert expletive here]s," and then if we fugged her she's totally get mad and yell at us and write things about us on the bathroom wall, but eventually get bored and wander over with a plate of wings, and we'd make up -- but, really,  do you WANT to be the Lindsay Lohan of skating?

I guess it's better than being the Tara Reid.

Oh, Kim.

I'm not saying I don't like the color, because I do. It's great. I'm not even saying I don't like the shirt, or how it flatters her lovely long legs. But in the previous sentence lies the problem: This is a shirt. I am pretty sure I'm right about this (and so, I suspect, are you, given how you seem to be hunching over to make it longer) because I've been past a store that sells these, and even the mannequin was wearing it with pants. And, Kim, unlike you, those are not anatomically accurate dummies; ergo, they don't have functional bits to worry about covering, which means the pants are less about modesty and more about the fact that this is A SHIRT. As in, NOT A DRESS. As in, repeat after me, in the vein of McBain kneeling over the hemmorhaging body of his about-to-retire partner while shaking his furious fist in the air: "PaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANTS!!!!!"

Lindsay, dude. We know.

[Photo by X17, used with permission]

No need for an arrow -- we've all seen the crotch shots already.

PS: Would it kill you to buy some undies?

We weren't going to say anything about this, because Kylie Minogue has been through a lot and we are surprisingly soft-hearted when we forget to take our meds. But then we slowly realized that what has happened to her on the cover of Australian Vogue is not Kylie's fault. Therefore, we can show you the monstrosity without guilt.

Without further ado, except for the ado of adding another preceding sentence rather than just tossing it up:

What have those wizards of Oz done with the nation's favorite pert-bummed princess? Her skin isn't pale, it's pasty; her eyes are all askew, she's dressed like a warrior princess of yore who just discovered Like A Virgin, and they have gone to great lengths to enhance whatever innately rabbity qualities her teeth may have. In fact, overall, she looks completely hammered. Off-her-tree plastered. And I think a woman who just survived breast cancer deserves a little better, wouldn't you say? Something classy, something sexy, something that proves she's still every bit the bombshell she was before she grappled with the disease. Instead she got an audition photo for Terminator 4. And as much as I'd like to see her out there working, that's not exactly what I had in mind.

Hmm.

Okay. I am not at all opposed to the Ladylike Thing, as I'm sure I've mentioned here before.  I, in fact, have a complete weakness for vintage coats -- I have like seven of them, and I live in Los Angeles, where we wear coats about three months a year, tops.  And I don't really have an issue with the separate pieces of this outfit. The coat is kitschy, but that's not always a bad thing. And the dress and the gloves are fine. But together, and with her mumsy updo,  and the red lipstick and the hose and the choker, our Miss Eva looks like she's trying to make us all believe that she isn't the only woman in America who doesn't have a role in Bobby.

Then, of course, there's the other reasonable explanation, which is that Eva hit the chardonnay too hard last night while watching Back to Future, and cracked her head on the coffee table in the middle of the  Enchantment Under the Sea dance sequence,  and when she came to, the head injury caused her to think that she had been transported back to, say, 1963, and this ensemble is her desperate attempt to fit in, so that none of us realize that she's actually a starlet FROM THE FUTURE.

We've had this photo of Katharine McPhee kicking around for a while, unable to quite put our fingers on what about this shirt isn't working. Because the theory of the cutouts around her neck is sort of cute; the buttons pulling apart, less so, and that idiotic chain is just plain fugly. But still, it's not an overt disaster.

But then, suddenly, I hit on why the experience as a whole is unsettling to me.

Focus on the shirt for a while (for some of you, I know this will not be an unappealing challenge). Just look at it. Stare, and let it stare back at you. Because, you know what? I think it is staring back at you. Doesn't it appear to be... grinning? Maniacally? Flashing its blinged-out grill while it secretly plots your grisly demise? So she's standing in front of the cameras doing her innocent McPhotogenic thing, and meanwhile, McMephistopheles down there trying to seduce you into forking over your soul for $10 and a Diet Coke.

