Courtney Peldon

Well done, Brown. From a distance the gold decorations on your shirt look like very curious stains indeed, but I'm more fascinated by whatever's happening to your pelvis. [Heh. Your peldonvis. Haha -- see what I did there?]

Sorry. That was ridiculous, Brown, and I know it. It's just... you see, I'm a little giddy. I'm so excited to see you not only back on the red carpet, but completely confusing me to the point where I don't even know what that block of dark cloth even is, that I can't hold back the geekitude.

So tell me, sweet Peldon, is that a skirt? A layering tee that's way too long? A needless and unattractive extension of the brown shirt? A daring way to conceal the presence of an adult diaper? A new advance in cotton chastity belts?

Sigh. This is the family we know and love. Bless you, Brown.

I can't tell if this is just an awful, awful homage to Olivia Newton John in Grease, where she deploys tight shiny pants and heels in order to win back big dumb lug John Travolta and thereby freeing him from the cruel freakish prison of a varsity sweater (the horror, the HORROR), or if Ashley Tisdale just figured that the premiere of a movie called Surf School didn't require actually getting properly dressed.

There is also something awfully Peldon about her overlong t-shirt that reads, "DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR" -- especially the way that, coming from her, you figure it's just a message for that bitch in her on-set chem tutoring session who tried to steal all her answers and then shoved her tongue down the tutor's throat even though she FULLY knew Ashley had called dibs on him, and they're never going to speak again and Ashley just wants her to know that she would rather DIE than disrespect the Rules of Dibs.

Speaking of the Peldons, what do they have to say about all this?

Nothing. Not a bloody thing. They had the gall to show up after two months on the lam, or whatever it was, and actually look decent. Normal, even. This photo reminds me of a box my parents re-use every Christmas: white cardboard, decorated on the sides, emblazoned on the front with colorful, huge letters that say, "DOES NOT CONTAIN WHAT YOU HAD HINTED FOR."

[Amazingly, never once in the 20-odd years we've used that box has it borne the frustrated red pen scars of a quick but vicious grammatical edit from My Mother The English Major.]

So in that sense, thanks, Courtney and Brown, because it's nice to see that you're still out there Peldoning about, but this photo does not contain that for which our APB had hinted (man, grammar is so awkward sometimes). What we really wanted was some crazy. Capital-C Crazy. We wanted "my stylist is Crispin Glover and my coat is made of rat tails, Q-tips, and the hair of a virgin" insanity. Come on! If we can't trust the Peldons to loon it up at the merest hint of red in a nearby carpet, then what or whom CAN we trust?

Have you seen this woman?

Neither have we.  And frankly, dear readers, we are getting worried. As recently as the Oscars, Courtney Peldon could be found attending the opening of an eye.  And yet she hasn't been photographed for going on six weeks! This is like the Normal Person equivalent of not leaving your house for 7-9 months.  We've had a high level GFY Security Council meeting about this issue (Intern George, whom Heather and I could not bear to let go, took notes), and we've come up with some possible reasons for Our Fug Queen's alarming absence:
a) Beset by rage and jealousy over her engagement to Crispin Glover, Peldon's former paramour Jason Davis kidnapped her and is now keeping her locked in the basement at Casa Davis. He's also forcing Brandon Davis to guard her 20 hours a day, which explains why Brandon has no time to wash his hair.
b) She's terribly busy planning her wedding to McFly. It's quite a complicated event, involving a team of trained rats carrying her 40-foot train. Brown Peldon will officiate, but she will be rapping rather than speaking.
c) She's been on a lengthy conference call with Brown Peldon and Bai Ling, trying to figure out how to make leggings look sufficiently skank-ola. They have already rejected the following suggestions: making them out of mesh, cutting out the ass, and wearing them soaking wet. Currently on the table: cutting them up the sides and then putting them together again with giant safety pins. Bai thinks this is too demure, Brown thinks it is too Hair Metal. They are at an impasse.
d) She got stabbed again, but no one bothered to tell us.

No matter what the reason, one thing is clear: we kind of miss the kid.

Just when I feared she might have gone into hibernation for the holidays, Courtney Peldon has appeared once more to gift us with that special brand of fug that's all her own.

