Celebrity Terror Watch

It's almost impossible to have missed the photo of Carson Daly that's been going around, wherein he looks aged and skeletal; indeed, unless you live under a rock, or your first name begins with "S" and rhymes with "fury booze," you've probably already been suitably alarmed by it.

Still, we couldn't resist.

Good for Carson for getting himself in shape at a relatively normal speed, but this photo makes me think he's crossed the line into obsession and become a hungry, wan shell. Remember on Seinfeld when Kramer sunbathed in butter, and the smell of crispy flesh piqued Newman's salivary glands such that he started seeing Kramer's head atop the body of a golden-roasted turkey, and became ravenous? That look in Newman's eye has been born again in Carson's. Something is not quite right with the way he's sucking on his lips, as if willing himself not to lick them out of bloodlust for the delicious, meaty, protein-laden photographer who is snapping the shot.

"You've already had your solid for the day, Carson," he is chanting to himself, right hand twitching toward the yellow rubber Live Strong bracelet that acts as his talisman. "Don't even THINK about how he would taste with a pot of lobster bearnaise, and a loaded baked potato... some buttered green beans... hot rolls... Oh, yummy, this man is MINE -- wait, NO! Shake it off, soldier! STAY ALIVE! A Zone bar WILL find you!"

Adam Brody, still occasionally charming on The O.C. even though the show itself has slid into an abyss of suck, is -- according to IMDb -- currently filming a movie called Smiley Face in which he plays a character named "Steve the Dealer."

I can only hope, then, that the following is actually Method Skeeze:

Still, it's concerning. One's upper lip is not for pubic fuzz. He looks dirty and sweaty and as if he smells faintly of feet. It's such a shame, too, because he and Rachel Bilson make such an awfully cute couple.

So, whether it's contractually obligated skeeze or not, let's all just hope that this passes soon -- that he speed-acts the hell out of Steve the Dealer and then goes home, showers, and takes a Mach-3 to that outcropping.

Summer is here, and that can only mean one thing: Young ladies spray themselves various shades of orange-brown in an attempt to look sun-kissed, when in reality it's more like "pelted with overripe kumquats."

Exhibit A: Amanda Bynes.

Pretty girl, lovely figure, ridiculous fake tan.

Exhibit B: Jamie-Lynn Sigler.

Pretty girl, lovely figure, ridiculous fake tan. I sense a pattern here. And while I appreciate and advocate not lying in the sun for hours frying skin to a crisp, thus practically issuing a double-dog-dare to skin cancer, I will never understand the temptation to douse oneself in Crayola-false colors like a piece of bare wall getting tagged with graffiti.

Although in Jamie-Lynn's case, some of her atrocious artificial brownness might come from having been doused in syrup by a confused, hungry passer-by who -- thanks to the cut of that dress -- mistook her breasts for pancakes.

It's not that Jamie Kennedy has always been an immaculately groomed Clooney of a gent -- not at all. And that's fine. Not everyone can be that dapper. But the pre-Kutcher prankster has taken something of a surprising left turn lately, going from a carefully careless-looking scamp...

... to a guy who looks exhausted because he spent all week casing your neighborhood, trying to figure out what tree gives him the best vantage point for peeping. This Jamie Kennedy spends his insomniac hours writing My Space blog entries about how you refuse to acknowledge your passion for him, and filming songs he's written for you on his Casio with a WebCam his mother bought him because he told her it was for the chess club. He smells alternately like dandruff, Robitussin, and burnt Parmesan cheese.

We are declaring a Code Yellow on Jamie Kennedy, with the hope that he'll save himself before he blows into Orange Alert Brandon Davis territory, and suddenly begins to believe that being a slobbering pile of human waste is the Holy Grail of personal styles.

Appendix: SKEEVE WATCH TERROR LEVEL CHART

The Go Fug Yourself Celebrity Terror Watch squad is commencing a Sternum Watch for Sheryl Crow:

It doesn't help that this dress is enforcing a high waistline on her that gives her lower half a bizarre dumpyness, but that torso is a frightening thing. Dating a professional and highly competitive cyclist probably sent her over the fitness edge; now we're worried that breaking up with said professional cyclist might have driven her away from the fridge. That's not cleavage -- that's a cutting board.