And, now that the image is in your head, I bet you'll be hard-pressed to look at the photo without wishing you could wipe the smirk off her shirt's devilish face. That's where I am, and that's why this shirt is now dead to me.

For General Release: Elisha Cuthbert has given up acting so as to concentrate on her role as Paris Hilton's pageboy and medieval-era manservant.

Her new duties include:  fetching Paris's mead; picking lice out of her hair, and the hair of her ladies-in-waiting; carrying in the boar's head for her dinner; shining and rust-proofing her suit of armor and weaponry; brushing and powdering her wigs; emptying her chamber pot; escorting the trumpeteers which announce her entrances and exits; and, of course,  escorting Paris's bedmate for the evening to and from her royal suite. We wish Elisha the best of luck in this, her new -- and very retro -- career, and congratulate her on being able to throw together the appropriate livery on such very short notice.

Cate Blanchett and I don't always agree on fashion -- not that she ever asks, of course -- but I'll give her this: She often pulls off things that, on their own merits, leave me quite cold.

For example, this getup from a while ago:

I do not care for this. I bristle at the absurdly ethereal collar that makes it look like her head is the centerpiece in a macabre gift basket. And I don't see the point in having sleeves so big you could use them as purses. And yet... maybe I'm going soft in the head, but at the time, I had to hand it to her -- she looks confident, she's standing tall, and she is working it, and that certain Cate Blanchett Aura ended up overshadowing my initial distaste for the clothes. I shrugged it off, ignored this ensemble, and moved along with other fugging.

However, this Cate Blanchett Aura is not impenetrable. It is not a free pass. And it thereby will NOT save her from being roundly chastised for the following grossly misguided piece of whimsy.

Heath: And then Michelle was like, "You look like a lumberjack," and I was like, "No, I'm a COWBOY. Maybe you're familiar with a little movie called Brokeback Mountain?" And she was like, "I was in that, ass," and I was like, "YOU'RE the ass," and then she went to the library with Matilda and came back with three pair of shoes. Do you think she's mad at me?

Ron: Um....

Heath: I was just being whimsical! I didn't mean to really call her an ass! I totally remember she was in the movie! Haven't you been married for like a million years? What am I supposed to do now?

Ron: Ah....

Heath: Should I write her a poem? Would a poem be too much? Maybe flowers?

Ron: Er...

Heath: But seriously, between you and me? How could you look at this and think "lumberjack"? Women! I think the hormones have gone to her eyes!

Ron: You do sort of look like...you know what? Never mind.  Loved you in Brokeback.

Much like Garth Brooks got juiced by masquerading as alt-rocker Chris Gaines, his wife Trisha Yearwood has apparently decided to reimagine herself as an attractive older actress named Shandice Mergen who prefers to downplay her graceful ascent into her twilight years by shrouding herself in dowdy skirts that turn her hourglass into a bloated rectangle.

And thusly, after a successful run on the Oxygen network playing a newscaster whose tenderhearted tough-guy plumber (Oliver Platt) takes ten years to finish her apartment, Shandice will be spotted around Hollywood pitching a drama show for herself called Austin Legal, co-starring Leonard Nimoy, Andrew McCarthy, and either Jack #1 or Jack #3 from Days of our Lives. Good luck to you, Shandice! We hope you remember soon that you do, in fact, have a waist.

Dear EVERYONE,

I TOLD Y'ALL I WAS GONNA DO IT.

To Kevin: HA HA. I was just waiting until I started to get hot again to file the papers. Check out my cute, post-baby body. HOW DO YOU LIKE THIS? Yeah! That's what I'm TALKING ABOUT. It's a CLASSY dress on a HOT BODY and I still have LIKE A LOT MORE DOLLARS THAN YOU DO.  So you can SUCK IT. When I told you the other night that I was bringing sexy back, I was NOT kidding, even if you did laugh.  Who's laughing now?! (I am.)

I hope you enjoy the case of Pabst I gave you to celebrate your stupid  "album" dropping, because that is the LAST THING you are going to get from me EVER. I hope your cornrows all fall out and you trip on your manpris and you break your face and you crash your car.

