April 2008 Archives

Picture it: it's early. I have not yet consumed my customary metric ton of coffee. I am looking at pictures of celebrities, bleary-eyed and not really concentrating (I am thinking instead about American Idol and how boring it is this year, or something equally profound).  I see this:

[Photo: INFDaily.com]

I think, "WHAT is Justin Long WEARING? And that's not DREW BARRYMORE. Did they break up while I was on vacation? WHAT IS GOING ON?"

Ten minutes (and a cup of coffee) later: "OH GOOD LORD. That was ROSS. What is WRONG with me? What is wrong with HIM? What is with that TIE?"

Half an hour later: "Seriously, Justin Long. I'm so sorry. You only look like Ross when I am severely under-caffeinated and a little blind. Although maybe this means you should think about a haircut. Schwimmer, I apologize to you, too -- I guess I briefly forgot you existed. And we had some laughs together. Remember that time someone at work ate your sandwich? That was a good time! And at least I took you for someone way younger than you... right? Swap out the tie and hit the Mach-5 and everything will be fine! I promise!"

Well, at least she's clothed.

But somehow Leelee Sobieski comes off looking not like a nice young actress, but rather somebody's wicked stepmother from a 1980s soap -- one on which, say, she just married Morgan Fairchild's father in a scandalous February-to-December union, and so we are treated to a number of scenes in which Morgan slinks around the house teasing up her hair and sneering, "Hello, MOTHER," as Leelee swans by in a cloud of linebacker shoulder pads and billowing sleeves. I'm pretty sure there would be a part in it for Emma Samms also, with the occasional appearance by Young Pierce Brosnan as a corporate rogue with dollar-signs in his eyes and fur-covered handcuffs in his heart.

And while that show would be awesome, that ship has probably sailed, so Leelee might need to go ahead and put away the bathrobe before she's relegated to playing a young Meredith Baxter-no-longer-Birney in a Lifetime movie about all the Lifetime movies she's made.

I have had many a conversation over the past week or so about this cover, and they all go something like this: "She looks hot! But the whole thing is sort of unseemly. But it's FRENCH! But it's just TOO MUCH. But maybe it's SEXY. But it's also sort of creepy. But that color is great. But I don't need to see her in this S&M panties-coordinated-with-belt thing. But at least it's interesting! But it makes me feel sort of uncomfortable. But maybe that's the point! But I hate it. No, I love it. No, it's terrible. No, it's AWESOME. No. Yes. No. I don't know. GOD, WON'T SOMEONE PUT IT TO A VOTE?!"

Your wish is my command, dear reader:

Flush with the glow of her Fug Madness win, our girl Bai Ling has remained wonderfully unafraid to leave the house. Incidentally, she did actually mention her victory on her delicious blog, although for some reason that entry feels to me like someone else wrote it -- no matter how much we riff on her many personalities, in my heart of hearts I can't believe loony, gentle Bai would seriously call us Earth people "stupid," even if she is simultaneously excited to be a champion of something.

Anyway, back to Bai. When I first saw this photo last week, I feared she'd gone all demure on us in the wake of being declared The Fugliest Of Them All.

It's just so very SERIOUS, like she's decided to quit acting so she can attend Austria's prestigious Milkmaid School, where you don't get to show cleavage until you are fully certified.

But I should've known that Bai Ling, especially in this recent L.A. heat, would not stay serious and amply clothed for too long.

"Yeah, that's right, I'm Mischa Barton and I'm wearing a bathroom rug as a jacket. What of it? You'd rather I had another greasepig boyfriend with me instead? A total clap-incubator who's about to pass out on a pool of vomit he freshly delivered onto my feet? I DIDN'T THINK SO. Bet the coat's not looking so bad to you NOW."

Empirically, I know this is a flesh-and-blood person wearing a skirt over pants.

But I still can't help hoping that this is actually the very latest and greatest in Italian "FRAGIIIILE" leg lamps. That the poor schmo who gets this major award in the mail has a big fight with his wife in his future when he tries to put her on the bedside table.

A few weeks ago, I got secretly sucked into Girlfriends, which was on at like 1 a.m. when I was suffering from a wicked case of insomnia. It's SOAPY, you guys. And very entertaining. Much like former cast member Jill Marie Jones, here:

I know. What IS that? Is she wearing super short cut-offs under there? Ratty boxer shorts? A weird, deconstructed super-mini mini-skirt? And why would she think ANY of those things would go with her jaunty 60s-style hat? It's a MYSTERY.

Gird your loins -- with Iron Man hitting theaters this weekend, we're going to continue seeing a lot of Gwyneth Paltrow. 

And I do mean a lot. Gwynnie must've gone on a Gam Rediscovery Retreat recently, because she's been skipping all around town in the kind of short skirts we're  more used to seeing ride up around the pantyless pelvises of Young Hollywood as they slide out of cars.

Not that it's all a complaint. The girl's got great legs. It's just that I'm not always sure about the stuff she's using to show them off to us.

It's short, but more distracting is all the lattice work. Like, is there a nude slip under there, or is she just feeling naked and racy today? Am I bewitched by an optical illusion, or is it cutting her chest weirdly around her armpits and making her look unnaturally bulgey in places where, in reality, she almost certainly has no bulge? Doesn't that Bermuda Triangle of fabric on her groin make it look like she's wearing a black cloth diaper? And is there a weird face staring at me from her boobular region? And In concept I wanted to love this, but in life, it's like wearing a Rorschach ink blot. I feel like people were coming up to her all night and saying, "Ooh, it's death! The Angel of Death!" or "I see a Rolls Royce!" or "Is that a DOG that looks like Princess Leia?"

Maybe Gwynnie just really likes people staring at her in bewilderment, as I did yet again when I saw this dress from earlier:

Oh, Lindsay. Lindsay, Lindsay, Lindsay. Lindsay. Lindsay. Lindsay.

Yes, I am so glad you're not wearing Those That Shall Not Be Named. But must you replace Them with something that makes you look weirdly as though you're wearing one of Disney's Teacups? Is THIS how you're attempting to get back into The Mouse's good graces (because, dollface, I think that relationship is probably seriously unsalvageable)? You just look droopy, babe. (I'M TALKING ABOUT HER HAIR, YOU PERV. Er, mostly. A wee bit of tailoring on those straps wouldn't go amiss, but you didn't hear it from me.) Also, white shoes? For seriously? You make me sad. AGAIN.

I guess Emmanuelle Chriqui has a ton of movies coming out -- at least, according to IMDb, she does -- but to me, she will always be Eric's long-suffering girlfriend on Entourage. I guess she's not on that show anymore, although I couldn't really tell you because I think I missed some of it because I canceled HBO because nothing on it is interesting to me anymore, not even the porny one with all the disaffected couples. I mean, if I wanted to immerse myself in the world of whiny women who aren't wearing enough make-up while they argue with their partners, I'd still be dating [REDACTED]. But since she's working so much, you'd think she'd have the resources to find something other than a costume from the North Hollywood Community Theatre production of Valley Girl! The Musical:

Maybe none of her checks have cleared yet?

Behold Zoe Saldana, she who so powerfully rocked our world as the Eva, The Great Dancer With the Bad Attitude in Center Stage:

I put it to you: does she, or does she not remind you of the Mother of the Bride?

It's rare that I am rendered speechless by a celebrity outfit. I can almost always rustle up an "ew," or a "WHAT are you WEARING?" or an, "Ew! WHAT are you WEARING?" But today:

I know. Emile Hirsh + Speed Racer premiere + Texas tuxedo? = speechless.

I mean, he's...it's....did he....is that....and the frayed hem on the....why is that buttoned....and...with the....if he'd lost the jacket, then....but those...and I'm out. I'm out.

A helpful reminder, dear reader: Mother's Day is just around the corner, as they say at Hallmark. If your mother is a nasty old crone who delights in mocking the sartorial missteps of famous people (in other words, if she is awesome), maybe you should think about giving her The Fug Awards, our book? We'd never pressure you to do anything you weren't comfortable with -- we respect you too much for that -- but it's a suggestion.