We consider this a high alert situation that needs to be monitored and, as quickly as possible, repaired. Somebody please make her some fried chicken, or take her to Jack In The Box for some meat and cheese between slices of butter-soaked sourdough. Britney? Where are you, dear? You're needed. Sheryl can hold Sean Preston on her lap (if she has the strength) while you take her through the drive-thru.

By now, we're all aware of the unspeakable crime against mammaries that Drew Barrymore committed when she grabbed her emerald sheath off the rack and said, "Oh, to hell with it, my girls have always been able to support themselves." [Except she's kind of dippy, so it probably came out more like, "Womanhood is a bulging blossom, and those lady flowers have to grow and breathe on their own -- just like the wind, you know?"]

And, just like all of you, we watched with a wince as her breasts began a tortoise-and-the-other-tortoise race to hit the ground first. With one move, the left one would drop a notch lower than the right. Then, as she shifted position, Leftie ground to a halt and let Rightie snag the lead. By the time she had finished her spiel, an audience member allegedly muttered confusedly, "Huh. She's not very busty... but her knee caps sure look awfully swollen."

Drew -- who unlike Dr. Sunkentits does not have a name that anagrams to anything more exciting than, "Bra worry? Merde!" -- may have been the most visible shunner of undergarments, but it would be remiss to think she is the only person who disrespected her golden globes.

Consider, for instance, Heidi Klum:

Props to Heidi for her happy marriage, her cute kids, and for walking in a Victoria's Secret show not long after giving birth; however, I am disappointed that this post-pregnancy outing is of the "Incredible Sinking Breasts" variety. The collar-and-leash setup is violent enough, but the waistline of the dress coupled with how low the bodice sits makes her chest look like decrepit dunes that are slowly leaking sand. Indeed, that neck harness actually makes it look like she's trying to keep her feuding rack and nape separated so that they can just please get through the night without them starting an awkward catfight.

Along those lines: Emma Thompson, who is darling and delightful and whose shtick hasn't grown weary yet (although hereafter I am ignoring the existence of the nightmarishly named Nanny McPhee, just in case), didn't exactly flatter her assets either:

She looks like she's having fun, so I almost feel bad pointing out how pancaked her chest looks because the bodice is down around her ribcage. Those aren't breasts, they're a short stack -- and with how far down that platter they're placed, there's plenty of room for the rest of the Grand Slam breakfast.

So, chin -- and chest -- up, Drew. You're not the only one who seems confused about what to do with your friends.

We here at GFY believe in health.

Okay, fine, maybe not the peanut-butter-forsaking kind of health, or the Diet Coke-kicking kind of health, or even the vegetable-eating kind of health. Primarily, it is the non-skeletal brand of health we choose to support, and so as usual, we've spotted some people who deserve to be monitored as they waste away into Richiedom.

First up: Mrs. Johnny Depp, a.k.a. French singer/actress Vanessa Paradis.

I can sort of understand wanting to disappear when your hot husband resolutely refuses to appear in public looking sane. This is an improvement for him, generally speaking, but that doesn't mean he looks any less like a lounge lizard who's getting all warmed up for "Lady of Spain" with the accordion accompaniment before he brings down the house, and hopefully the pants of that slinky dollface down the bar, with a moving and monologue-riddled rendition of "My Way."

However, Vanessa is a lovely lady and seems to make Johnny Depp very happy. And she has children who need her, which is why it's especially alarming to see her up there looking so... well, narrow. Now, I know they have food in France. The country is brimming with rich sauces, meats, cheeses, and crusty loaves of bread, not to mention vats and vats of wine. I know that's supposed to be some sort of heart-seizing fad diet -- "Eat all fat all the time, and look like the French women who are all skinny!" -- but something tells me she has not recently known the pleasure of shoveling baked Brie into her face. Do it for the children, V. Do it so that we can bump you off of High Alert.

Next up is a lady who has actually come to be the definition of High Alert on our terror chart*: Ellen Pompeo.