To Cameron Diaz: Watch yourself.

To the rest of world:  YOU'RE WELCOME.

LOVE, BRITNEY!

A drama in one act,  starring four celebrities who can actually dress themselves: a miracle in our time.

Isaiah Washington: Oh, HAHAHAHAHA! Let me playfully touch your arm, Doogie, so as to show America that I totally never made any homophobic comments about George! See, I LOVE gays! Love 'em!

Kate Walsh: I've got great hair. I'm going to think about that, and just smile. Like I have no part in whatever the hell Isaiah is doing over here. Great hair.  Great, great hair.

Neil Patrick Harris: Is this guy touching my arm? This is that guy who choked Loverboy out, right? Okay, I'm just gonna be cool.

Alyson Hannigan: Should I go back to being a redhead?

Isaiah Washington: See?! I would NEVER say anything mean about the gays. I LOVE THEM. Especially this one. Don't let my rageaholic behavior influence your People's Choice vote, America! I was just trying to fix Patrick Dempsey's HAIR! There was no CHOKING! I was REARRANGING the HAIRS on his NECK. That is ALL!

Kate Walsh: How did  I get roped into being the girl on Isaiah's  Goodwill tour? Couldn't they have made the blonde one do this? At least this color is good on me. You know, I think Willow should go back to red hair.

Neil Patrick Harris:  Seriously, dude, get your hand off my arm. Don't be misled by this week's classy and nonchalant coming out statement, and my smart yet casual ensemble: Doogie will cut you.

Isaiah Washington: HAHAHAHAHAH! This is so much FUN!

Alyson Hannigan: This is so awkward.

True confessions: I love math. And sometimes, the sweet simplicity of those familiar operations can cradle us in our attempts to explain these times of sartorial woe.

Take, for example, the fugamatics of an outfit worn by the generally lovely Mia Maestro.

Severe hair  +  cheap illusion netting befitting a figure skater whose career high was a fourth-place finish in the Galleria Mall Public Rink Talent Competition For Under-16s, No Prior Experience Required   +  wrinkled satin  –  anything happy  *  an explosion of bleak floral-esque decorations on the chestal region that make me want to sing that doom, rather than June, is busting out all over  =  a dress I hope never to see again unless an intrepid reader decides to recreate it for Halloween and provides us with a photo of that glorious fugbute.

We love it when Australia's Melbourne Cup Day rolls around. For one thing, we're assured of hearing from our Aussie readers about the absolute worst get-ups the celebs present inflict on them, and we love having you guys out scouting for us.  For another, there is always someone who looks deliciously fuggable, thanks to the traditional outfits, with the whimsical hats and the flirty little  frocks and the bra tops:

Bec Hewitt -- formerly Bec Cartwright -- is best known, as I understand it, for having been in the popular Australian soap Home and Away, and for marrying tennis star Lleyton Hewitt. And he is, indeed, an handsome accessory to this otherwise horrifying ensemble. That shirt is so wrong that I am pretty much almost speechless.  It's like a cummerbund...attached to a bandage...as styled by Madonna circa 1996. And I can't look away from it. I can only imagine the kind of shenanigans that ensued at this event, as men and women alike fixated on her heinous bra top, spilling their drinks and running into walls. And when Bec and Lleyton got home, she was all indignant that all anyone talked to the whole evening were her breasts, all "my eyes are up here!" and Lleyton was like, "I'm just going to run out and hit my tennis balls around, because I can't tell you that the reason they were fixated on your chest was that you appear to be wearing a couture version of those weird breast-enlargement bras they sell on infomercials, that vacuum pump your boobs into the next cup size. THAT'S why they were looking at you. Cheerio!"

I hope this shirt, in fact, does not set off a web of lies that destroys the very fabric of their marriage.

Now that Candy Spelling appears to be out one female heir, it would appear that Miley Cyrus -- having realized that pa Billy Ray isn't quite the achy-breaky cash cow the world once tried to make him -- has a cunning plan to attract The Lady of the Manor by dressing up as a ribbon dispenser from her famed Wrapping Room #2. Signed adoption papers can't be far behind.