Also! If you've been toying with the idea of buying one of our Now Or Never tees, now is the time! April 30th is the last day to order either "I Blame Spencer" or "I Heart Intern George."  If you wake up May 1st with the burning desire to own one of them, you will be tragically SOL, so conduct a complete inventory of your soul before then to make sure you are well covered on the GFY tee shirt front.

And now, back to your regularly scheduled programming, already in session.

The bad news: It's not a hallucination. This TV presenter from Down Under IS, in fact, wearing a waistcoat with a skirt that looks like it's been tucked up into the world's only pair of baggy footless panty-hose -- and yes, those hose DO have built-in glittery leg decorations that would be more at home on the set of Xanadu: The Musical. And, tragically, she truly HAS stuffed her feet into crazy metallic slides that the costumer of Back To The Future II would have dismissed as "too ugly to be believably futuristic" right before he or she popped that urine-colored satin cape on Doc Brown.

The good news: She is only on TV in Australia. And while I admit that might not be so hot for our friends in Oz, for me and my weeping soul it's an immense relief.

Thanks to Google, I learned that when discussing his gig as the host of MTV Australia's awards ceremony, Wyclef Jean insisted that it was time for a little levity in all our lives.

That nugget of information explained so, so much. Like, say, why he put the award on his head.

[Photo: Splash News]

I'm not even kidding -- that IS the award, from what I can tell. I guess it's better than him lying about how it's not important and is going to go on his toilet/in a box in the garage/on the floor to be used as a doorstop. But I'm not sure what the antagonistic gestures are in aid of; he's the one wearing a cheap plastic trophy that makes him look like Darth Vadar attempting to go as a wastebasket for Halloween.

Maybe he was just exhausted by all the forced hilarity of the evening. After all, he started things off on the red carpet with something of a bang:

I feel like I see Andrea Bowen more on the red carpet than I do on Desperate Housewives lately, which is a shame, because she's cute on the show. I imagine she'd like a little more screen time, too, hence this call for help:

Oh, girl.  Somehow you look like you stumbled into a Lifetime Movie in which you play Sharon Lawrence's pregnant teen daughter, who insists on attending her prom despite the pearl-clutching protests of the school board.  Pregnant Prom Queen, let's call it. The teen father, of course, will turn out to be a lout, but Sharon will find love in the arms of Bruce Boxleitner, the high school principal who goes to bat for Andrea despite his disapproval of premarital sex. All of which would make an entertainingly cheesetastic movie, but as a fashion choice on a young, pretty, slender actress, it MIGHT be a mistake.

In our absence last week, an immense number of e-mails arrived in our Inbox claiming that Mary-Kate Olsen threw caution to the wind and wore something totally deranged.

I can't figure out what those people meant. Caftans and velvet inner-tubes are all the rage in my house.

I have to hand it to country singer Lorrie Morgan:  Anyone who's been married five times is going to be interesting company if you're stuck in the elevator together.  I'd also like to get in there with her, just to ask about this:

IS it an homage to Bret Michaels, or not? Will she be appearing on Rock of Love III, hoping to snare Lucky Number Six? Inquiring minds want to know.

This girl was on a really funny episode of 30 Rock, which I adore, so it pains me to post this photograph.

However, it pains me MORE that she's wearing: a splotchy denim skirt with what MIGHT be an old nylon around the waist; the same cardigan I kept on the back of my old day job's office chair for those occasions (read: all day) when the air conditioning was on full force and couldn't be turned down and I had no other option for keeping my blood flowing; the boots that Robin Hood wears when it's his turn to muck out the Sherwood Forest outhouse; and what looks like a leotard a gymnast would wear during a routine set to the Little House on the Prairie theme song.

So really, it's all about which is the greater agony. Apparently the fashion anguish won.

Sometimes it's hard out there for a shopper. That's why, thank God, we can turn to the genius of great and successful clothing designers, because they know how to cut a garment that's flattering and slimming, gives you legs for days, and never makes people wonder whether you just woke up in a thrift shop's bedding department after a limoncello bender.

Right, Donna Karan?

Right!

I like to think I don't actually scare that easily, but I admit to being afraid of a few things here.

One is that Rachel Zoe is contemplating how to tear the flesh from my skeleton, and the other is that her overwhelming animal-print caftan might turn out to be a bit see-through. I mean, am I crazy, or do I spy a thigh? That might actually frighten me more than the prospect of her making steak tartare out of my face.

I know that, instead of a treatise on the stumpifying, frumpifying effects of exactly the wrong dress, what you've REALLY all been hankering for is a terrible, horrible, no-good, very-bad pun. And I am nothing if not made of cheese. So behold:

Jenna von Oy? Jenna von oy.

There. Just throw me in a pan and grill me until golden brown.

As previously mentioned, I am suffering from a wee bit of the jet lag, which forced me to hallucinate that Kelly Osborne was wearing some wack-a-doo detached hoodie thing. But this -- though awfully Spawn Of Marion Cottilard And Fishnet Stockings -- looks kind of great, right?

RIGHT?

Okay, so I'm sure there are way cooler things to love Natasha Richardson for, but mine is her part in The Parent Trap, a.k.a. the Crossroads of Lindsay Lohan's career -- you know, the flick that's hard to watch because she was so cute and innocent then and you had no idea she was going to fry the red out of her hair and turn into a leggings-wrapped hellchild. Natasha plays her mom, and she's really endearing in it, and what can I say? I'm a sap.

Don't you just LOVE when there's a "however," though? And there is one.

I'm not denying that she's got great gams, but is this not a tiny bit lingerie-influenced? By which I mean, straight out of the Trashy Lingerie storefront? I would expect Lindsay's ACTUAL mother to cavort around town in her skivvies, because she's awful. Natasha Richardson, though, seems more normal and low-key than all that -- certainly not the type to stoke the fires of her primary breadwinner's problems (allegedly, etc.) and then allow her other, younger daughter to look 14-going-on-34 so she can exploit her on a reality show.

How did this fug become all about how I think Dina Lohan is gross? I'd better finish this before it becomes a treatise on the emotional glories of The Biggest Loser and the various taste differences between Diet Coke and Coca-Cola Light. Suffice to say that this outfit, despite her fab figure and general bodaciousness, looks as if Natasha thought she was walking into a grand romantic gesture by Liam Neeson and not, in fact, a film festival party. Unless they were killing two birds with one venue. Hey, whatever keeps the home fires stoked.

Maybe it's the jet-lag talking, but is Kelly Osbourne wearing a dickie with an attached hood?

That matches her dress? She is, isn't she? And there's a face on her crotch? And two tiger heads (or something toothy, anyway) right beneath her boobs? Right?

Actually, let's just blame this on jet lag. Never happened. Never saw it at all.

And we're back! Hope you all had an awesome week, full of smiting your enemies, unexpected gifts, and brownies.  We're slowly getting back up to speed -- honestly, for all we know,  Britney might have run off with Vladimir Putin in our absence, though we  imagine someone would have texted us -- but you can catch up with our latest NY Mag.com piece, in which we once more look to the "fashion" of The Hills:

" Say what you will about Lauren Conrad's collection — we called it tragique — but at least she studies fashion; when Heidi attended FIT (tellingly, for a day, before quitting), it was to learn about PR, making Heidiwood the equivalent of having once typed up a recipe and auditioning for Top Chef. Naturally, we had to investigate — the kind of up-close and terrifying recon that can only come from trying Heidi’s wares on our brave, implant-free selves."

Learn exactly how bad it was here.  You guys, we're talking one-inch inseams. FOR REAL.

The other day, we got an e-mail from a kind-hearted soul who informed us that he'd read a story about an overworked blogger who keeled over from the strain and died. He fervently hoped we were not pushing ourselves to the limits and in danger of having a similarly fatal coronary, and expressed the hope that we make sure to take breaks. We were touched.

