December 2006 Archives

As 2006 draws to a close, it comes time to reflect upon all that we bore witness to in the celebrity realm. It was a fully adequite year,what with Britney finally dumping Kevin (yay!) and then starting to date Paris Hilton (boo); Jessica Simpson had a year-long nervous breakdown culminating in forgetting the words to 9-5 -- words which anyone who's SEEN 9-5 know well enough to fake it; Ashlee Simpson got her nose done, thus taking the first small steps toward enacting revenge on her sister for years of being treated like the lesser Simpson child; Lindsay Lohan...well, it's too long to get into here, but I think we all recall the highlights (Harry Morton, vagina, car crashes, alleged ODs, alleged AA, mother issues, father issues, blonde, brunette, red head, firecrotch, skinny, skinnier, allegedly coke-bloated, adequite spelling and grammar); Nicole Richie lost and gained the same two pounds over and over again and then finally lost approximately 85 pounds when she dumped Rachel Zoe, then celebrated by taking a little drive; Paris Hilton completed another year of getting people to pay attention to her for doing nothing, basically, and also released an album which I MIGHT have listened to in the car sometimes, but mostly because it was so bad that I found it kind of hilarious; Victoria Beckham wore a series of short-shorts and huge glasses to the World Cup, and we kind of shook our heads and then we read her new style book and decided that anyone who thanks Joan Collins in her acknowledgments is kind of fantastic; Hilary Duff dumped Joel Madden and grew into her teeth; Tara Reid took out her sandbags and had new, better sandbags placed in her chestral area. She seems to have cleaned up her act, but we are not holding our collective breath; Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes "had" a baby, got married, and performed unholy experiments with their bangs (pictured); Courtney Peldon might have been engaged to Crispin Glover and then wasn't anymore, and decided that she needed to be married to her perfume line instead; we mostly stopped saying mean things about Maggie Gyllenhaal, mostly, because she looked pretty cute when she was pregnant; Kiki Dunst won my heart with a pair of big fake glasses; I had a fight with one of my friends over whether or not I was allowed to be sick of Jennifer Aniston's Pain yet (I think I am); Aaron Spelling died and we were devastated. Tori Spelling seemed to handle it pretty well;  Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt actually DID have probably the best-looking baby ever born; lots of other celebrities babies were also born or adopted, and because we are secretly softies, we kind of thought they were all pretty cute; Fergie managed not to pee on herself, AND she's still dating Josh Duhamel, so we kind of had to hand it to her, but we'd like to see her lose the shorts for once; and, our intern won an Oscar AND was named Sexiest Man Alive. We thought about giving him a raise, but just gave him a hug instead.

Other stuff happened, too, but our hands are tired of typing. Needless to say, we are very pleased that you stuck with us through it all -- through all the leggings and Uggs and Crocs and formal shorts, the man-ties and jumpsuits and fake tans, the good wigs and the bad. Every day's a holiday with you, dear readers: often, in fact,  it was a Lohan holiday.

So Happy New Year from the Fug Girls and Intern George! We plan to spend this long weekend sharpening our claws, and we'll be back to our regularly scheduled eviscerations on Tuesday, January 2, 2007. Drink some champagne for us -- we're going to have some for you.

Dear Ali Lohan,

I don't really want to do this to you -- haven't you had enough problems lately? Your family is f'ed -- but I have to, for several reasons:

a) No one -- NO ONE -- is leaving the house right now.  All our usual, reliable fugly subjects are locked up at home, stock-piling their supply of Crocs to be worn to formal events during the upcoming awards season. You're the only one outside now, Lohan. You're the only deer in the Fug Forest and I have but one bullet remaining. It has your name on it.

b) Are you wearing STIRRUP PANTS? I want to stab something.

c) All of this might have earned you a pass, except you subjected us to A Lohan Holiday. Reader, please, go listen to it. It will NEVER LEAVE YOUR BRAIN. Consider it my gift to you, this holiday season. And if someone could tell me what a "Lohan Holiday" entails, I would be incredibly grateful. I have my suspicions, but they are legally questionable.

As 2006 draws to a close, and we drag ourselves from our brandy-soaked nog comas, a fugger's thoughts drift from their usual concerns (is it okay to eat fudge for breakfast ? What's Joe E. Tata been up to lately? Are we really going to to watch She's All That again, and would it be fair to compare Usher's role in such to David Silver?  Where are our pants?), and instead turn to those we have fugged this year, and those who have not been fugged. In today's post-holiday goodwill-haze, we choose kindness and gratitude, and thank Jessica Biel for transforming herself from Tragic Refugee From That Show Of Aaron Spelling's That We're Excluding From the All-Spelling Network We're Working On and into a generally well-dressed babe. (Also: we know, we know -- you can't write about Jessica Biel without asking where her ass came from. Did she have that on 7th Heaven, but it was concealed, because you can't spell Satan without two of the letters in "ass"? Or did she get addicted to squats? Actually, we don't care how she got it -- she's working it, and we salute everyone who's working whatever they've got.)

So pretty! And I kind of like the white shoes -- they're refreshing in a way that black ones wouldn't be, and make her outfit look more age-appropriate.

Satin + pockets usually = hot, wrinkled, hippy mess, ergo pulling this off is a triumph indeed.

I want those shoes.

So she's definitely doing variations on the same shape in all of these -- pencil skirty, and tailored, but it works for her. It's body-conscious without making her body the focus of everyone's attention. She looks classy, but not boring (since all the pieces have some interesting detail), and...I'm sorry, I'd like to continue, but I really need some more nog. Let's just put it this way: Nicole Richie picked up Biel's stylist, and I'm glad, because she seems to know what she's doing. Also:  Usher's role in She's All That is clearly inspired by the David Silver role in 90210 -- the similarities are driven home by the fact that the movie was filmed at the same high school that housed the kids from West Beverly -- but to draw too many parallels between them would be to disregard the depth of the Silver character and assume that all high school DJs are the same, which likewise does Usher's nuanced portrayal of a dude who appears to speak only from the DJ booth no favors.

And apparently, Joe E Tata hasn't worked since 2001. We're kind of worried about him.

When Intern George isn't rubbing our feet, scrawling "Mr. George Fug Girls" on his Trapper Keeper, or peeling grapes that he then feeds us from a silver platter -- as we lounge on our chaises and swoon, "Dahling, WHITHER the fug today, I shall simply PERISH if Mischa Barton doesn't soon leave the house in a Value Village tee!" -- we sometimes let him answer our mail. And today, we decided to let him print some of his answers. We swear on all things holy (so, on George himself) that these are all VERY real e-mails we've received at GFY HQ, with names removed to protect the somewhat innocent.

E-mail #1

Subject line: hi

hi hilary. I think.Just wanted to say that u r my biggest fan

Dear Friend,

This was a wonderful, soul-tingling surprise. Because you know what, sweet snacktoast? I am your biggest fan, and I'm not sure how you knew to trust my willing arms, but in this crazy mixed-up world of hate and hunger, I am so thankful you could close your eyes and shove it away and see only a steaming, juicy platter of me, your Hilary. Indeed, it matters not what you call me. The heart needs no label but the one that says, "Open."