Were we printing up our own Christmas cards, we would want something like this on the cover. It's a perfect storm of fug -- the hugely unflattering cut, the furious tableaux that occupies 80 percent of available real-estate, the arm straps -- and it's the perfect postcard for us to send as we sail off into our two-week seasonal hiatus. Yes, believe it or not, even cold, dead, tar-hearted vixens of negativity need some warm-and-fuzzy time during the waning days of December.

We invite you to peruse our extensive archives during our absence; we'll be back in full force on Tuesday, Jan. 3, after all the wine and cheese and cake and starches and little chocolates shaped like Santa and egg nog and chocolate martinis and Christmas Eve bangers-and-mash dinners have settled in our round bowls full of jelly, and we're feeling sufficiently less lethargic that we can haul our carcasses up off the couch and sit down at the computer for brief, energizing spells of bitchery.

And don't worry -- we may be gone, but we're still watching. Waiting. [Britney, we know you're going to leave the house again soon enough and venture out in public to pretend you're still happy -- just rip off the Band-Aid, pet, and let us see what you've been moping in lately.]

Happy Holidays! And thanks to all our readers for making 2005 such a blast. We'll see you next year!

You've asked for it, and we at GFY are nothing if not attentive to your Peldon needs. So with that, we present to you what we sincerely hope is the photo on Courtney Peldon and Crispin Glover's wedding announcement someday, but which, for now, is simply a record of how this odd couple spent their Halloween:

Can you imagine the union of The Ubiquitous Peldon and crazy Crispin Glover We can see it now:

"Together with their publicists, agents, Bob from Aahs!!, possibly their parents, and the makers of Lithium, COURTNEY PELDON, sister of The Brown One, and CRISPIN GLOVER, who will not get his damn hands off her, invite you to share  in the joy of their marriage -- a union which not only unites one man with his soul's density, but two fine resumes that include: her notable work in Home Improvement, That Movie In Which She Was Accidentally Stabbed For Real, and Jason Davis's bedroom; and his Back To The Future turns as well as that rat movie, and his appearance as a hair-sniffing glassy-eyed head case -- so, as himself -- in Charlie's Angels. The ceremony will be held on the red carpet in front of the Kodak Theater while everyone is inside at the Oscars (so come promptly, because they'll be packing it up during the vows), and the reception will immediately follow at whichever after-party they can successfully crash.

The couple is registered at Trashy Lingerie, Nobu, Sephora, and the Kaiser Permanente 24-Hour Pharmacy (West Los Angeles location). RSVP within four weeks, by carrier pigeon deployed to any event with a gift bag. It will find her."

Sometimes it's not the clothes that fug up the Peldon -- it's what's beneath them.

In this case, La Peldon seems to have parlayed her D-list status into getting a D-list tan, one as orange, uneven, and blotchy as a pubescent Oompa-Loompa.

Doesn't it kind of look like her mismatched, normal-colored face has been Photoshopped onto another body? Like someone's been having a little pictoral fun with our Courtney -- perhaps even Courtney herself, trying to cover up that she actually wore something far more hideous to this Emmy pre-party?

But no -- no chicanery here, except on the part of the sunscreen/tanning salon/bloated Davis brother who snapped on the protective gloves and slobberingly rubbed in her self-tanner. This is truly La Peldon in all her heinous Burnt Marmalade glory, apparently so greedy for attention that she's even trying to redefine the term "Brown Peldon" so that it no longer applies to her sister.

You know what we truly need in trying times like these? More than hope, more than love, more than money?

Peldons.

[Photo by Daily Celeb.]

Courtney wants you to know that she has been very busy lately, what with all the work it takes to crimp her hair and get fitted for customized knee-pads (no starlet can live without 'em!) and inflate her chest to its irregular dimensions -- not to mention all those situps to Pink-ify her pelvis. She's been so slammed, in fact -- both with that and the riding boots she's trying to break in before she saunters into Vogue and pitches herself as The American Madge: A Country Lass In The Big City -- that she left a clip in part of her hair. But she's going to leave it that way, because dammit, what America wants right now is to keep it REAL.