Now, listen. I know there's a certain subset of country music that remains as fringey and spangled as it ever was (look, I LOVED the Barbara Mandrell Show when I was a little girl, what can I say?), but there has to come a point where you look down at your BeDazzled To Match pink shoes and say, "I think this is too much."

I think this is too much.

Exhibit Z that Scarlett Johansson and her stylist don't always know what to do with her:

I would comment on how costumey her makeup is, or on how much I hate the blousy silhouette the torso section of this dress creates, were I able to focus in a serious way on any of those things. However, as usual, I'm stuck trying to figure out how Team Scarlett managed to find a dress again that gives her celebrated rack such an odd mushy mashed shape. To be clear: I am pro-cleavage, and hers is very lovely, but doesn't the cut of the dress make the ladies look, unbelievably, both droopy and perky?

It's like they've been poorly mummified. They're being strapped down against her chest, yet also hoisted up near her neck, all the while both breasts are making hostile advances across the border of Armpit City. Is that even physically possible? What madness is this?

I had hoped we were past the days of Christina Aguilera giving us all a window into her lingerie drawer. Although, even she looks sort of put-out and unimpressed -- perhaps her she's frustrated that her breasts are capable of independent and rash action, having decided to stretch a fishnet stocking over their entireties to better commit a bank robbery without capable eyewitnesses.

And she'd been doing so well lately. Was Jordan Bratman out of town? I guess it just goes to show that you can drag the girl out of the dirrty, but you can't always drag the dirrty out of the girl.

Part of me suspects that Gabrielle Carteris came to the Melrose Place and 90210 DVD release party (sidebar: AT LAST, THANK YOU,  LORD! Our prayers have been answered!) in costume as Andrea Zuckerman:

Those sleeves just scream "Doctor divorced from man she married because he knocked her up, back in town to try and seduce the self-righteous dude who refused to take the flower of her virginity when she offered it to him -- because he was moving back to Minneapolis -- in one of the most cringe-y scenes ever put to film, topping even the time Donna starred in David's 'Light the Match' video and was forced to wear hot pants and gyrate on the hood of a car, lighting matches  under the disapproving eye of her dreamy and likewise virginal star quarterback boyfriend, Heart Condition Joe." And I don't know: All  that fringe is kinda mesmerizing, like something you'd seen on a fortune teller at the county fair. Brandon might be hypnotized into going for it.

Overall, though, the gang from the Peach Pit has held up pretty well:

In this tableau alone we've got: 1) a victim of date rape, attempted rape, non-date rape, amnesia, a terrible frat-house fire, a stalker, a cult, endometriosis, drug addiction, diet pills addiction, and her step-brother seeing her naked;  2) a dude whose mom was homeless and mentally ill, who was addicted to meth REALLY BAD for one day, who stole money from his girlfriend, who accidentally misplaced his sister because of drugs, who saw his friend accidentally kill himself, and who had to deflower Tori Spelling;  3) Steve Sanders;  4) the most self-righteous character ever written who also happened to be gambling addict, a possible sex addict and someone who caused a drunk-driving accident; and 5) a Type A perfectionist who nevertheless almost had an affair with her drama teacher, had an affair with a dude she met at the laundromat, had an affair with her RA, had an unplanned pregnancy and a terribly painful divorce, and also really bad outfits. Seriously,  all things considered, they look pretty swell.

You know, I was all set to fug Courtney Love  for the following:

You know, because it's crazy. And then I saw her without her coat (but WITH her elbow-length knit gloves!) at her book signing:

And I kind of fell in love again for the first time, you know? Every day is a learning experience for me here at GFY HQ.  I have discovered, for example, that, despite what she may wear, J.Lo has really good hair. I've had it confirmed for me that Satin Is Hard To Wear. And I've learned, once and for all, that I have unexpectedly positive reactions people in glasses, be they real or not.

Good old C Love has pulled it together in a kooky way that amuses me. Sure, the dress is too short and she's a total mess, basically, but she's also Courtney Love, and in a way -- as fun as it was to watch Courtney's High Class Makeover of 1996 -- is she really Courtney Love if she's not stomping around with mussed eye makeup and tights? There's something about the way her Punk Mom persona slams right into this new  Sexpot Book Author look that makes me want to buy her book and throw a microphone stand at someone's head.