Enter at will,
G

E-mail #2

Subject Line: Thx

Hi Joe,

Thx for the tip.Your blog is great I like the celebrity section.

Keep visiting my blog.

thx again

Dear Friend,

It's funny, isn't it, how some days we all like to hide behind talking about a blog -- when what we're really saying is, "You know what, friend? I'm feeling vulnerable, and I need the kind of hug that will make me feel like the star of your movie. Please, nugget, don't foresake me. I need you now more than ever before." So don't run, gentle dumpling. My casting couch is one of hugs and honesty. Let me direct your movie with my sturdy arms.

Action,
G

E-mail #3

Subject Line: about a boy named ryan

dear fergie, why is this bo0y chetting on me beacas he said your hot so now we broke up from your falt.thank you fergie

Dear Broken Friend,

My heart aches for you, gentle wonder! When confronting the traitor that unwittingly clasped your trust in his manly, moisturized mitts and then gave it hives from all the perfumes in his luxe creams, you actually signed off with a mannerly thank you to the careless caregiver! O, curses! Damn my warming, welcome embrace! A pox on these open arms! It's the cruelest fate that the greatest gift I have could be used against someone so pure.

You tell that boy that the promise of a supportive squeeze from a lifelong friend like me is no excuse to act a cad. You tell him you're worth more than his weak affections. And then you get RIGHT on over here and let me soothe you the only way I know how: against my restorative pecs.

Hurtin' hearts need some hugging,
G

E-mail #4

Subject Line: Poor george

Dear fuggers,

I just wanted to offer my condolences to Intern George for the loss of his best friend. Maybe he should get a foot rub today.

Dear Friend(s),

So many beautiful fug huggers sent messages of worry and support during this trying time. This generosity of spirit reached out and fondled my grief with its medicinal digits, and I got off the table after a full emotional release feeling newly hopeful.

Life will not be the same without Max -- to borrow from Charlotte, the spider whose eight legs can create a safe place as divine as any human hugspace, Max was Some Pig. And although I grieve for his porcine snuggles, the best therapy short of hugging myself, there is a silver lining: I lost my best pig, but I gained so many other life partners in you all.

I'm welling up. The Cup of George runneth over; this holiday season I will do nothing but meditate upon your kindness, sending hug after virtual hug into the ether. Pluck one. Stuff it with cheese. Then wrap it in kisses.

Happiest of holidays to you, the balm to my gloom.

Thank you for saving my bacon,
Your G

A very merry Christmas to those readers who celebrate it, and the happiest of three-day weekends to those who don't! As for us, we're taking the day off to roll around in vats of figgy pudding and heavily spiked nog, after which Intern George will present us with several extravagent and glorious gifts, proving once and for all that he does truly love us, and that he is not -- as some of you might suspect -- merely a figment of our fevered, drunk imagination.

Now, we don't know what he's got in store for us, but we do have a Wish List. All the Fug Girls want for Christmas can be found....under the jump.

NCIS actress Pauley Perrette loves wearing tees with things written on them, as we learned last time we featured her.  And she has struck again:

Now, don't get me wrong. I agreed that there are things in the world that are totally f'ed (to speak in FCC-approved language, language that will not get us blocked from your workplace). I likewise agree that said things in the world should be un-f'ed. You know, like war and famine and lactose intolerance and whatnot. (A life without cheese? Horrifying.)  On that, we are totally agreed. But we differ on ONE tiny point: I do not think I would look in my closet and say, "What to wear on an evening where I will be meeting former Vice President Al Gore? I know. My 'Unfuck The World' tee shirt." I mean, I'm sure Al agrees and all, but maybe, when meeting former heads of state, it might be more appropriate to opt for your "Save The World" tee shirt, or your "Save the Whales" tee shirt, or even your "Save Winona" tee shirt.  Because, in certain circles, working blue is not going to get you the response you want. It's just going to make people feel a little uncomfortable -- like the difference between your boyfriend telling his roommate a blow job joke, and him telling it to your grandma.

And if there's one thing we need to take away with us in this season of peace and light, it's that none of us want to be talking to our grandmas about blow jobs.

In fact, I need to stop talking about this right now.  How did I even get to this point? I'm horrified at myself. I'm just going to shut up. Stop reading this.  Go call your grandma.

Perhaps as an homage to being in a holiday horror film, Michelle Trachtenberg decided to show up at its premiere dressed as if she's the walking dead.

She looks like a dead bride -- choked to death by her collar, mayhap? -- who's haunting the Hollywood & Highland complex in her moldy old gown, hoping to scare the couture off some better-dressed starlets. But Michelle should have planned this out better. By garbing herself as the embodiment of otherwordly gloom, she has committed what should still be on the list of cardinal sins in Hollywood: She let Tara Reid outshine her. Oh, the angst-filled, angry diary entries that will ensue.

We've been fugging a lot of covers lately, begging the question: What is up with January magazine covers? Traditionally, January issues are thin and flat -- like a bad hair day -- presumably because mag staffers are exhausted from putting together the December issues, which generally could be used to weight down a body. You know, if you were that kind of a girl. So I guess it's not too surprising that a lot of January covers are kind of lackluster. And yet I could not let Janet Jackson's appearance on Singapore's Harper's Bazaar pass without comment:

To be blunt about it: Is there some law that Janet Jackson can not appear on the cover of any major magazine in pants? Remember her W cover? This is almost exactly the same concept. I mean, it's more Wholesome 80s Super Model Going For a Dip in the Pool After Some Refreshing Tab, while that one was more...freaky.  But, seriously: We know, you lost a whole lot of weight. Your body looks nice. Excuse me, according to the cover, it is "killer." (And I don't think the use of the phrase "the skinny" on the cover is a coincidence, either.) But would it kill you to CONSIDER PANTS on occasion? EVEN THIN PEOPLE WEAR PANTS. We'll still KNOW that your ass is smaller than it used to be. You can PUT IT AWAY NOW.

Satin is one of the toughest fabrics to wear unless you are built like a curtain rod. And formal shorts are, quite simply, cut from bolts of fabric woven out of the devil's back hair. Separately, they are one occasionally toxic friend, and one flat-out evil bitch. And we had hoped that never the two would meet.

We should really know better.

Not only have they converged, but in the form of a strapless-onesie, to boot. It figures that fashion-challenged Brooke Hogan -- she of that repellant shiny grill, which thankfully she is no longer sporting -- would be the one trying to turn these two wrongs into a right. Alas, she has instead turned them into something too tight.

Well, well, well. Looks like somebody's still striving to do right by that recent Us Weekly cover.

Not too bloated, nothing popping out, hanging out, or trying to escape, no mascara dribbling down her face like strained carrots from the mouth of a baby... Yes, okay, I still think she's lying about not getting a facial tweak or three when she went in to drain those godawful sandbags, but on the whole, it looks like her resolution to be less terrifying has indeed taken hold.