And he was psychic: We'd already scheduled a tiny break for, well, right now. Intern George finally coughed up the keys to his Lake Como villa, so we're off tomorrow, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, but will be back posting anew on Thursday, April 24.

Not that any celebrities should use this as an excuse to leave the house in leggings with, like, Axl Rose's face on them (LINDSAY). We WILL find out, and we will not spare you just because we happened to be relaxing with a fruity beverage at the time of the crime.

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: who is this?

whose email is this? I don't know how i got it.

Dear Friend,

Did it ever occur to you that maybe your aura reached out and brought it to you? Sometimes, ours is not to reason why -- or how, or when, or where an e-mail address came from -- but rather to allow destiny to cradle our Inbox. If every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings, then maybe whenever the divine holy chorus of "You've Got Mail" quickens a person's pulse, it's because a lost soul has gotten some George. Today, that soul is you. Fate opened my arms and wrapped them around your quizzical torso, and we will find the answers together. And when we're not sure what the answer is on the multiple-choice test of life, we will guess "C," because that's usually right. Ask yourself: It any coincidence that "C" is for "Clooney"? No.

All of the above,

G

E-mail #2

Subject line: Fugly As Hell

I'm a good looking guy. I had this ass fugly girl who was

trying to get some meat from me. She used the lame ass

line "I'm rich", "My dad who works at a church works for the

CIA", Fugly ass bitch. I wanted to hit her with a fugly tree.

That probably wouldn't do any good though, because she

was already hit with one. Fugly Ass Ho!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dear Friend,

What fun -- a butcher who writes poetry! When your fugly tree's branches reach out and entwine me like this in so rough a hug, I simply want to crawl up and build a nest in your iambic wackameter. But listen, my relationships are built on honesty, and this is a touchy subject, but I must ask: You're not REALLY all that good-looking, are you? Please know that I cleave to people's souls and wingspans, not their faces, so this bravado from you is not necessary. Maybe you'd understand best if I tried to speak your rhythmic language? Here goes:

"My pulsing arms will hug without restraint, so drop your hate mask,

put down the tenderloin of fury and love yourself

enough to use trees and meat only for tender, warm

embraces. Do not waste energy reviling Reverend Spymaster's girl

until you can come to terms with your own self-loathing

and marinate in Sweet Georgie's healing glow."

Are we seeing eye-to-eye now? Heart-to-heart? Like Robert Wagner to your Stefanie Powers, I am chasing the mysteries of the world with you even when we're not together, and solving its spiritual crimes.

The butler did it,

G

E-mail #3

Subject line: girl friend

would you go out with me?

Dear Friend,

You intrigue me. What IS gender? It's more than anatomy; it's an aura. As manly as my chest-pillow is, as strong as the wands of testosterone known as my arms might be, I do sometimes feel like my soul is splayed open like a hot-dog bun waiting for its cylindrical meat cargo. Does that make me a girl? A boy? A man? All? Who can say. Let's go for coffee and discuss over cheese danish -- you to your favorite haunt, me to mine, together yet apart. We'll have to go dutch on the check, but not on the insights.

You latte my life,

G

E-mail #4

Subject line: (no subject)

I say to you, Harvey Levin...fug yourself!  You are a slimy skank and a disgrace to yourself, and the legal profession.  On second thought the legal profession is precisely where you belong!  Bite me!!!!

Dear Friend,

Is this like one of those therapy exercises, where you find a stranger and vent to him or her about your deepest fears, frustrations, and yearnings? I'm privileged to be the sounding board, and would wrap my burly plumage around you if only this assignment didn't demand confidentiality. I imagine Harvey would read this, sip his coffee, purse his lips thoughtfully, then draw a circle around you on the transparent whiteboard of his heart -- thus bringing you in for all eternity and feeding you with his joy. Or at least, that's what I would do if I were him. I fight fire with passion, you sweet ball of fury, so keep burning your hate-incense to the quick and you will only inflame my desire to love you right out of your anger pants. Together, we will take those exclamation marks you so cherish and turn them into parentheses. Why? Because they hug.

(imagine yourself here),

G

We've been a little hard on Nicole Kidman occasionally, especially how she ALLEGEDLY seems to have jacked up her former face with so much paralyzing Botox. But I have to say, I am not one of those conspiracy theorists who believes she's faking the pregnancy, because a) that's insane; b) this is not Passions, as much as I wish it were and that Zombie Kidman would start showing up at events, although maybe she DID and that explains why Nic seemed a bit bodysnatched the last year or so; c) she looks pregnant in ways that are hard to fake, like her face; d) I can't think of a good reason why Nicole Kidman would need to go through all the rigamarole to fake something like that when she's adopted before, and also, again, NOT INSANE; e) she's got a glow lately, and it really suits her.

I don't really even care about the dress, although that ruby color is fantastic on her. What grabbed me was the loose, flirty, relaxed hair and what appears to be a genuine smile -- those are things she's been missing for a while, in favor of looking really pulled-tight and rigid and wan. Now if only she would get in line behind Nicole Richie at the Los Angeles Clinic For Looking Like Healthy And Lovely Like This All The Time And Not Just When You're Knocked Up, we'd be in business.

Let's get one thing clear: No matter how much I love Tina Fey, and despite also mostly liking Amy Poehler's work, I will never see Baby Mama. No, really. I won't. I can think of a thousand things off the top of my head that, when I ponder doing them, bring me less anguish -- and yes, Do A Shot With Spencer is on that list, alongside burning off my own hair and going on Oprah wearing Crocs and leggings.

So it's fair to say that I'm grumpy with Amy Poehler these days for being part of that movie. And maybe that's why I'm judging her outfit here kind of harshly. But seriously, isn't it just a tad underwhelming?

Sort of a snore, right? Not splashy enough to be fug, not chic or tailored enough to be effortlessly fab. It's just so... I'm getting tired just staring at it for more than three seconds at a time. The semi-high-waisted, wide-legged pants don't seem to fit that well, and the waist detail almost gives off the impression that they're fancy chastity trousers -- like Will Arnett has to lock up the goods before she goes out on the town, in case she spontaneously runs up on stage and moons everyone or tries to kidnap Jon Stewart by stuffing him down her pants. That satin shirt she's got jammed in there is sort of frumpy and excessively shiny. The leather jacket with sweater-cuffs actually helps, believe it or not, but the whole effect evokes an ensemble Paula Poundstone might wear to a biker bar. And is that EVER the right direction for ANYONE?

This is the day of the week where I admit something embarrassing, and today, it's that I am that person in America who loves Gwyneth. I know, I know: She's got a rep for being snotty and snobby and icy and whatnot, but I can not help it. I love her. Even when her head is apparently floating a full foot in front of her neck:

I know. She has a floating head, and I suspect she's able to "simplify everything," as she says on the cover, because....oh, I don't know....maybe because SHE'S LOADED? Money can't buy everything,  but it CAN pay for someone to water your lawn and buy your Mini Wheats and fold your underpants and I bet we'd all be able to more easily juggle our families and our jobs if we didn't have to run to the laundromat and the corner store all the damn time.  Ergo, I can understand why some people out there in the wide world might read this and kind of want to kick old GP in the shins. But I can't help it.  I just look at her and WANT TO BUY THE MAGAZINE. I don't even know WHY.  It's like that weird thing I have with Lohan, except for how Paltrow is like THE EXACT opposite of Lohan. On the other hand, I do wish there was an article in here explaining how I, too, can have that floating head.