Wikipedia identifies Lady Victoria Hervey as "an English socialite," but considering the fact that she's appeared on the Brit reality trainwreck Love Island, we assume she is a socialite the way that Paris Hilton is a socialite, not the way that the good people at Socialite Rank would consider someone a socialite.  Also, the more you type the word "socialite," the less it seems like a real word and the more it begins to look like a random and meaningless collection of consonants. Anyway, take a gander at madame:

The thing is, this is terribly cute...as a Halloween costume, and this was not a Halloween party, as far as we can tell. If it was, everyone else who attended came in costume as themselves.

I actually think the shift is really cute (for summer, with sandals? Cute!), and she certainly has great legs, but when you wear something as vintage-y as this is, you have to be really careful to make sure that you don't look like you just escaped from the set of Hullabaloo. White go-go boots, as cute as they may be, are exactly where you don't go.  (Also, is she wearing dark-ish hose? With white boots? And a summer frock? Oh, there is so much work left to be done.)

I do have a theory, though: Lady Victoria has been appearing at all kinds of events here in the States lately, especially Hollywood ones, and I wonder if she's trying to break through as some kind of celebu-personality here. In which case, dressing like an extra from Austin Powers might seem like just the ticket. It's sort of shorthand for "I'm that new British bird! Don't you want to shag me? Hire me for some chat show hosting job! Pass the bangers, what what!"

Here's hoping it works, because otherwise we're all about six weeks from seeing her show up somewhere in Ginger Spice's old Union Jack dress.

Although, frankly, I've rather missed that get-up.

Okay, then: carry on, Victoria.

Dear Ms. Benedicto:

We are sorry to hear that you were killed off The Nine in its premiere episode and that you've been reduced to appearing in flashbacks; we're sorrier still to recall your stint on Dawson's Creek. Yes, we saw you. Don't mess with Pacey Witter, okay? That's your life lesson for today. Step away from Josh Jackson.

As delighted as we were to see that you "starred" in the soapy midemeanor Titans, we regret to inform you that at this time, we cannot get behind your latest pitch because nobody is looking to remake Robin Hood. Although we cherish your take that Robin is a Pat-like gender-bending female character who turns England on its ear by redefining just what exactly "Sherwood Forest" means, we suspect that nobody is terribly interested in seeing anyone -- male or female -- parade around in ill-fitting capri pants and pixie boots. But we appreciate your interest in the genre, and recommend that you consider seeking work at Medieval Times, or other such historically relevant places of employ.

Best of luck!

Sincerely,

Les Moonves

P.S. However, if you have a pitch for C.S.I.: Nottingham, please let us know, as we're always looking for ways to make forensics fresh and perhaps the olden days are the way to go. Call now and we won't kill you off in episode three!

Congratulations to gospel singer Soyara Moraes, winner of a silver medal in "Conceptual Fug: How to Abuse and Besmirch The Almighty Dust Ruffle."

We would show you the winner, but the poor sap was knocked on her derriere when an overenthusiastic event staffer tried to vacuum up under her, and the subsequent head injury sent her to the hospital. Fortunately, we know Soraya here can undertake all the necessary chores usually handed to the title holder, which include but aren't limited to allowing for the temporary storage up under her garment of dusty and unused abdominal exercise equipment, sex toys, and bills we don't want our parents to find right away if we die in an untimely accident.

I must admit, I hesitated a bit before posting this photo because,  honestly, I think Kate Bosworth looks somewhat unwell, and it makes me sad.

But then I thought about it, and I wondered: is overlooking the travesty of pale-wash demin helping anyone, or are we merely compounding the problem by pretending that shirtdresses styled like the Guess jean jacket I sported in 8th grade do not exist? As my grandma used to say, you have to pick your battles, and while whatever else is going on with La Bosworth is beyond my sphere of influence, her dress is totally the kind of fug that I must take a stand against. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: if your mom wore it to your junior high school graduation, or, indeed, to any event at which "The Wind Beneath My Wings" was performed, you probably shouldn't wear it now.