Ladies and gentlemen, let's start a slow clap for Ms. Tara Reid, potentially (please forgive my reluctance to go full-bore on the optimism) a guttersnipe no more.

I know that socialite Birdie Bell's shoes are in fashion, but I don't like them with this dress, at all:

To me, she looks like a 1940s war bride, slaving away at home whilst her beloved risks his life for our country. But not in that hot,  eye-pencil-drawn-up-the-back-of-your-leg-to-approximate seamed-stockings, adorably snooded, jitterbug-dancing, Victory Garden-keeping, USO-visiting, wearing-dungarees-to-the-factory kind of way. In a sort of dowdy, sensibly orthopedically-shod, "I'm not really interested in giving it up to you, even though we could all die tomorrow, AND we just had what should be a romantic quickie wedding" kind of way.  This girl is spying on her neighbors because she thinks they're cheating on their rations, and she thinks dancing is Satan's shortcut to sin.  She doesn't wear eye liner even on her eyes, and her letters to the front are neither amusing nor inspirational.

NO ONE wants to be that girl.

Sometimes, Beyonce Knowles gets it right; other times, she's maddeningly wrong. But it's not often that she hits both notes in one day. At one location.

Exhibit A: The Good.

Aside from the fact that she and Miss Tyra Banks could have a seriously fierce weave-off -- the likes of which could, nay WOULD, change the meaning of life for us all -- Beyonce looks quite pretty. We love that she has a normal body and love it even more when she drapes it well. Here, she's a gentle hourglass.

And now for something completely different.

Did Billie Piper burn down the Glamour UK offices?

Because from everything I've seen her in -- admittedly, we're talking mostly British tabloids and chat shows, since I don't watch Doctor Who -- she seems bubbly and fun, and while she is wearing something that you need to be bubbly and fun to pull off (hey, sequins on a January cover? Works for me, since gold sequins are basically what champagne would look like if it were fabric), her face looks like she's just received a Botox facial and a death kiss from Vlad the Impaler.  Get this girl some lippie!

In fact, I noticed when I was London over the summer that many British women's mags actually give away REAL ITEMS with each purchase (one of them actually included an actual bikini, which I think is brilliant. Why don't they do this in the United States?). Maybe the Gift With Purchase with this issue is a tube of a gloss that includes actual color, thus allowing readers to avoid the cover look, in some kind of nifty reverse psychological trick. Nude lips are well and good, you know, but they sure are hard to pull off without looking like you just stumbled from your cold, dark grave in search of warm virgin flesh upon which to feast.

So basically,  I'm just saying, that if you are a British Glamour staffer, and you run into Billie Piper in a dark alley or a wine cellar, or near any kind of crypt-like thing, just get out your garlic, okay?

Theoretically, there's not much wrong with this photo...

... except that it'd be nice if somebody told Kate Mara to stand up straight and look lively. Seriously, is she at the premiere of a movie she's in, or is she being forced to attend a We Are Marshall-themed prom with her pimply, socially inept, and inappropriately grabby cousin? It's hard to tell.

Wild horses couldn't keep Amy Smart away from this party.

I'm serious. Even the cold, hard, irreversible reality of being seen in public wearing a beige silk blouse adorned with galloping stallions somehow did not deter Amy Smart from leaving the house.

Hell, throw in the pants -- droopy at the waist, yet simultaneously managing to give her a nice package for Christmas, if you get my drift -- and the fact that she still hasn't figured out how to make up her face, and Amy really ought to spend the entire WEEK at home eating popcorn and watching She's The Man on DVD. There's nothing like a little inspirational teen comedy to clear the mind. I mean, if Amanda Bynes can overcome gender discrimination -- not to mention strapping down her breasts and wearing a hideous brown wig in order to pose as her brother, evading her brother's persistent and somewhat needy psychotic girlfriend, convincing her classmates she's a total ladykilling dude despite the fact that she looks like she's two years away from puberty, falling in love with her male roommate who thinks she is bepenised, trying to get on the men's soccer team to play against her old school and specifically her jerkwad ex and BEAT ALL OF THEIR SORRY ASSES, and (spoiler!) getting exposed on the soccer field -- and STILL get the guy, well, surely Amy Smart can come to terms with a concept as basic and unchallenging as The Goodwill Pile.

Former model Carol Alt is in great shape:

And now EVERYONE KNOWS IT.

That being said, I've got no problem with her working it -- she looks fantastic -- but must she work the aforementioned it in something that recalls nothing so much as a formal version of Britney's Front-Thong BoHo Bathroom Skirt?

Remember the first season of American Idol, when we all rooted for Kelly Clarkson over Paula Abdul's poofy-haired and bepenised favorite, Justin Guarini? And we were all really happy that she won, because, among other things, we were kind of tired of the show ramming shots of Justin's dad down our throats? Yes, he was a police chief, and even though he didn't raise Justin, he's here now and they're fine and that's great and oh, look, there he is again, crying, and there he is AGAIN, and look, AGAIN, and OH MY GOD, WE GET IT.

Let me refresh your memory, in case those heady days are too far behind you and you never happened to catch the cinematic abortion that is From Justin To Kelly (which, if you didn't, don't, but you ARE missing out on her dancing around in a skirt made of ties).

Here is Justin Guarini.

His curly mop was his signature -- well, that, and singing some longing love song or other (I think it was "Get Here") directly at Paula, causing her to break into a sweat of potent yearning -- and although I never really got swept away by the 'fro, or by him, I appreciated that he had something distinctive going.

And yet, I also never thought I'd miss it if it went away.

Until now.

We've made plenty of snide comments about Wilmer Valderrama in the past. I believe we even may have compared him, visually, to a strung out serial killer at some point.  But now that I think about it, maybe he was just recovering from the stress of dating Lindsay Lohan. Sure, at the time we were all like, "Poor Lindsay! She's taking this so hard. Boo,  Wilmer, you broke her heart." And now, it's a bit more like, "Oh, man.  She's really kind of gone overboard, hasn't she? How long do you think it's been like this? It's sad: she's nuts. It must have been stressful for him to deal with her obvious problems for so long. "

And, like Ben Affleck rising from the greasy, bloated, gambling-addicted flames of his broken engagement to J Lo to emerge once again as a cute guy who would probably be pretty amusing to hang out and watch the game with, Wilmer has finally crawled his way out of Skeevewatch and turned into a pretty sharp-looking guy of late. Behold, besuited:

Classy! Sharp! We're not looking at the pinky-ring! Everything else is good!

Then we've got the no-suit-but-still-kinda-dressed-up, appropriate-for-a-holiday-party-or-dinner-with-your-parents look:

And, finally, the most casual incarnation:

We do try and give credit when it's due, and it's definitely due in Wilmer's case. There was an article about him in Entertainment Weekly about a month ago, in which he seemed pretty smart and together and serious about transitioning to producing and more adult roles, and I must say, it's nice to see someone back that up with what looks like an actual change, other than following the Tara Reid role of cleaning up briefly and then, the next day, falling over a curb in a drunken stupor and crying that no one takes you seriously AGAIN. He seems to have a weakness for the man-jewelry, but overall, he's skeeveless, and that's just what we like to see.