One of the most awesome thing about One Tree Hill is its unswerving desire to try out an endless series of terrible haircuts on its male leads.  They did it to Chad Michael Murray, they did it to James Lafferty, and now they've turned their Scissors of Shame on Paul Johansson, the brother-murdering, grave-immolating, grandchild-rescuing, pre-schooler-threatening, graffiti-hallucinating, former mayor turned jailbird-wackjob:

Dudes, I know he just got out of jail, and then: crashed his son's wedding, at which said son was left at the alter when the bride realized LIKE THREE WEEKS AFTER THE FACT that his second book was all about how he was secretly in love with this other girl, even though she is allegedly AN EDITOR and ought to be better at READING COMPREHENSION; found time to have a big fight with his daughter-in-law while he was actually pretty busy skulking around; and then saved his grandchild from the clutches of his other son's psychotic nanny, up-to and including choking said kidnapper out. So he's been busy. TOO BUSY, perhaps, to have time to skip over to the Tree Hill Barber Shoppe and have them give him this Panic At The Disco 'do. Poor Dan. What does he have to do to get some respect? He already killed his brother, blamed it on a trouble teenager who just happened to be in the middle of a school-shooting spree, and then set his brother's grave on fire! HE WILL CUT A BITCH.

Wow, Paula Abdul looks kind of great.

That's a nice, rich color, and I love her hair.

Of course... the sleeve is sliding off her shoulder on one side, isn't it? And the sparkly embellishments look a tiny bit like Spider Man threw a tantrum in her limo.

But it's PAULA, you know? I feel like it's a blessing if she even manages to wander into the correct party, on the right day, using real words in a believable order.

British cleavage queen Jordan is trying harder and harder to re-brand herself by her actual birth name Katie Price (imagine that), because of how she allegedly separates her raunchy modeling persona from her real life. I would like to try and go with her on that one -- she's sort of amusing on what I've seen of her late-night show with hubby Peter Andre -- but she's so costumey and crazy that it's hard to think of her as any kind of real person at all.

For instance, to promote her autobiography, Katie-Jordan wore a disco Wonder Woman outfit. To debut her new lingerie line, she wore a bra and panties. And now, to pimp her latest children's book Mermaids and Pirates: Follow The Fish, she showed up, of COURSE, in something delightfully literal:

[Photo: Splash News]

That's just fantastic -- it's like the Enchantment Under The Sea dance reimagined as a soft-core ice ballet. Which, of course, is wholly appropriate when celebrating a book that's all about touching things and is aimed at really, really young people. What a successful image makeover this has been.

A comment we often make about LeAnn Rimes is, "Well, considering she grew up in the industry, she seems pretty normal, and somehow she got into her twenties without flashing her chamber of secrets all over town."

Here's hoping that was still true once the CMT Awards ended.

Wow, right? I'm also deeply unimpressed with the orthopedic Tin Man clodhoppers she's got on her feet, but mostly, I'm hoping that if LeAnn pulls a chain the scallops will descend like a window-shade down toward her knees so she can sit down without contracting anything.

She went with a similar risque theme during what I assume was her performance, but with a slightly more literal insistence that -- to borrow from Britney Spears -- she's not that innocent:

OH MY GOD, YOU GUYS.

Sisqo. IS ALIVE! And his hair/waxed chest is still awkward!

I must admit, I wouldn't want to get stuck in an elevator with Omarosa here, because I suspect I'd spend those two hours waiting for the firemen to rescue me from hearing all about her (although the song on her official MySpace page is..."Turn It Up" by Paris Hilton, which could mean that she is secretly hilarious. Or just that she has terrible taste). On the other hand, I freely admit that she amuses me as a reality show contestant. This is also amusing:

I swear to God, I had that dress for one of my Barbies, and it fit her just as well.  Shall we go in for the close-up?

Faith Hill used to be something of a glamazon.

Now she's coming off more like Mad Auntie Fifi, who insists she hasn't aged a day since she played Sandy in her high-school production of Grease; loves to careen around her Palm Springs penthouse re-enacting the major scenes with the doorman; juices anything she can find in the fridge or the canned-goods shelf and drinks it with vodka; leaves a trail of cigarette ash around the house and in the waffle maker; uses half a can of hair spray before noon; and knows the name of every young bartender and maitre d' in town because she likes to show up at their parties and sing "(You Make Me Feel Like A) Natural Woman" on the karaoke machine.

However, somewhere in the middle of all that, I talked myself into wanting to hang out with Mad Auntie Fifi. I mean, I can just pretend to eat the Marlboro waffles, right?

What is going on with Lily Allen?

If you dropped Pink into a John Hughes movie, this is what she'd look like, except probably with legwarmers. Maybe the ill-advised peroxide scrambled poor Lily's brain. Before today I thought the only thing Amy Winehouse had to teach me was that drugs are bad, mmmkay, but now I'm pretty sure she's also been silently preaching some serious gospel about how a torrid affair with hair bleach can often end in tears. Lily used to be so cute! Sassy! Spunky! Now it's like she's shuffling down to the the convalescent-home cafeteria because she refuses to miss Ambrosia Salad Monday.

Occasionally, people email us and are like, "don't give Phoebe Price any more attention! That's what she wants! If you ignore her, maybe she'll GO AWAY!" And I see your point. However, would you really want to go through your life without having experienced this:

I didn't think so.

Poor Helen McCrory. First, she had to pull out of the Bellatrix Lestrange role in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, only to replaced by fug favorite Helena Bonham Carter (who kicked ass in the part), and now she's appearing as the cover girl on the new magazine ACCESSORIES!, under the headline, "WHEN ACCESSORIES ATTACK!!!!!" Voila:

Gorgeous woman, pretty dress, WTF SCARF?! It's not Christmas, right? I didn't fall into a coma and wake up in December, right? Because if so, I (a) can't believe how hot it is. Global warming is a bitch! and (b) can't believe I'm still watching Rock of Love.

Apparently the only qualification you need to design a clothing line is a face that's appeared on TV (next, look for "Briefcase" by a Deal Or No Deal girl, and of course, "Can You Wear Me Now?" from the Verizon dude). Ergo, Heidi Montag debuted her "Heidiwood" collection this past weekend, humbly choosing only models that were near-clones of her, and strutting the runway herself in one of her designs.

Groundbreaking stuff. I've never seen anything like it!

Well, except for this:

Here's hoping the kids of today aren't terribly impressionable.

[Photo: INFDaily.com]

Otherwise, when Rihanna showed up at a local middle school this weekend, several of them might have come away with the notion that it's okay to shop for clothes at Linens 'n' Things. This is a lie. Remember, kids: Resourcefulness is one thing, but friends don't let friends turn a Bed In A Bag into a flared jumpsuit.

Natasha Bedingfield is super cute and she seems to be a fun girl, but does she have some kind of Skipper from Gilligan's Island fetish she needs to tell us about?

I wouldn't have mentioned this headgear (a lie: I totally would have, obviously) except this isn't the first time she's worn this hat:

I mean, I just don't get it. WHO loves THIS HAT so much that she wears it to a red carpet event? Does she really just long for the days before she hit it big, when she worked as a Cruise Boat Driver on the Thames (a fact I just invented)? Did she really, really want to be Captain Stubing when she grows up? What's the story here?

On the other hand, I have to say, she does seem like a really cheery girl. She never looks bored or resentful or cranky or superior at events, or like she isn't enjoying the attention. I've never heard that she secretly burns her assistant with cigarette butts or demands freebies or kicks puppies. In fact, she kind of seems like the kind of girl you'd be friends with, and you'd swing by her house to pick her up for a trip down to the pub, and she's be wearing this hat, and you'd be like, "Are you wearing a captain's hat?!" and she'd be like, "Isn't it cute?! I just love it! I feel so PERKY in it, or something! Oooh, I love your shoes!" and you'd have to just kind of laugh and head out for a drink. Which is really kind of nice.

Well, I've arrived. I knew I was eyeing real-estate in the neighborhood of My, These Kids Today, but it appears I've bought land and am getting ready to build my dream house there, complete with a porch on which I can sit in a rocking chair and scream at the local urchins through a bullhorn.

Meet Ashley Benson, formerly of Days Of Our Lives and currently doing a TV movie about Texas cheerleaders who go nuts, or something equally terrible-sounding that I will totally watch:

Navy is a wonderful color, but what's up with wanting to look like a laundry pile? I mean, sure, some of my clothes have taken that shape, but only when they're lying on the floor next to my hamper, waiting for me to remember to take them to the dry-cleaner. Perhaps there are some ads on her back for Milt & Edie's Professional Cleaning, or some killer coupons people are encouraged to clip throughout the night.