"Good evening, I'm Julie Chen.

Tonight, the Golden Power of Fug Veto is up for grabs. Will my curiously tailored, overly pouffy Bolero jacket win the Power of Veto for the fourth week in a row, or will my bizarre black lace accents finally succeed in removing the Bolero from my wardrobe? Find out tonight, on Big Fugger. But first, my sofa talks about what it's like to be stripped for materials for my outfits...."

Que? Why do you look at me this way? You've never seen a woman in a red origami minidress before? Bah! Next you're going to tell me it's not normal for a man to drink paint thinner like it's milk! Hahahahahaha! So stop with the sass, little bitch Garners, because the only thing that gives my Marc more seconds of pure half-strength than paint thinner is the sight of me in what he calls my sexy blood clot outfit! He is the teeeeny pequenito stick of celery in my giant Bloody Mary and he LOVES when I say that because it gets him all hot and bothered and he has to go suck on a tomato for two hours, which is what he usually does when he gets excited. Well, when he's not doing ME! For TWO WHOLE MINUTES! OH, YES, THAT IS RIGHT, JUDGY TYPES! So STICK THAT IN YOUR CAMERA and EAT IT!

Sometimes, Ann Curry's overly maternal and husky-voiced interview style, which is almost always too earnest and never at ease with whimsy, drives me up the wall. But there is something oddly comforting about her voice, and she's rather lovely -- you can't deny that for a woman who is turning a  50 later this month, Ann hardly looks over 35. So to that, I say, "Well played, Ann Curry. Well played indeed."

However...

... it's days like Halloween on which I think Ann wonders how she got from a journalism degree and two LA-area Emmys to a job that requires her to parade around in a Cher costume, exposing her bits (toned though they may be) in a spangly spandex jumpsuit while people across America gape in unsettled alarm. Not because there is anything wrong with her figure, but because this is Ann f'ing Curry, and America is not ready for their relationship with Ann f'ing Curry to get to this level. And she knows it. She's the woman we're supposed to feel comfortable confiding in about our financial struggles, or our lady problems, or obesity in our schools, or sensible makeup choices. She is not the woman whose breasts and upper thighs we are supposed to see. It feels uncomfortably like catching your cousin in the shower by accident: not illegal, exactly, but nonetheless ooky and wrong.

Needless to say, we here at GFY are thankful that Halloween has passed. Not because we didn't enjoy it -- Jessica made a stellar Anna Wintour, complete with a copy of Vogue marked up with scathing Post-It notes denoting which cover lines were idiotic and which models/writers should be fired immediately; and even though I just sort of looked like a more deranged and incontinent version of myself, I do think the adult diapers were the best part of my Fergie costume, and thus well worth it. So, no, we have nothing against All Hallows Eve. We're just happy to see it pass because we'd like to go back to people wearing fugly clothes on their own accounts, and not to mimic somebody or something else. A return to normalcy -- fuglamcy -- is what we need.

To be sung to the tune of  "Sandy,"  preferably whilst dressed as John Travolta:

"Stranded on the red carpet
Branded a mess
The fuggers will hate this
That you can guesssss

Saaaandy, can't you see
We're in misery
You made a start
It fell apart
There's nothin' good to see.
Your look has flown
We scroll,  it's blown
We have to wonder  wh  -  yi-yi-yi
Oh why you wore these
Oh, Sandy!

Oh Sandy, baaaaaaby, someday
If you don't pair ankle boots with all those kooky hems
Somehow, somewaaaaaay
We'll praise you again

We wonder iiiiif you're preeeeegnant
From the chest up, you look swell!
Knees down, it's  far from dandy,
Oh Saaaaaandy

(Spoken interlude!)
Sandy, my darlin'
You hurt us real bad.
You know it's true
But baby you gotta believe us
when we say, we want to like you.

(Big finish!)
Your look is blown, all alone
We sit
And wonder why-yi-yi-yi
Oh why
You wore these
Oh Saaaandy"