Now, if he would just stop talking about all the starlets he's slept with, we'd be in business.

We're not completely sure what about being a Pussycat Doll evokes costuming oneself like a futuristic porn gladiatrix, but here's lead singer Nicole, dressed like she's playing the leading role in the rebels vs. establishment erotic drama Colisemen:

This one is almost a scrolldown. The harsh hair and makeup, which age her (she's allegedly 28; would you have guessed closer to 35? I would've), are odd enough; then you get down to the stretchy jumpsuit and the cuffs, as if she's hoping people will mistake her for somebody with either rock talent, super powers, or both, and then you arrive at the lace-up leather legwarmers/boot covers that have been yanked back to reveal mesh peep-toed foot sheaths. I refuse to call them shoes; it would defame the entire concept of the mighty shoe.

And how sweet that she appears to be blowing a raspberry right back at us, unless of course that's collagen gone wrong. Did Jessica Simpson's inflate her lips to sausage proportions in vain?

The rest of the Pussycat Dolls should consider themselves lucky that we can't remember their faces or names...

In yet another case of mistaken fugdentity...

When I first saw a small version of this photo, the order of my reactions was this:

1) "Wow, I have NEVER seen Shirley MacLaine in a hoodie before."

2) "...Or, wait, did Courtney Love just get a Raggedy Ann haircut?"

3) "Unless that's Ben Stiller's mother..."

4) "No, it's... Damn. I was hoping it wasn't, but it is. WHY is Debbie Harry DOING THIS to herself?"

And that's when I lapsed into a sad, introspective silence. I miss the Debbie Harry who didn't look like she just wandered out of the gym and finds it hilarious that she needs to ask for directions back to her house. I mean, she rapped! She wanted us to call her on the line any anytime! She wasn't the kind of girl who'd give up just like that -- oh noooo-ooooo! It's vexing.

I am moderately fascinated by the British sister socialites Lucy and Plum Sykes. Plum writes for Vogue, and wrote Bergdorf Blondes (which I actually quite enjoyed. It's fluffy, but fluff can be fulfilling, and it's very cheery and over the top, but sweet), and Lucy...does something I'm not aware of. Anyway, the best story about the two of them that I can recall involves the fact that Plum wore her own wedding gown -- from a dramatically broken engagement! -- to her sister's nuptials. Dyed black. I find that kind of delightfully dishy and dramatic.

I do wonder what animal provided this throw for Lucy:

The nearly extinct DeVille Puffy Lemur? The Exotic Spotted Dingo Puff? Mr Cotton Tail? Surely, someone needs to inform PETA immediately.

Why so haggard and miserable, Angie?

You spent the entire night glaring balefully at the camera. Did Brad forget to bathe? Was the entire press corps wearing "Team Aniston" tees? Did Jon Voight call and refer to his granddaughter as "my beautiful little Zinedine Zidane," dredging up barely dormant filial rage? Or were you up all night sharpening knives on your teeth just to try and remember the bad old good old days?

Regardless, if sleep isn't an option, then maybe next time consider some makeup that doesn't make you look consumptive. I always thought anything would look gorgeous on you, but it turns out that the clammy pallor of a chronic wasting disease is the exception to that rule. So, look, as creepy as it was to cart around your lover's bodily fluids around your neck, if it would bring that old flush of danger back to your cheeks if you siphoned off a bit of Brad Juice -- or for variety, had a tattoo inked with his blood or secreted a locket full of his skin flakes in your bra -- well, that might be okay. We won't tell.

Lest you had forgotten that they are two and not one, the Olsen twins are doggedly continuing in their quest to look as different as possible after all those years of being "Mary-Kate Ashley Olsen" -- an era that began with them being so literally interchangeable that I thought for a long time it was just one actress with a pretentious name.

Ashley has chosen understated clothes, an air of impermeable ennui, and a brunette 'do that I actually rather like; it makes her eyes pop, and after all those years of that fried-looking blond mop, it gives her a welcome sleekness. [Jessica isn't so sure about it, though; she thinks it's blah, and she's not really wrong either. It's kind of all of those things mixed into one. We were going to arm-wrestle to settle this score once and for all, but I am afraid it would be a rout; like George Costanza [edited to note that it might be Monica Gellar, actually... but they're very similar so the confusion is understandable], she is inhumanly strong, and also, her family's mutant power is that they are all really good at arm-wrestling. I think they should pitch an Over The Top sequel. I will make a cameo as the toothless regular who licks her chops at the idea of toppling this clan of upstarts, only to get my ass beaten with a quickness. At which point I will upend the table and speak only in grunts until I'm thrown out of the establishment. Look for it in theaters next fall -- it'll be Oscar bait.]

As pleasant a digression as that was, let's swing back on-topic. I'll hand it to the less-tragic Olsen -- she is very good at choosing outfits that are slightly unusual, and pulling them off anyway. She looks a bit like she's just come from her job as a D.A., but it works, especially with the adorable shoes.

Her twin's divergent direction is, in my estimation, somewhat less successful.

If you have not seen Xanadu, then you really need to. First of all, because it is hilarious. Second of all, because it is awesome. It also contains some of the worst acting ever committed to film. It will improve your quality of life almost immediately.   

In the opening scene of the movie, these muses who are painted on a wall in Venice -- bear with me -- come to life. One of them is Olivia Newton John, of course, and if I recall correctly, she's wearing barrettes with ribbons hot-glue-gunned to them. But the muse I like the most is the one we've dubbed Dildo-Head. Because her hair is piled in a tall, phallic-shape, right on the top of her head.  It's spectacular. It's like no bun I'd ever seen, and nothing I ever though I'd see again.

Until today. Thank you, Marley Shelton, for bringing back Dildo-Head:

Next, if you could just roller skate around a bit, chanting "Xanadu," and making an "X" with your arms? That'd be great.

EDITED:

GFY readers are the best. For your Compare and Contrast Fun, feast your eyes on the original -- and still the best -- Dildo-Head, courtesy of one of your comrades:

Okay, somebody needs to give Teri Hatcher a sit-down, because more and more lately she is looking all wrong.

And I'm not talking clothes; I'm referring to... her face.

When she's smiling, and/or caught from afar, she seems mostly normal, but still with a whiff of something off. Almost as if she's smiling while trying not to breathe through her nose, or perhaps just trying to put on a brave face despite her dark, secret fear that her face is about to crack into a million pieces from all this muscle motion.

Still, on the whole, it's not bad. She seems happy, if a little timid, but overall her Fug Factor is on the low side -- by her standards, at least; there is no horrible goth getup, no mismatched animal prints. Indeed, I wouldn't have thought anything was amiss had I not checked out a close-up. That is when I started to get worried.

I'm sorry, Dakota. Really, I am. This isn't about you. Whenever I see you interviewed, you seem very well-adjusted and mature, and properly parented. And I'm pleased about that, because it greatly diminishes the odds of you drooling booze onto a Hollywood sidewalk six years from now while Paris Hilton celebrates being kicked off Dancing With The Stars for trying to have sex with her partner during the tango.