Of course, maybe I'm just old and crotchety on this Friday afternoon, and she looks totally fine and it's all just artsy and stylistic and cool. So while I personally would like to take a steamer to the skirt and then see what we're left with, I'll throw it up to a vote while I retreat to my front porch and get ready to chase some ragamuffins with a rolled-up newspaper.

Seriously, every time I see Kat DeLuna, I think she's one of the Cheetah Girls, mostly because I don't actually know who the Cheetah Girls are:

She's not, and I'm sure she'd like to smack me for lumping her in with that crew. I don't know, Kat. I was alive when New Kids On The Block were popular, you have to forgive me these things. Also, please forgive me for this: you appear to have been dressed by a 1950s B-movie Martian with a beanbag fetish. I just thought someone should tell you.

KATE HUDSON: Pose, Matthew! Pose! STRIKE IT!

MATT MCCONAWHOOLAHAY: I am posing. This is my Blue Steel.

KATE: You look so handsome in a suit. I'm used to seeing you running around without a shirt on. You're WAY TAN, dude.

MATT: Dude. I'm outdoorsy. I'm constantly stoked and wowed by nature, you know? Of course I have a tan. I'm not some kind of uptight desk monkey, man.

KATE: This pose hurts my chin.

MATT: I'm scared of your dress.

KATE: What do you mean? The color is amazing!

MATT: Yeah. It is.  But those sleeves. And those thingers on the end of the sleeves, man.  They're like....chains.

KATE: Yeah, they're cool. Right?

MATT: What if you get mad at me and whip me across the face with one of them? That would hurt, man. That would not be cool.

KATE: Do you really think I would do that?

MATT: Shit's unpredictable, man. Shit's unpredictable.

KATE: You got so weird, living in that trailer.

Y'all know I've got love for Susan Sarandon. And, yes, part of her charm is that she -- to borrow a cliche -- marches to the beat of her own drummer a lot of the time when it comes to fashion. But I can't help sometimes wanting to tell her that her drummer just got back from a wicked kegger followed up with 5 a.m. pancakes at Denny's, hasn't slept yet, and maybe isn't in the most rhythmic state of mind.

I can't decide what I think those ladies in the back are saying: that they're pretty sure she borrowed her suit from Daniel Day-Lewis, or that it's possible he cobbled those shoes for her as well.

Admit it: you REALLY want to check out the newly-updated versions of the Sweet Valley High books. We hear you. Which is why we ran out as soon as they were released and gobbled them up like fries at the Dairi Burger (now called "Casa del Sol," like, whatever. It's always the Dairi Burger to US), and reported back for NY Mag. Turns out all the terrible, terrible 80s clothes have gone the way of 1BRUCE1, which is to say: into ancient history. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! (Seriously, we really miss 1BRUCE1). Also:

"Back in the day, falsely accused student-romancer Ms. Dalton "never looked prettier" than when chaperoning a dance in her long velvet skirt, an old-fashioned blouse with "lots of ruffles and tucks," and a fake rose pinned over one ear. To avoid modern-day confusion that she is either Amish or a refugee from Anne of Green Gables, she now wears an eggplant sheath. What, no leggings?"

Find out which other iconic SVH wardrobe choices have been left in the dust, along with those five pounds they shaved off the twins,  at NY Mag.com.

JOHNATHAN SCHAECH: Why HELLO little girl.

BRITTANY SNOW: Uh... hi, Johnathan.

JOHNATHAN: I am here to inform you that YOU MUST PAY THE RENT.

BRITTANY: Oh, great. Here we go.

JOHNATHAN: You MUST pay the rent!

BRITTANY: Do we really have to do this bit RIGHT now? I'm kind of busy.

JOHNATHAN: Come on, Brittany, you know I love the Old-Timey Villain gag! And I haven't seen you in a while!

BRITTANY: Sigh. Okay. But this is the last time, you hear? Start over.

JOHNATHAN: Ahem. MWA HA HA. YOU MUST PAY THE RENT!

BRITTANY: I can't pay the rent.

JOHNATHAN: You didn't say it like you meant it! Do I have to tie you to some ACTUAL train tracks?

BRITTANY: MOM!

Alexa Vega looks fine, right?

A little sexy secretary, a little maitre d', all with a splash of Lindsay Lohan about the face. She's a cutie. I mean, is it the most fashion forward thing you've ever seen? Does it just light your hair on fire with how creative it is? Is it making your face peel off with the blinding power of its awesomeness? No. But may I remind you that the last time we saw Alexa, she was wearing this?

Poor Amber Heard. Pretty, pretty, wooden Amber Heard. No matter what she does in the future, I suspect I may privately always refer to her as "Hidden Palms," the terrible, terrible CW soap she appeared in last summer, kind of like how I never got out of the habit of calling Erika Christensen "Swimfan."

Anyhoodle, Hidden Palms is out and about:

And doing I don't know what. There's something awesome about the fact that she's standing next to the word "EXCESS," as perhaps she thought that was the evening's dress code, rather than a sponsor. What you DON'T know -- because I couldn't get a good picture of it -- is that this ensemble also has an open back. Why not?! It's got everything else! (Although this IS something about the top that I secretly kind of love. But, you know, with jeans. Not an uber-tight satin ulta-mini.)

And speaking of excess, let's take a look at a close up of Hidden Palms's makeup:

Give it up for Kelly Preston, you guys! No, really! Put your hands together and clap!

We haven't had a good scroll-down fug in a long, long time, and I just wanted to make sure that we all celebrated it appropriately. It takes A LOT of work to take what is ostensibly a lovely dress and arrange for it to: (a) cling unflatteringly to your tights (b) be entirely the wrong length, and (c) pair it with the clod-hoppers I wore to Edwards Cinemas the night I saw Reality Bites for the second time. So, BRAVO, Kelly! BRAVO!

Wow:

I'm sure at several offices around America right now (AKA, those owned by Conde Nast), someone is saying to someone else, "I just LOVE what Rinko Kikuchi wore to the IWC event last night! Those high-waisted, tapered khakis! The blue vest! It's like a post-modern take on the Wal-Mart uniform! That's so refreshing! So now! So unflattering! I MUST have it this spring!" As for me,  you know, I think I'll pass.

Oh, PADMA:

You are beautiful. You are accomplished. You are smart. You are wearing the lovechild of a bed sheet, a dust ruffle and the lead actress's costume from a little-known musical called Shotgun Wedding! You need to pack up your knives and go home...to change.

Somewhere amid the blurry flurry of Fug Madness voting, Mary-Kate Olsen snuck past me in a satin shorts-suit and a purse longer than femur.

It's as if she's getting ready to go on safari in Sharon Stone's closet. Which... yeah, I'm going to need to go with her.

In theory? Not bad.

But in practice... Teri, the tan lines didn't just pop up there by themselves. Marcia Cross did not hex you with those while you were in the car. You HAD TO KNOW. This sort of thing is becoming such a pet peeve of mine now -- the bathing-suit marks take an otherwise nice cocktail dress and make it look like a beach cover-up that she threw on after building a sandcastle so she could go have a grilled cheese sandwich at the clubhouse. Why not save this little baby for a time when you've evened things out, and instead go with something that has straps? Or wear a wrap? Or just chuck the whole thing and actually go make grilled cheese? You'd be surprised at the clarity a little cheddar on white can bring. Especially if you jam some bacon in it.

Well, the American Idol philanthropy talent show airs tonight, and -- SPOILER! -- the stylists for that show are still on crack.

I hope it turns out Brooke White was performing in a rousing group medley of "Chain Gang" and "Jailhouse Rock," or an interpretive dance version of what community service might look like -- say, if you were assigned to pick up trash by the side of the road with one of those long claws. Otherwise, what the hell?

