Celebrity Terror Watch

Poor Sarah Jane Morris.

She probably had no idea when she donned this otherwise innocuous, sweet summer dress that -- during her big photo opportunity, no less -- it would rise up and try to throttle her on the spot. No motive has been identified for the attempted assassination of a completely harmless person who was probably just trying to get inside for some free crudités, a glass of champagne, and a swag bag. But we can only assume that after years of celebrities committing fashion crimes, the fashion itself has developed a vicious streak.

So, be careful. Be vigilant. And maybe stay away from things with strange flaps, or scarf-bodices, or built-in dishtowels -- or whatever that thing is -- that could randomly nooseify themselves. Save your necks.

Add Eric Balfour to the Big Bad List of Celebrities Who Look Like They're About to SNAP and Murder You:

He looks way crankier at the Pink Taco opening than any man ought to look at the opening of a pink taco. ZING! AND SOMETIMES THEY WRITE THEMSELVES.

Ahem. Sorry. The coffee was overly strong this morning. I mean, really -- a Pink Taco/pink taco crack? What I am, like, a twelve year old boy, who just discovered TastelessEuphamisms.com? I'm so ashamed. Please, look away.

Joining Ginnifer Goodwin on The Big List of Celebrities Who Look Like They're Thinking About Choking You Out, I present the usually dreamy Shane West:

Seriously, I'm kind of nervous just looking at him. I only have, like, thirty bucks in my wallet, Shane, but you can totally have it if you just go away.  I mean, I don't know -- maybe he's campaigning for the lead in a made-for-TV-movie about Peter Braunstein. But while that's totally the sort of movie I would get sucked into watching (I love poorly made movies about terrible crimes. I once spent four hours watching a mini-series about the Menendez brothers on Lifetime), I do not think it's really a look anyone should be sporting, you know, off the set. TERROR LEVEL: HIGH

Appendix: POTENTIAL SERIAL KILLER TERROR LEVEL CHART: ON-LOOKER ADVISORY VERSION.

In theory, we're all for celebrities acting like normal people and wearing something more than once. In practice, though, there are things like high-waisted overalls, which fall distinctly into the "Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me" category of fashion.

Such was the affliction I thought had grabbed Fergie in its toxic clutches.

And then, with a heavy heart, I realized this is not the same pair of camel-toe-causing high-waisted overalls. Which means... it's hard to put this in print, because that means it's real... there are TWO types of vagina-crunching, waist-pinching, armpit-encroaching denim overalls in the world. Judging by Fergie's face, this one is particularly likely to have been dumped on an unsuspecting public by the same people who bring you Monistat. [Miss Fergie Ferg must be seriously reconsidering the creative decision to peddle her latest single dressed as a farmhand.]

Unless her apparently misery has to do with how tightly the belt is cinched, at which point the suspenders become merely decorative. Yes, that's right: They're IMITATION lady-cave-spelunking high-waisted overalls. I'm not sure which is the more insidious creation; all I do know is, it just got a little bit less safe for us out there. 

It is our great pleasure here at GFY HQ to announce a Celebrity Terror Watch downgrade, in which a formerly afflicted celeb shows up at an event not looking cracked out, tanned up, bloated, greasy, frighteningly thinner than usual, or compromised in any way that the CDC would need to hear about. Instead, we are extremely  gratified to present to you Jon Favreau, as witnessed over the weekend:

That's a nice suit, Jon.

Allow me to refresh your memory as to how he looked last time we checked in:

We here at GFY HQ would like to issue a Tanorexia orange alert, pun fully intended, because of word of an epidemic sweeping the America's Next Top Model gang: It would appear that Jay Manuel's rampant affinity for turning himself orange is terribly, toxically catching.

To wit: Here is Tyra Banks in her Emmy dress (and exposed wig tape) late last year.

And here she is as photographed at the PGA awards -- which is thrown by the Producer's Guild of America, and not, in fact, a ceremony devoted to the very best in golf, at which her presence would be a tad more confusing. At any rate, have a gander.

Undeniably, Katharine McPhee is a stunner. And now that she's working some leg muscle, she's done a good job picking edgy minidresses with plunging necklines that show off her new figure. Take this one, for example, from the American Music Awards earlier this year:

It's a tough dress to carry, but she's glowing in it. She looks happy and sexy and young, and I would really like to know what witch doctor she's going to for that thick, shiny hair, because I am totally up for turning over my tresses to the dark arts. Even if it means mixing the hair of a spider, the toe of a chicken, and Essence of Newt in my Le Creuset and sticking my head in it.

At a Golden Globes afterparty, though, Katharine decided to change up her look. Which I can understand -- there's only so many short skirts and deep vees you can wear in a row before people start to wonder if you're just dying the same one a different color -- except that I don't like the direction in which she went: upwards.

Please let this be for a role. Please let this be for a role.

Please.

Fortunately, Ryan Gosling's IMDb page claims he's currently filming a movie called Lars and the Real Girl, the one-line summary of which appears as follows: "A delusional young guy strikes up an unconventional relationship with a doll he finds on the Internet." At the risk of offending anyone with upper-lip hair -- it's not personal; it's situational, a face-by-face case -- that synopsis would seem the appropriate context for a mustache so cruelly rendered across an otherwise intriguing face. And yes, I saw The Notebook; as such, I don't mind him with the scruff, or even the full beard, but there's something ominous about this manner of follicular lipicide. The mustache has taken something from us. It has trapped him in that cruel purgatory between clean-shaven dreamyness and the totally rugged, ragged I Wore Overalls With No Shirt On Underneath In The Blazing Sun While I Built The House Of My Dreams To My Lost Love's Specifications, Because I'm A Hopeless Romantic Who Fought In The War And Loves Even Harder Than I Grow Facial Hair thing. It's launching a horrific bid to turn half of Canada's golden couple (Ryan Gosling + Rachel McAdams = The Squeeeeeeee! Heard Around The World, Or At Least Around Toronto And Vancouver) into a vacuum-cleaner salesman who was fired from his teaching job because of a seedy predilection for dirty massage parlors and, probably, Circus Peanuts, because nobody with innocent intentions would ever eat those.

So, I repeat: Please let the 'stache be for Lars And The I Will Never See That Movie Because Dolls Are Creepy, because if it is, it's (hopefully) going away soon, or about to be joined by the rest of the scruff. Fingers crossed.

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.