So, don't take this personally. Like I said, it's not you. It's the world. It's The Scourge.

It's found you.

Are you HAPPY NOW, Leggings? Are you PLEASED with yourselves? LOOK WHAT YOU HAVE DONE. You have INFECTED THE CHILDREN. Even Wilbur is like, "Dude, I don't want any part of that."

Does it make you feel all WARM INSIDE to have SCRAMBLED THE JUDGMENT OF OUR NATION'S YOUTH? To have claimed the innocence of America's Underage Sweetheart? Oh, you are a dangerous, caddish stretchy-cotton plague. Curses! A POX ON YOU.

It bears repeating: Constant vigilence is required here. If your guard comes down for even a second, you could find yourselves in a tunic and leggings faster than you can reach for an old photo album to ward off the demons.

Be strong, Dakota. Wrest yourself from their spandex talons. We're here for you.

Jewel realized with a start that this must be a nightmare:

She would never REALLY perform in her nightie.

I'm not here to rag on the dress -- Jay McCarroll made it out of McDonald's gift cards and Kelis agreed to model it at some kind of Ronald McDonald House auction, and it's the holidays, and it's For The Children (even if it is a foundation run by a giant clown), and even if I'm a little grossed out at the idea of so many sweet, delicious (and, okay, theoretical) Big Mac value meals being right up next to her crotch, she pretty much works it.

My thoughts on the tree skirt she's pretending is a cape aren't as charitable, but what hit me most about this photo is that when I first saw it, I thought, "Huh, so Eva Pigford is modeling after all!"

That is not good, Kelis. For one thing, even Eva Pigford -- sorry, "Eva Marcille," because that's really going to make us forget the amusing nasal aptness of her old surname -- has abandoned the cheap, crusty-looking bleach and colored her hair back to its natural brown. And for another, you are Kelis. Nobody should be mistaking you for anyone, least of all Eva Pigcille. Your milkshake brought all those boys to the yard; now, they're going to get there, take one look at you, and bolt, thinking you're a struggling Top Model winner and not a kick-ass pot of sass.

Please correct this.

Oh, Christina, I hear you. I feel your pain. I'd be shrieking, too, if I were poured into those rib-cracking, waist-squeezing, crotch-chafing pants.

So, I guess Ashlee Simpson is the spokesperson for Skechers now?

"You know what the Kids Today are like,"  the ad exec who put this ad together -- let's call her Alison Parker -- might have said.  "They LOVE to sit around, buying stuff on the internets, wearing knickers! Sometimes, they just toss on a kicky vest and manage to levitate their CD into thin air! It's awesome. Sometimes -- if they're super cool -- their faces start to look kind of eerily like the skulls on their knit caps! And they all wear SKECHERS, a brand that looks totally, totally, freakishly misspelled the more closely you look at it! They're going to love this ad!"

I'm very pleased for Diane Kruger that she and Joshua Jackson -- our beloved Pacey Witter, the lone bright spot in all of Dawson's Reek -- appear to have found love.

However, I am not as happy about this.

What is this, exactly? A black liner thing, with that weird white two-piece outfit... I'm at a loss. The gap at her stomach looks like a mouth. Like the cheerful gobs of white eyelet are actually an unfinished muppet that, even without its eyes attached, still knows to laugh at this outfit.

Seriously, I've lost so much skin over the years from scratching my head at Diane Kruger's weird fashion choices. Hopefully the love of a good former teen heartthrob will, in future, steer her away from badly rendered waist-eating minidresses and bolts of black tulle.

So, it's early here in Los Angeles, and I am not done with my coffee yet, and I read that this photo was taken at the Nobel Peace Prize Conference in Norway:

And I thought, "Well, I know why Lionel Richie is there. He's going to sing, 'Helllllllo. Is it peace you're looking for?' But what is Sharon doing there? And why did she think it would be appropriate to wear leather pants to anything involving the Nobel Prize? Although I do like her jacket."

And then I drank some more coffee, and I realized that they're at a press conference about the Nobel Peace Prize CONCERT, which means that Lionel IS going to sing, "Helllllllo. Is it peace you're looking for?" and also maybe "Say You, Say Peace," and clearly, "All Night Long (All Night)." It also makes the leather pants WAY MORE APPROPRIATE.

Here's the thing about Sharon Stone. Back in the day -- like six months ago -- I thought, you know, bitch crazy. But the more I go through The Sharon Stone Experience (like, watching her on Martha, for example, where she taught Martha how to pose on the red carpet on days when she might be feeling bloated [seriously, it was quite charming]), I'm beginning to feel like she is crazy and it is AWESOME, and I want to experience more of it.

In fact, I hope she and Lionel start touring the country together, to benefit some worthy cause (say what you will about Sharon, she certainly works hard tor worthy causes), and also to sing. When they get together for the big finale to duet on 'Three Times a Lady,' I suspect it would look very much like this:

And then they're going to fall in love and run off together. And honestly, I feel like if anyone can work Nicole's problems out, it might be her awesome new step-mom, Crazy Sharon Stone. 

See? It turns out peace IS the answer.

Oh, Anne Hathaway. Generally, I have no beef with you. You have lovely, shiny hair and seem to have no problem sharing the screen with older actresses who rock harder than you do (see Streep, Meryl and Andrews, Julie). You did the best you could in The Devil Wears Prada, even though your part was basically Whiny Entitled Girl Who Doesn't Know How Good She Has It. I also appreciate that, by all accounts, you seem to understand what "adequate" means, and you probably know how to spell it. So I feel a little bad about this:

From the waist up, you look lovely.  But the balloon skirt is problem. You start to look a little....well, a little:

TOM: I FEEL GLORIOUS.

MARK: Unnnnnnnhhhhh.

TOM: I LOVE MY VERY GOOD FRIENDS WHO I JUST MET THE OTHER WEEKEND AT MY WEDDING! WE HAVE BEEN TIGHT FOR HOUR UPON HOUR!!!!!

KATIE: I hope nobody notices my wispy non-bangs. They were all over my wedding pictures. Yikes.

MARK: Unnnnnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

KATIE: I don't know why we couldn't airbrush that out -- I swear I NEVER read that L. Ron Hubbard frowned on airbrushing, but I guess maybe I haven't been to enough classes.

TOM: I CLIPPED THE HAIR OF THIS RIGHTEOUS WOMAN!

KATIE: I really wish it would grow back. I don't know why I have to be Samson in this story. Where is my medication?

TOM: HER FOLLICLES OF TRUTH HAVE FERTILIZED MY BANGS WITH HER EXTRAORDINARINESS!!!!

J.LO: HAH. You mean her extra ordinaryness. I'd like to see her pull off a Princess Leia shirt. They are NOT paying us enough for this.

MARK: Unnnnnnnnnnnh...