Of course, given Brooke's on-air propensity for jabbering at the judges, I imagine the conversation with the stylists may have been a little bit frustrating and maybe it's not their fault.

STYLIST: I gotta be honest with you, dawg...

BROOKE: Okay.

STYLIST: For me, it isn't your best...

BROOKE: Yeah. TOTALLY.

STYLIST: ... isn't your best look, I mean...

BROOKE: I completely agree, yes. YES.

STYLIST: Are you going to let me ...

BROOKE: It's all right. No, it's all right!

STYLIST: What? No, it's not, you look...

BROOKE: Right. I love your hair tonight!

STYLIST: ... you look TERRIBLE IN THAT. YOU ARE NOT TWELVE.

BROOKE: Thank you!

STYLIST: THAT'S NOT A COMPL...

BROOKE: Okay!

STYLIST: I quit.

After roughly 1.1 million total votes throughout the ten days of Fug Madness, we finally have a champion.

There were upsets (who knew Brittany Murphy had legs in this thing?), there were Cinderellas (sweet Peldon, if anyone is likely to take that as a cue to wear actual glass slippers around town, it's you), and there was agita and tears and regret from all the supporters of favorite fuggers who fell victim to our eventual finalists. Tough to say if it's heartening or tragic for Chloe Sevigny that her supporters were so vocal in bemoaning her absence from the final game; her fair-and-square loss in the Elite Eight proves that, just as in basketball, what you've achieved before doesn't matter if you don't bring it on the day. Remember her fate this time next year, Chloephiles -- your votes do count.

And yesterday, 69 percent of them counted in favor of our first-ever Fug Madness champion. From the brutal Charo bracket, past challengers like Tara Reid and Sevigny, Phoebe Price and Mary-Kate Olsen, comes your glorious champion --our very own version of the four horsemen of the apocalypse but with about 24 personalities instead of four steeds.

Yes: BAI LING.

[Photo: Splash News]

Whether you are crying over spilled Sevigny or had your money on Sharon Stone, at the end of the day, it's impossible to deny that the title sits well on Bai's semi-nude shoulders. Her fug reigns supreme because it is supreme; she certainly worked hard for it, and worked it hard. The best part is how she's standing there all defiant, like, "What, lensmonkey? Are you not used to lace bodystockings and turbans? Well, when Madonna is elected president in 2020 and this becomes our National Guard uniform, you will not be so SMIRKY, you sad shutter-clown."

Well, except, it's Bai Ling,  so that would come out sounding more like, "Loving darling, I am moving through light in the haze of......what? Dancing with sweat to celebrate, all hail, and salute the singing future of clouds. Do you fallow me? HELLO!"

Congratulations to her, and to runner-up Victoria Beckham, who scored the unlikely upset of a devastatingly strong and Peldon-killing Sharon Stone. You all fugged hard, and we look forward to what you can achieve in a comeback campaign in Fug Madness 2009.

And for those of our readers who love an incredibly cheesy (and slightly grainy) post-tournament tribute reel, we've prepared a video treat, replete with all the intentionally  ridiculous special-effects we can muster on a dime budget:

Dear Feist,

We have to talk.

I have to tell you something. I once declared on this website that you were "underwhelming" in concert. And I think that you're wearing a dress here that was inspired by a macramé/sea shell wall-hanging that was a project of my grandmother's in the 50s that I seriously wish I had now, albeit not to wear. However, in that self-same post, I also vowed never to rest in my quest to post grotesque pictures of Kiki Dunst and ever since The Incidence of the Glasses, I have posted said photos with more LOVE and less GLEE, which I guess is kind of like a version of resting.  I'm resting the glee. Sort of. Sometimes. And now I must confess to you, Feist, that while I stand firm in my review of your past underwhelming performance, I BOUGHT YOUR DANG ALBUM WHEN IT CAME OUT AND I REALLY LIKE IT. FINE. There you go! I ADMITTED IT. Are you happy? Probably not, as I just compared you to kitschy living room accoutrement, but at least you got the $9.99.

So, riddle me this, Seventeen: Is one of the "amazing style secrets" of Amanda Bynes that you're suggesting we steal, "Put on more makeup than the inaugural victim of an unskilled, blind-ish Avon lady, and then ADD SOME MORE"?

Yeah, that's what I figured.

For our readers in foreign lands who may want to see the book but can't get it: Kickette is here to help. The dishy, snarky blog about England's footballers and their WAGs is giving away three copies, and you have until April 14 to enter.

We also did a guest take on a few of the infamously badly-dressed ladies.

Take, for example, Elen Rives and her unbelievably unflattering high-waisted, black satin corset-trousers, which come thoughtfully adorned with belt loops, in case you're the sort of OCD case who worries about flashing your crack even in a situation where your waistline is in intimate congress with your armpits.

They almost distract from her giant lips--almost.

Enjoy the rest of the WAGalicious fug, and enter to win one of three copies of the book, by clicking here to read the whole stinkin' piece.

We've been so mean to LC lately and I totally don't even mean it. Sure, I thought her fashion line sort of sucked, but she seems like a nice girl, and I look forward to seeing her in one of our Blame Spencer tees. (Buy early, buy oftblah blah blah blah).  But she's got some problems, you guys: Her taste in men is questionable at best, for one thing. For another, Mark -- that teen/tween magalogue from Avon -- is out to get her:

She doesn't look bad there, per se. But she also totally doesn't look like herself. To the extent that I recently spent like twenty minutes trying to figure out if that WAS LC, or just some rando model.  I kept putting this thing down and then picking it up again. I really went back and forth like nine times. And you know how, if you write the word "turnip" or whatever multiple times, it eventually loses ALL MEANING? Ten minutes into my existential Is This Lauren Or What? crisis, her face lost all meaning and context to me. It could have been Engelbert Humperdinck up on there.  Though I don't know how well he sells perfumes to teenagers.

"And so I said to HIM, 'Yeah, so my hair IS an homage to Luke Perry's sensitive work in that thing about those kids. My LEGS are FANTASTIC.'"

This "Maria" is allegedly a wrestler for the WWE, so I think I'm meant to be grateful that she's wearing a tutu over her spandex onesie rather than, say, plastic hot pants.

Instead, I just want to ask if she's come across any plutonium lately, and if so, whether I could borrow her skirt, ball it up, and feed it into the gas tank of my DeLorean. 

We can hardly believe this final game is here! And what a game it is: a beloved, nearly always semi-naked, multiple-personalitied  performer/blogger of great awesomeness  versus an erstwhile Spice Girl and lover of Beckham, spray tans, high heels, sunglasses and overall ferociousness.

(2) BAI LING vs. (1) VICTORIA "POSH SPICE" BECKHAM

Oh, BAI. Your archive gives us such great joy. Who can forgot this triad of deliciousness? Who can remain hard-hearted when faced with visual evidence of a great love affair with a Chewbacca in high-water pants? Who can look upon this and not feel certain that all is right in the world of fug?

That is what Rock of Love With Bret Michaels would wear if it woke up and realized it was actually a person rather than a television show. This is also rather fetching:

Oh dear.

It appears Zoe's blueberry nights involved borrowing her gardener's shoes, getting lost in the woods, and being lightly mauled by a perturbed deer who really freaking hates leggings. I would probably watch that movie -- sounds like a Disney musical-comedy involving Bambi's midlife crisis and a lot of fresh berry pie -- but I don't think I would WEAR it.

"DELIGHT IN MY GLORY, YOU FOOLS! Was I eliminated in the first round of Fug Madness, HUMILIATINGLY, by some plastic cast-off of McFly's, like Leggings Lohan? NAY! Have countless individuals admitted on the internet that they can't get enough of my furry delights? YES! Do I have to wake up in the morning and worry about whether or not I have been batshit crazy enough to topple that wackadoo, Bai Ling? NO! Can I just eat my Komodo  dragon omelet in peace as usual? OUI! LIFE IS GOOD, DARLINGS! I'm just going to put on this lovely suit that's probably lined with baby seal and DANCE!" 