She's even less wide than Vanessa Paradis. She's wearing a hideous nightie that covers her arms, but not her telltale collarbone and neck cords. [The wind is also doing her curls a favor here -- when the air was still, her hair looked awkwardly permed and stringy on the ends, and not in that "I've just been windblown" kind of way -- rather, in a "Please, for the love of God, eat some nutrients" kind of way.] The whole ensemble manages to be unflattering and bland, while cementing her appearance on this page along with sentence likes, "Meatballs are your friend!" and "Embrace lard!"

One final note: She is even sort of starting to look like Renee Zellweger, she of the dieting-and-running addiction and the squinty non-eyes who too often purses her lips when she smiles, probably because she is thinking so hard about whether the indulgent bran flake she allowed herself the other day has altered the fit of her gown. Renee doesn't own a category on the Terror Watch chart yet because, well, we're sort of over her, to be honest, and she at least has muscle mass, and gets gossip-interest points for marrying a gay alien. Ellen Pompeo just looks like she's trying to be as long and drawn as she possibly can -- a slip of a woman in a slip of a dress.

* Appendix: EMACIATION WATCH TERROR LEVEL CHART

A sly reader alerted us to the fact that Luke Wilson might not just be The Non-Stallion Wilson, or The Non-Genius Wilson, or The Non-Crazy-Nosed Wilson -- he is also becoming The Non-Non-Puffy Wilson.

Research indicates that although this camera angle displays budding bloat better than others, it's not a swelling effect that is created by the photo itself. No, it seems that Luke is in danger of coping with not being Hollywood's most beloved Wilson brother by retaining whatever water he can find -- that way, at least he has something that Owen doesn't.

So the GFY terror-watch experts are nudging Luke up to Terror Alert: Blue, with a hearty warning that he's headed for the Yellow Brick Road (see Appendix) if he keeps this up, and thus is not too far from having to eliminate pretzels entirely from his diet.

Appendix: BLOAT WATCH TERROR LEVEL CHART

It baffles me still that so many people in this town do not understand what to do with their breasts.

A chest of any size is a lovely thing to have. But it can't just do all the work by itself, unless you are blessed with anti-gravity mammary glands; no, generally speaking, breasts need to be propped up a little in order to be displayed to their best advantage. They should probably not, a la Dunst/Gyllenhaal, be allowed to drip so freely and flatly that, when you can't find your ironing board, you simply instruct one of them to lie on her back so you can use her torso for that purpose. Breasts deserve better; they deserve a little bounce.

But, the deployment of breast support can be taken to an extreme, as displayed in the following painful photograph of Scarlett Johanssen:

Ouch.

Those are pinched, propped, and pushed to within an inch of their lives (and, it seems, within an inch of her chin). That is not sexy, provocative cleavage; that is what happens when a stray ostrich wanders over and gives birth to twins in your bodice. Now, it's possible she only did this so she could carry around some appetizers and a drink without having to fill up her hands with cumbersome receptacles, but even being your own end table isn't worth trotting around all night looking like the victim of some unfortunate breasticular mutation. In this photo, she is Anna Nicole Smith's younger sister.

I fear Scarlett is lashing out at herself. In September, she abused herself by wearing Mom Jeans supplied to her by Imitation of Christ's imitation of design talent, Tara Subkoff; she was also once caught in a Sienna Miller-esque leggings fiasco that can only have been interpreted as a cry for help. And now this? Scarlett, why do you hate yourself? You have nice skin. Pretty coloring. And some people seem to want to watch you act. So why are you lashing out at your figure? Are you passive-aggressively blaming them for The Island being a terrible movie? Did your boyfriend decide he only likes women who can blow lines off their own hoisted cleavage? Are you embarrassed by your strange choice of shoe and thus trying to block your downward view of them? 

Help us understand so that we can stage the right intervention.

The GFY Celebrity Terror-Watch Task Force today issued an APB on Jon Favreau's neck.

Favreau has been under watch for months now, stemming from his February upgrade to Threat Level: Severe. We here at the GFY CT-WTF want you, the public, to know that we're monitoring this situation incredibly closely to see if we need to create a new category, "BLOATAGEDDON: IT IS VERY HARD TO LIVE WITHOUT A NECK," in some sort of throbbing crimson hue.

We love you, Jon. This is for your protection.