J.LO: Oh, shut it, Pouty -- I make you shave ONE TIME and you go all zombie on me in public? That is for bedroom games! And WHY didn't you put on the foundation I gave you? Your complexion is gray.

TOM: LET'S PLAY 'SPIN THE AUDITBALL'!

J.LO: Ay, dios mio. Here we go again. No wonder the child bride is going cross-eyed. 

I don't really feel like saying any more that I hate high-waisted Grandpa-pouch-inducing formal shorts, self-made vanity-logo bling, and -- increasingly -- wee little girlie neckties. It's been said. A lot. By us. Our faces are turning blue from the effort.

So instead, I'll say this: All of a sudden, I have THE most potent craving for those deliciously cruncy little Bugles corn snacks. I can't imagine why.

Abbie Cornish continues her I SWEAR TO GOD I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH BREAKING UP REESE AND RYAN modesty world tour:

What you don't know is that she followed the old adage, "Look in the mirror before you leave the house and take one thing off":

Because she's cranky that the media will no longer kowtow to her demands that she be its darling, Lindsay Lohan has fired off another classic missive punched frantically into her BlackBerry.

Before we elect her the official ambassador of "how our society should be educated on," however, we thought we should put this budding young teacher to the test by taking a red pen to her screed**. And, sure, everyone makes mistakes now and then -- we certainly are not immune -- but we do feel that anyone calling us to educational arms (among other things) should be fairly well outfitted with weapons herself.

Click to see large, legible versions.

** It's worth noting that there are only so many battles one can fight, only so much ink in a pen, and only so much space on a page. Ergo, the scribbles in red should be considered reflective of a larger and more involved path Ms. Lohan should take, and not the fully exhaustive edit and grammatical bitch-slapping that is likely required. We would, however, like to suggest that Dina Lohan stop yapping about looking out for Lindsay and instead take action via some Learning Annex classes. We hear DeVry can also help.

It appears that Pete Doherty now has either inspired or is designing a clothing line for the label Gio-Goi (as befitting news about Doherty, the actual story is hard to understand).  Either way, it totally makes sense, because when you think about the sort of dude any other dude would like to emulate, it's TOTALLY this guy:

Hot.

Lush Magazine is actually pretty cool. And yet, they've decided that the best way to style Hilary Duff is to make it look like she's sticking her head into one of those cardboard figurines you find on the boardwalk that make you look like you're a bodybuilder or a bearded lady or whatever:

Seriously. That hair is not now, nor has it ever been, attached to her head, or the head of another human being.

Also, she should get someone to take a look at that thing growing out of her neck.

Criminal Minds, the show that beats Lost because apparently16 million people are watching even though you know none of them, has gotten the post-Super Bowl slot this year.

And so, Kristin Vangsness, one of the people on the show who is not Mandy Patinkin -- despite what you see in the ads, there are some -- has decided to celebrate by sewing a tutu into her skirt.

In fact, so potent is her glee that she mismatched her pin stripes and fastened her jacket a tad too high, the latter error giving off an overall effect that gravity is pulling harder on her left side.

She looks a bit like the eccentric costume master of a high-school drama department, who is method-prepping for this year's production of Oliver Fame -- the heartwarming story of an orphan and his merry band of pickpockets who are punished for trying to rob a bakery by being tossed into a prestigious song-and-dance academy. Oh, sure, it damages their street cred, but slowly these young rapscallions melt under the tutelage of Debbie Allen. They stop stealing cash and start stealing hearts, learning important lessons about honesty, rhythm, the true meaning of family, and jazz hands.

All of which is to say, it's not a great look for her.

Dear Lindsay Lohan,

You've had quite a year.  Star Magazine claims you OD'ed at the Chateau Marmont before Thanksgiving, and that the doctor who allegedly revived you allegedly found a ton of alleged drugs in your  alleged room. You're allegedly going to AA (considering that your rep has confirmed this, apparently the second A stands for "actors"), but that doesn't seem to be taking.  You're allegedly a cutter -- something I learned all about from such Lifetime movies as I Cut Myself So I Can Feel Again, Not Without My Exacto-Knife, and Ow! I Really Hate My Life.  People made fun of you when you wrote a heartfelt note about Robert Altman's death and misspelled "adequate." Come on -- that was kind of funny! You kicked off the current parade of Starlet VaJayJay that we're all suffering through. You broke up with like nine dudes. You called Paris Hilton a word we can't reprint here -- ON VIDEO! -- and then told us all that you don't know why everything thinks you dislike her. You got publicly reprimanded for tardiness and a poor work ethic by the people at Morgan Creek. You crashed your car at least once.  I'm sure other stuff happened that I don't currently recall. Basically,  you are a MESS.

And while I love the color you're wearing here, I'm pretty sure that wearing a  pillowcase is not going to make you feel much better about yourself. 

We miss the Mean Girls you.

Love,

Jessica

CHAD MICHAEL MURRAY: Dude, yo, this is wicked, me and Fiddy, hanging out together like bros. We are, like, TIGHT, you know?

50 CENT: Why am I standing here? What do we have to talk about? We have nothing in common.

CMM: We have so much in common, man. It's phat.

50 CENT: I've been stabbed.

CMM: When I pose for pictures, I pretend I'm being stabbed so that I look fierce!

50 CENT: I've been to prison.

CMM: Dude, so have I, brah! The prison of marriage! Not for that long, but you know. It totally brings a man DOWN, right? We can't be contained! Don't drop the soap! Ahahahahaha!

50 CENT: I have rivalries with half of my industry.

CMM: Oh, dude, everyone in my industry hates me. Except my girlfriend, but at 18, she's too young to understand hate.

50 CENT: Vivica A. Fox is obsessed with me.

CMM: And Matthew Fox is obsessed with me! ... No, wait, it's the other way around. I like his rugged stubble. I'm trying to copy it because I, too, am rugged. See? My shirt's open. RUGGED.

50 CENT: My album "Get Rich Or Die Tryin'" was six-times platinum.

CMM: I just wrote a poem called "Save The Seedspreader, Save The World." It's really good, it's about how the bitches keep me DOWN, and they don't know my SUFFERING and I've got get OUT THERE and...

50 CENT: Chump, suffer this: I've been shot in the face nine times.

CMM: I shot Paris Hilton in the face nine times, if you know what I mean!

50 CENT: I don't disrespect -- I don't dick-and-tell, man.

CMM:... which, oh, I don't either, because I was in "prison" at the time I hung out with Paris and so of course I was kidding. I didn't touch her. Don't punch me! Although my hair would handle it okay -- I put $200 of hair wax in it, so is not moving.

50 CENT: I have got to fire my manager. Being seen with this kid is boning my cred.

As you know by now, every so often we come upon a picture that stumps us -- the offense is so obvious, so egregious, that it almost defies description, and so we sit and sit and frown and furrow and end up having long IM conversations about how we don't know what to say.

Janet Jackson provided us with one of those times.

HEATHER: Janet Jackson looks so ridiculous with Anna Wintour's hair on her head.

JESSICA: Oh, the photo of her with that WIG?

HEATHER: And the CUFFS!