People are always going on and on about the effortless, incomparable-to-mere-mortals style of model Agyness Deyn -- like she's some kind of Chloe Sevigny of the catwalk, and we mere mortals can only DREAM of rolling out of bed every morning as fluent as Agyness is in the language of Awesome.

I will give them the incomprehensible part.

Don't get me wrong, she rocks the runway. But I have come to the conclusion that people really need to stop instructing me to covet her wardrobe. At the end of the day, I just can't help it: I don't want to leave the house in a brutally upholstered shirt whose lapels look like a deflated neck pillow. If I attempted this style I would be shot, skinned, and turned into an ottoman at an old folks' home. Ergo, I will stick to regular things that don't induce migraines in small children, and leave Agyness to run the risk that Bobby Trendy will offer her a job running the mechanical bull at his fine eatery, Cowboy Trendy's Sirloin Factory.

Actress Skye McCole Bartusiak is only 16. Therefore, she wasn't even ALIVE in the 1980s, so I will take a deep breath, empty a bottle of moisturizer on my crow's feet, ad try to give her a pass for not understanding that nobody should ever yearn for that decade except for maybe Andrew Ridgeley.

Being a teenager is a tough in front of the flashbulbs. Clearly Skye is trying some kind of self-expression, so I will be restrained and simply note: Her parents are hosed. No, seriously, their authority is totally compromised. In a year or two this girl is going to want to quit school and backpack through Western Europe for six months with her life savings and a Swedish bartender named Ulf, and when they try to stop her, she will scream, "OH YEAH? WHERE WAS THAT RED LIGHT WHEN I LEFT THE HOUSE LOOKING LIKE A CRACKED-OUT EMOTICON?" And they will be speechless, and off she'll go, returning a year later than expected with a wicked crepe habit and a tattoo that says "BITTE, BABY" on her left boob. I just hope they're prepared.

Yep... that Spencer Tracy sure is a cad. EVERYTHING is his fault. Intern George, however? Dreamy. And for one month only, you can order a 100-percent cotton expression of those feelings.

There's one catch: These little beauties are only available on a Now-or-Never basis, beginning today and ending April 30. Do not delay, or you'll miss out on the chance to hug back at Intern George and point your judgmental finger at the memory of English philosopher and political theorist Herbert Spencer (or any other Spencer you can think of... we're plum out of ideas, ourselves).

So order soon! Or, to bastardize the esteemed Vivica A. Fox, do not procrastinate or else we can't congratulate. This offer disappears once April 30 does. 

Bonus fun: Send the sentiment to loved one via these saucy online postcards.

It's been nine days of matches and more than one million votes -- be kind to your tired mouse-clicking fingers this weekend -- and now, we're down to two brackets, two contestants. Bjork flew home, tragically not actually taking the real Paris Hilton with her; if Cher could turn back time, if she could find a way, she'd make all her friends vote for Sharon so she'd stay.

But it's too late. The votes are in, and your final game is:

(2) BAI LING vs. (1) VICTORIA "POSH SPICE" BECKHAM

Bai captured the Charo bracket and then trampled over Paris Hilton with 73 percent of the vote, knocking the Bjork bracket into the next galaxy and putting her one game closer to winning this whole thing. Posh knocked back an impressive challenger in Sharon Stone, notching 52 percent of your support -- a majority almost as slim as she is.

We've had so much fun watching this shake down; thanks for all your votes -- a million of them equals a LOT of fugpinions -- and for keeping the comments so amusing and on-topic and smart.

The final game tips off on Monday morning. Bring beer.

All right, so we've seen former and possibly current model Irina Pantaeva around Fashion Week in New York, so she's probably not all THAT random, and she WAS in Zoolander after all.

"Good start," you might say, "but what has she done for me lately?"

I am so glad you asked.

If you were to dip a Dr. Seuss book in acid and then lick it from cover to cover, this might be what you'd sketch. It's confusing. Bamboozling. Gaxfangling and froozling. This is the stuff of an alternate universe -- I would not be at all surprised if Phoebe Price flew through my window right now, offered me some bread made of handbags and a candle-flavored snood, and then told me that this is the new candy-striper uniform at the MC Hammer Glory of Angels Hospital and National Defense Think-Tank. Up is down, and down us up; Bai Ling's 43 personalities look like a cleansing breath of sensible air, and Intern George is about to put too much tonic in my vodka. I want to go home.

Oh, Lindsay. Sweet child o' mine, why do you insist on looking like an 80s hair band reject carrying his girlfriend's handbag?

[Photo: INFDaily.com]

Why? Why? So many questions. Why do you go out looking like this, and then turn around and do something like this? You are so charmingly Cady From Mean Girls in that clip. YOU'VE STILL GOT IT IN YOU! Why are you TOYING WITH ME like this? So many mixed messages! I can't take it! God, when will I find a starlet who doesn't play me like this? WHEN?

Also, it's mean to make Samantha Ronson walk ten paces behind you. I guess she and I can talk about it in LohanHab. AGAIN.

Bebe Neuwirth is a dancing bad-ass.

And, in fact, probably enough of an overall actual bad-ass to get away with wearing a leather schoolgirl's uniform without the requisite white button down, no?  I figured.

(3) PARIS HILTON vs. (2) BAI LING

As we've mentioned before, it seems unseemly to credit Paris Hilton with winning anything, so let's just say that she is the only one who snuck out of Bjork's intrabracketary spaceship before it took off again for the home planet.

In a way, though, it's fitting that Paris and Bai should meet up at such a pivotal stage: Both attempt to act every now and then, both are fond of dressing for what we will politely call "maximum impact," both are best known for something unrelated to having an actual skill, and  both have tried singing (Paris on her album; Bai on VH-1's But Can They Sing?; if you have our book, you know there is a photo of her from this performing in nothing but a rhinestone bikini).

They're also both deranged:

And you know what else? They're both DERANGED:

(2) SHARON "RAPID BEAVER" STONE vs (1) VICTORIA "POSH SPICE" BECKHAM

The final four! It's here at last! It's almost time to cue "One Shining Moment" over a touching montage of, like, Courtney Peldon kicking Lohan in the nads or Tilda Swinton and K-Fed sharing a tender-yet-creepy post-game embrace.

As for this particular game, we must be frank: we love these two. If they were to start showing up places looking even vaguely normal on a regular basis, we would be bereft. We are the Mark Darcy to their Bridget Jones: We love them just as they are, even if what they are is totally nutrageous. They are delicious, glamorous divas and you best believe they have their eyes on you:

One of them plans to kill you with merely one well-placed acrylic toenail and the other one will just very, very awkwardly seduce you. Guess who is who?!

Now, you've surely already perused Sharon's archive, as well as Posh's. Their choices haunt your dreams, their abuses of their stellar genetic material has had you racked with sobs on more than on occasion. You love them, you hate them, you love to hate them, you hate to love them, you love to love them -- who are we to judge you? But you feel about them, and you feel strongly. Let's take a wee peek at some NEVER SEEN BEFORE fugs before we head into the voting booths, shall we?

RENEE ZELLWEGER: George? What's wrong?

INTERN GEORGE: YIKES! They gotcha!

RENEE: What?

INTERN GEORGE: You're not actually listening to them, are you?

RENEE: Who?

INTERN GEORGE: The Fug Girls and all their whining about how you're always going sleeveless! I told them to leave you alone. They threw a sandwich right at my head.

RENEE: I have no idea what you're talking about. I just thought it would be kicky to stick some sleeves on this thing with tacks. I had the idea in the car on the way over!

INTERN GEORGE: It's rather....Blanche Devereaux, no?

RENEE: I'm sure I have no idea what you mean.

THE PHOTOGRAPHER: EVERYBODY SMILE!