Brown Peldon, on the other hand, is just happy to be out of the house. She's been living the hip-hip life, see, writing incisive rap songs about drugs and sex that nobody will ever hear while lazing around in bed wearing lingerie and making the pool boy feed her peeled grapes. She's forgotten that when Courtney drags her out for a reassuring photo op during our national nightmare, she might need to do a little more than just throwing on old misshapen Weekend Jeans under her nightie.

But we like it that way. In these times of frightening and dire change, we need a little consistency. We need our security blankets. We need Courtney and Ashley Peldon... now, more than ever.

Ever topical and timely, our pretty little Princess Peldon has reappeared on the scene:

:

There's one of two things happening here. By wrapping herself solely in Von Dutch, La Peldon is either: (A) desperately trying to attract the attention of A-Kutch, in the hopes that she can convince him to leave Demi Moore for a younger, dimmer bulb, or (B) she is laboring under the delusion that it is still 2003. If it is the latter, I wonder what else she's doing that the rest of us have long since abandoned? Is she still trying to decide how she feels about John Kerry? Is she breathlessly wondering why Simon Cowell is so darn mean? Is she listening to a lot of  Chingy? Is she sadly showing up to the long-destroyed set of Boston Public, carrying a frayed script, and wandering around aimlessly for hours looking for David E. Kelley?  If so, can she thank him for sort of falling off the face of the earth for me? Thanks.

Lo! Two Peldons!

[Photo by Daily Celeb.]

Brown Peldon needn't look so proud of her skirt. I think I had one of those in my old dress-up drawer, into which my mother would dump old clothes and aprons and whatnot so that, as a wee young fugger, I could costume myself and prance around the playroom pretending to be a princess/beleaguered fry cook/prairie heroine/Annie. Of course, Brown Peldon's skirt looks more like she sewed a tablecloth over the tulle dress she wore in her first grade talent show (which is quite possibly the largest audience ever to have been privy to her work).

Our girl Courtney, however -- aside from having feet that are disappearing underneath her too-long white jeans -- has every right to look thrilled. Because she has totally snookered us. She has absolutely passed that shirt off as couture, rather than the exact same tank her sister is wearing, but in fuschia and with a $1.99 lei from Joe-Mac's Discount Party Supplies & Pawn Shop stitched jauntily to the top. Look at her, just gloating over the fact that you are so very fooled by her cunning.

Welcome back, Courtney. It's no cat shirt -- no genie jumpsuit -- but it's madness nonetheless.

We here at Go Fug Yourself have made no secret of the fact that we're both baffled by Courtney Peldon -- Who? Why? How? What is that thing she's wearing? -- but we've also grown to love her for her insane taste, scary-large fake boobs, and general ubiquity.

So we're pleased to learn that today is Ms. Peldon's 24th birthday. We'd like to wish her a very happy birthday indeed, because without La Peldon we wouldn't have choked on nearly as much righteous indignation in the past year.

We can only dream of what glorious celebrations might be taking place today, to honor this sweet creature. Fortunately for us, we can sate that craving through history, with photos of Courtney's 23rd birthday party; we can at least revel in The Fug That Was. And there's no better place to start than with a view of the cake that her friends and family lovingly ordered for the pointless starlet:

On my birthday, I won't be happy unless my relatives order a giant sheet cake from Von's that is decorated with a photo of me posing in a bra and panties. For Courtney, clearly the only way to express appreciation for her presence in this world was to ask people to eat her breasts.

And then things took an eerily prescient turn:

She's so happy with her knife. So innocent. So blissfully unaware of her fate. Courtney! Stop! Put it down. I know you're probably ashamed that you're wearing a green shirt with some sort of Satanic cat on the front, but please, don't let the devil's pussy infect you! Put down the knife! Knives are stabby! For the love of God and fug, put it --

Sigh. It's so sad to see yet another young girl turn to cutting. [And let's not even start on wondering which part of her body she chose to eat.] Odd that only half a year later, a friendly instrument of slicing just like this one would find its way through her for real.

We're happy you're well now, Courtney. Please come back to the fug. You haven't been out and about much lately, and when you have been, nothing terrible has graced your form. We're going through withdrawal here.