JESSICA: I saw that last night! I thought, "Wow, that's BAD," but that's about all I could think of before I realized I had a headache and needed to go to bed. Possibly, the photo caused me some kind of head trauma.

HEATHER: That's about where I am now. I also came up with, "Is she SERIOUS?" and "She's lost her mind" this morning, along with a stirring, "Whaaaa?" but somehow, they're not inspiring me. I also like, "Ew."

JESSICA: You know I've always wanted to do that -- just post a photo and say, "Hmm. I hate this," and nothing else.

HEATHER: That's what kills me. There should be lots to say about this. She has stepped in a pile of crazy.

JESSICA: She has made us lose "Control."

HEATHER: We will call her Miss Jackson, because we're nasty.

JESSICA: She has done nothing for us lately.

HEATHER: She has abandoned The Pleasure Principle.

JESSICA: Why did she take us on this Escapade?

HEATHER: Love could really do without her.

JESSICA: Yes, that's not the way love goes.

HEATHER: The... uh... Hey there, Dress, if she took you off, I wouldn't Miss You Much... No. I broke the chain. And my dignity.

JESSICA: She has FLUMMOXED ME. And turned us into punsters.

HEATHER: I feel like there's got to be somewhere to go with the cuffs, like they're from Wonder Woman's formal collection or something, but it's not really inspiring me. I also can't figure out why there's a tranquilizer dart stuck in one of them.

JESSICA: Perhaps she's being hunted.

HEATHER: By fug poachers.

JESSICA: Or by Fergie, for stealing the shortie necktie thing.

HEATHER: Why does she need a tie on her cleavage?

JESSICA: To...?

HEATHER: Yup. I hear that.

Inquiring Fuggers want to know: is Sophia Hyatt the British Bai Ling?

We've fugged her before, in a similar state of undress.  And while she is pretty, she is also basically naked.  What I wonder -- in addition to burning questions like, "Who IS she?" and "Does she have a weird lace fetish?" -- is, isn't she FREEZING COLD? It takes a brave woman to expose her kibbles and bits to the elements like this. I would be worried that I might take a drastic case of Nipple Hypothermia, and you know, once one of those falls off, it's almost impossible to get it back on.

You see, here at GFY, we can about more than just fashion. We're also looking out for your HEALTH.

The only explanation for the outfit Ciara wore to TRL is that she's releasing her own fitness DVD:

You know, in the style in all of the successful celebrity fitness videos of the past, like Jennie Garth's Body in Progress, or Alyssa Milano's brilliant Teen Steam.  She could call it Ciara's Abs-Tactular, and there could be a whole segment where she leaps from her knees into a standing position, as a sort of reverse-squat, thereby getting some use out of her bedazzled built-in knee pads.  It could be a huge seller.

"See? I can TOO crack a real smile! Way to go, me! I'm showing my teeth and scrunching my face -- it totally moves! -- and I'm standing here swaddled in some very depressing upholstery and yet I'm STILL SMILING and I am ROCKING ON WITH MY CHEERFUL SELF and EVERYTHING IS OKAY HERE. I don't know WHAT you people were talking about! Happyyyyyyyyy!"

Danity Kane reminds me of a line of dolls -- like Bratz meets Barbie -- whenever I see them. They feel so literally manufactured that it's hard to remember that they are each individual people, with individual feelings and motivations, as surely they must be:

Like maybe the one in the middle didn't want to dress like she just came from a Sharon-Tate-in-Valley of the Dolls-inspired lingerie ad. Maybe she wanted to wear the shiny, shiny dress on the end, which someone hemmed until it looks like something the protagonist would wear in the final scene of Ice Princess II, when she has to go out and skate the performance of a lifetime or else Communism will prevail.  (For serious, Sarah Jessica Parker wore that dress sometime in the last year, and it was about, oh, six inches longer.)

And maybe the one in the coffee-colored nightgown -- seriously, it's very romantic for your trousseau, but leave that in the hope chest -- would rather switch outfits with the Trumpet of the Swan over on the other end. She might be covered in feathers, but at least she's covered.

Sadly, no one wants to be the one who looks like she ripped the gray taffeta tablecloth off the dressing table of the girl with the hope chest and belted it. Not even her.

I know at times it may feel as though Hell has frozen over, what with Ashlee Simpson getting actual good reviews for performing live; labial folds becoming the newest hot fall fashion accessory; and Britney managing not only to have dried up a bottomless well of goodwill that built up after her divorce announcement, but also threatening to blow a comeback that should have been easier to nail than Paris Hilton.

But rest assured, even if Satan is playing connect the dots with an outcropping of goosebumps, none of his nether-bogs are frost-bitten just yet. What proof do I have? Well, one of my personal indicators of the freezing of Lucifer's fiery lair is seeing a photo of Carrot Top looking appealing.

Everything's still in normal blazing order down below, judging from this. There's the scary red 'fro, the heavy eyeliner that may or may not be permanent makeup, the face, the aura...

If your hair stands on end at the sight or mere thought of Denise Richards and her abrupt mid-pregnancy separation from The Sheen, the ensuing rapid-fire barrage of character slurs she hurled at him, the rumors that she might have possibly allegedly been a call girl herself before she made it moderately half-big (and if any of those rumors are true then perhaps it'd behoove her to be less judgy), her tawdry post-split offer of free vaginal housing to the wang of best pal Heather Locklear's displaced husband Richie Sambora, the resultant messy breakup with Locklear, that insult-hurling post-separation much-publicized laptop-hurling (and octagenarian-wounding) hissyfit, and of course her general lack of acting talent, then I have good news:

The feeling is apparently mutual.

And also, for what it's worth, I hate what that belt is doing (which is, essentially, existing).

This photo, quite frankly, scared the bejeesus out of me when I first saw it.

I mean, it's not every day that the classy and generally stylish Cate Blanchett appears to have draped herself in nothing more than some strategically placed gift ribbon, and it's certainly not usual to see her doing so with such an unabashedly proud, come-hither look in her eye, as if to say, "You think this is crazy? YOU HAVE NO IDEA."

Fortunately, the long shot, which showed up a bit later, assuaged my fears that Blanchett was heading for a torrid affair with a straitjacket.

Some fabric does actually belong to all that alienesque gold trim, which means that thankfully, the promise of presents and figgy pudding does not appear to have addled La Blanchett's brain with holiday spirit and turned her into a human ribbon dispenser. So now I can refocus my worry toward on fact that she chose a corset with such weirdly visible boning -- and also, even in spite of the aforementioned constrictive device, on whether she's eating enough. Don't Kidman yourself, Cate. It's not worth it. She almost never looks happy.

PAUL: Jennifer... darling, I wish you'd listened to me before we left the house...

JENNIFER: Oh, honey, you're exaggerating how bad it is.

PAUL: I'm not, pet, it's... just calm down and hear me out...

JENNIFER: We've been OVER THIS. I forgot to buy new nipple flowers, I figured nobody would notice if I strapped a belt over them instead since the kids are so into superfluous belting these days, and poof! Instant cover! Nobody's going to notice my nipples and I look impossibly trendy. I WIN.

PAUL: No, sweetpea -- look, I don't know how to tell you this, but your breasts are actually trying to do a runner.

JENNIFER: Wait, what?

PAUL: After being pounded against your torso for the better part of the limo ride, they found an escape hatch down below they could wiggle through, and are making a break for it. One of your nipples is just about free.

JENNIFER: I feel woozy.

PAUL: Also, in case you're curious, your right breast is the tortoise in this early part of the race.

JENNIFER: You'll catch me if I faint, right?

PAUL: I'm so sorry. We should get you home. This is troubling. Especially since you're pregnant again.

JENNIFER: I'm WHAT?

PAUL: You're not? I mean, I saw the... I just assumed... never mind.

JENNIFER: Once I get my breasts back in place I'm going to kill you.

PAUL: Oh, no. Please don't make me watch Career Opportunities again. I SWEAR I'm sorry.

JENNIFER: Oho, bucko, it's worse than that -- I'm going to make you watch Wimbledon.

I think Brittany Snow is, like, painfully cute.  Secretly, I kind of love her.  She was really cute on American Dreams, even when her character was making excruciatingly bad boy choices, and doing an excess of "IT'S NOT FAIR"-type stomping around.  She was even cute when she played a Nazi on Nip/Tuck.  Well,  as much as a Nazi can be cute. Which isn't much. But you know what I mean: before we KNEW her character was a crazy Nazi, she was totally cute! Afterwards, it was more like, "Damn! That cute girl is a Nazi." It was especially sad, because the character she was involved with had just gotten out of a really unfortunate entanglement with a transsexual murderer who was also basically a child molester.  So he really could have benefited from the affections of cute girl who was NOT a raging bigot. Life is hard.

And with that in mind, I must mention what cute, cute Brittany Snow wore out the other night:

I believe that fabric was once featured in the Lillian Vernon catalog as a Spooktacular Halloween Tablecloth. And, listen: I like shiny. I am not opposed to flashy. But it's a good rule of thumb that you should not wear something that was possibly once featured in a Sandra Lee Tablescape. No matter how cute you are.

You probably remember Nicholle Tom from The Nanny, but I remember her best both from a series of movies on Lifetime where she was a teenage mother, killed her mother, or had no mother at all, and, of course, from 90210, where she was Poor Dead Scott's Slutty Sister Sue Scanlon.  She wore leggings there, too:

Okay.

Look.

Black leggings are one thing. I'm not a fan, but at least they're...minimalist, or something. If I don't look at your feet, I can just pretend you're wearing tights! And everything will be okay! But white, textured leggings? Please, God. Please, God, no. Why would you do that? Why would you put something on your legs that approximates BOTH pastiness AND cellulite? That seems like the leg-quivalent of wearing a shirt that turns your boobs into back-fat.

It's just such a shame, because without the leggings, and with a moderately longer skirt -- seriously, I like minis, but this one is kind of a pleated cummerbund -- she'd look really cute.

On the other hand, at least we know she's not going to flash us her lady-patch.

Oh, we love us some Marcia Cross. We love her wig-whipping-off, attempted-murdering, apartment-exploding, lobotomy-giving, crazy ass on Melrose Place, and she's been the only one of the Desperate Housewives to remain consistantly interesting, despite whatever the rest of those meddling, klutzy bitches were up to. (Actually, DH is kind of good this season, but you didn't hear it from me.) And we love her work with Melrose Place's resident caddish horndog, Dr. Michael Mancini, so much that just yesterday Heather and I were wishing La Cross would wear something hidie so that we could mention how bad we want Mark Cherry to give Thomas Calabro a job in some kind of public forum. Unfortunately, we then realized how unlikely that was: Marcia Cross almost never looks bad. See?

Va-va-va-voom without being tacky, and I love the color. Can you imagine if Britney had dressed like this when she was pregnant, instead of in sheer tops and -- oh, what the hell am I saying? Now that we know that Britney wants to run out and flash her girl parts at people with Paris Hilton, we should just be grateful things weren't worse earlier. My point is:  Marcia Cross is one hot -- yet appropriate -- pregnant lady, and for that, we salute her.

Also, if Marc Cherry is uninterested in adding Thomas Calabro to his stable of former Melrose Placeians, may we suggest Laura "Sydney Andrews" Leighton? Look at how much fun these two are having, recalling all the times Marcia had to try to kill Laura/break up her marriage/frame her for framing someone for murder/get her addicted to drugs, etc?

Those are some good times.

Welcome to Cipes.

Cipes is apparently a "spiritual surfer" of some sort. He's out on the town because he's part of the cast of TwentyFourSeven, a reality-based version of Entourage that MTV is giving us for Christmas. It's worth noting that the starring gang, in almost every photo from the premiere party, poses together either with rampant finger-guns, peace signs, or those ultra-hip upside-down peace signs -- the latter two usually accompanied by that special brand of man-hugging wherein arms are slung around necks, or some embracing that is half-hug, half-chest punch. It's sort of gloriously terrible.

But, back to our boy: Cipes' biggest problem will not be getting hit by a stray finger-gun bullet. No, the greatest threat to his budding career as a hanger-on will be lawsuits filed by Giovanni Ribisi and his people, all seeking compensation for the mistaken-identity disasters that will surely lead to well-intentioned sightings e-mailed to Defamer and Gawker that say: "Just saw Giovanni Ribisi waiting for his car at the valet; he appeared to be wearing old pajama pants and slippers with some sort of tunic under his coat. So sad to see that he's so completely lost his mind that he no longer bothers to get dressed; guess those Friends residuals can't buy a guy some real pants."

Be warned, Cipes.

POSH: Er, Karl... Karl, don't tell anyone, but... I'm having second thoughts.

KARL LAGERFELD: Thoughts are for the DULL, darling. BE AMAZING.

POSH: Fine, babes, but my problem is just that I don't think I should have worn this after all. I think I look a bit stupid, actually.

KARL: RIDICULOUS! You are a DIVINE dish served cold. I would eat you with caviar if I could and then polish my glove with the CRUMBS of your GLAMOUR.

POSH: See, David said this looks like a bad rug that the royal family rolled up and stuck in a closet in Windsor Castle. But my sister disagreed -- she thought this belonged in Camilla Parker-Bowles' nightie drawer.

KARL: David is a PRECOCIOUS flesh nugget INDEED. Dip him in mustard. HE IS A DELIGHT. But kill your sister.

POSH: Look, I just sort of feel like a 19th century prostitute, Karl. And I'm not sure it's the look I should be going for now.

KARL: It's like I told that delightful Lindsay Lohan -- "To look like a freak is to be ALIVE WITH FASHION, and also, WASH YOUR FACE IN CHAMPAGNE."

POSH: You're mad as pants, aren't you? You're more bonkers than a shed in a limousine.

KARL: I've grown tired of your complaining. You're just AFRAID TO BE FABULOUS. Now leave me unless your breasts make martinis.