Remember those infuriating De Beers "I LOVE THIS MAN" commercials? That just made you want to slap the diamonds off that woman? In contrast to that, I TRULY love this woman:

Her name is Maria Castro, she's starring in a telenovela called (translated to English) Without Tits, There Is No Paradise. And, according to Wikipedia, it is DEPRESSING:

"Paraíso tells the story of 17-year-old Catalina, a gorgeous young girl who descends into a decadent world of easy money as a teen prostitute. She comes from a poor single-parent family and her brother works as a hired killer for drug traffickers. The girl dreams of a life of luxury, but she is not bosomy enough to attract a wealthy pusher whom she can seduce into making her a pampered paramour.

Sick of poverty, Catalina decides that plastic surgery will help her find a new life. During her pursuit, she is raped, gets an abortion and dives into the sex trade. She sells her body to raise money for breast augmentation. After five operations, she loses the will to live and considers suicide."

HILARIOUS! By which I mean sad/extremely dramatic/possibly kind of crazy. Apparently, it's been optioned for American TV as well, and I can only say that I hope Maria Castro and her beautiful shoes and SKIRT MADE OF FEATHERS THAT LOOK LIKE LEAVES come along. Because this looks like the unfortunate outcome of a wild afternoon with a pile of detritus and some mis-applied SuperGlue, and I LOVE IT. I demand more!

Dear Bennifleck,

Hola. How are you? I hope you are hell. Just kidding, I meant "well." OH WAIT, NO I DIDN'T. I just wanted to say hello, and thank you for the generous baby presents that I assume you bought for me but which clearly got lost in the mail because one of you is too busy being BORING to write the address correctly and the other one of you is Ben. So, si, idiotas, I LOVE my MISSING PRESENTS so very much. As Marc said the other night, you put the "ass" in "Muchas gracias." HA HA HA HA. At least, I think that's what he said -- he was drinking a can of V-8 through two straws stuck on his incisors, but I am pretty sure I understood correctly because that is what love is about, people. Straws and red liquid. Because when you put those two together for a few days straight you get LOTS of horizontal mambo and then LOTS OF BABIES!

Oh, wait, what is that you are murmuring? You could only do ONE baby at a time? WEAK SAUCE, Mrs. Bennifleck! There is WOMB FOR TWO in this lady -- ha ha, that was Marc again, he is so funny when he's playing with his straw fangs! -- and I wore heels the entire time, and we haven't slept in 120 hours and I THINK maybe Marc is shrinking because his coat doesn't fit any more but I am HERE and I am swathed in a CURTAIN and I am your superior in every way! When was the last time YOU had two babies at once and then went right out and matched your eye makeup to your husband's best pair of shiny pants? When was the last time you even BOUGHT your Benfleck a pair of shiny pants? That's RIGHT, enemiga estupida, GAME, SET, AND CHECKMATE to ME!

Besos,

J.

And then there were four: On Thursday, the champions of the brackets will get together and play a sweaty, violent game of two-on-two basketball for the right to win a lifetime supply of caftans. Press-on nails will be a-flyin'. We're so excited!

Once that's done, then there's the Fug Madness polls, in which the Cher champion will face off against the Madonna winner, with Bjork and Charo's respective victors clashing next. Those victors will duke it out on Monday for the crown. It's going to be so intense that we're using any spare minutes in the day to meditate, stretch, dry out our livers, and check in on how David Silver is coping with his drug addiction over on SoapNet.

By request, here's a filled-out bracket for people who are just returning from vacation and want to download a filled-in, the-story-so-far bracket that shows how we got from 65 to 4 (although clicking on our Fug Madness archive and reading through is probably more fun): Download Fug_Madness_bracket_finalfour.jpg

Now, here are you bracket winners.

WINNER: (2) SHARON STONE

It had gotten to the point where we thought it couldn't be done. Tiny little 5-foot-nothing (or so we assume) Courtney Peldon turned into the giantess of this competition, laying waste to every higher seed that stood in her way. But she was no match for the pure, unbridled, nutty flavor of a hot cup of Sharon Stone. When you wear a rat's paw pinned to your jacket, you trump spangled bra tops -- or at least, that's what we're assuming the lesson is here. We also quite sincerely hope Sharon DOES take Courtney under her wing,  because maybe they could bust this thing wide open in 2009 by competing as a pair. Somebody please get on arranging that.

Sharon will next compete against the winner of the Madonna bracket, who is...

Because it worked out so well last time!

Debbie, Debbie.  Ne'er shall I call you Deborah. I'm sorry, but I feel as though, as I bought your freaking perfume, I am allowed to call you whatever I want. For the rest of our lives. I mean, not like "Mademoiselle Whorebag Nutsface" or something -- that would be crass, and also untrue. After all, you're Debbie Gibson! You are still so cute. By the way, Debbie, Wikipedia tells me that, "in May 2007, the world premiere of Electric Youth: The Musical was unveiled at The Starlight Theatre in Orlando, FL. The musical featured 14 of Deborah's most loved songs." How was I not made aware of this? It sounds terrible, but potentially also awesome, and therefore I feel as though I ought to have been emailed about it. I enjoy musical versions of everything. Bursting into song is never not entertaining -- can you imagine a musical version of, say, Sweet Valley High? Jessica Wakefield bursting into the heart-string-plucking, "Who Am I (My Sister Came Out of Her Coma and Thought She Was Me)?" Elizabeth Wakefield dancing though "He Touched My Boob! (And Then I Cracked My Head On The Coffee Table)."  A huge group number at the Dairi Burger, perhaps explaining why it's spelled thusly? Mayhap Debbie Gibson can play the Mom -- sorry, Debbie. We're all getting older. However, you're not 75, so why are you wearing my grandma's shoes? Just asking.

(1) POSH vs. (6) BEYONCE

Beyonce has had it rough here -- it's been an endless string of divas for her, from Kylie Minogue to Helena Bonham Carter (who isn't so much a diva as a Derelicte devotee, but whatever -- in terms of TALENT, she has as much right to be a diva as any of these people if not more) to Sienna Miller, who frankly, would probably like you to think she's a diva but who is more accurately a sheep in Kate Moss's clothing. And now she gets Victoria Beckham. It's got everyone buzzing. Unless that's just a side effect of having had water trapped in my ear for two days.

These two women really aren't so different. Beyonce, for example, isn't averse to wearing dresses that barely rein in her assets -- or, what we lovingly refer to as "Pulling a Posh" -- and Victoria is wildly unafraid of hot pants.

Beyonce's grocery shelf may not be as squished and crammed, but the effect is the same: One false move and the melons will go flying. As for Posh, well, she could well be the daughter Tina Knowles never had, if you don't count the two she does.

And at times -- inexplicable, ill-advised, presumably hung-over times -- these women both prairie it up in garish style...

(1) CHLOE SEVIGNY vs. (2) BAI LING

Holy cannoli. How can one choose between these two? Between them, they've handily destroyed the likes of Tara Reid AND Mary-Kate Olsen, but as much as we'd like them to both somehow emerge from this match winners, there can be BUT ONE.

But which one?

Princess Catsuit McCigarette?:

Lady Underpants?:

Or these two?

The Sex and the City movie, for me, is really just an opportunity to check in on what new, delicious nonsense the four heroines will wear around town as if it's completely normal, like, say, a flower bigger than your head pinned between your boobs.

Or an ensemble inspired by what Fozzie and Miss Piggy's illicit offspring would look like:

[Photo: Splash News]

Okay, so as you may have guessed from my feeble Photoshop job and the INCREDIBLY SUBTLE title of this post, that is not actually Sarah Jessica Parker up there wearing that outfit. You may be able to guess who it is -- the answer is after the jump -- but first, admit it: If I had been able to pull off a seamless face transplant, you might have believed this and just let it go. It's a very "Carrie Bradshaw Goes To Paris To See What Tiny Hijinks Mikhail Baryshnikov Is Up To These Days" outfit, with the possible caveat that it's almost too tacky, and yes, I totally just wrote the words "too tacky" in reference to Carrie Bradshaw's wardrobe and meant them.

But no, the REAL perpetrator of that crime is: