Fergie (the Pea, not the duchess)

Much has been made about Fergie Ferg's song "Pedestal," in which she delivers what she imagines is a scathing criticism of a blogger, or all bloggers amalgamated into one Symbolic Blogger, for saying things about her from behind the safety of a computer screen.

And while we can understand why that's frustrating, the root of the problem is that she just gives us so much fodder. From publicly wetting herself to her myriad fashion crimes to things like the shirt she wore out in public that we fugged yesterday, there's just so much darn fodder there.

Such as the sequel to yesterday's photo, which we like to call Exhibit C-Cup.

Giving credit where credit is due, Fergie came across as fairly sweet on The View the other day -- when you get her in full conversational flow, she drops that idiotic street-talk cadence she adopts everywhere else, and so she actually seems sort of human. Maybe even regular.

If you close your eyes, that is. Because half the time she's running around in stuff like this, which just makes me laugh, shake my head, admire her abs (again -- due credit) , and then shudder and laugh again.

This whole decision that her debut as The Dutchess (why the stray T, Fergie Ferg? Are you shouting out to all your peeps in The Netherlands? Holla back, Amsterdam!) requires folding her clothes in half strikes me as a bit hilarious. This is not the first time she's done it -- you may recall she wore a white shirt and tie this way at the VMAs, when she performed her single. Which by the way was so wrong for The View that I could only cringe in empathetic embarrassment while she was grinding and bouncing around, and I silently thanked God that Baba Wawa wasn't there to see it, because knowing she was there somehow would have made the experience even more discomfiting for me.

Anyway. With shirts like this, Fergie reminds me of a very awkward pre- or early-teen standing in front of the mirror and tucking her shirts up under her bra in idiotic configurations, just to see what wearing a belly-shirt would feel like. I think a lot of girls did that when they were younger; I certainly did. First you tuck it under your bra outright, then when you realize that is not going to work, you try that thing where you bunch it all into one long tail, pull it up and under your bra, and then yank the tail out the neck hole. This looks completely idiotic but it kept the shirt up; the whole strange enterprise was a rite of passage of sorts, I think. I never did it because I particularly wanted to wear a belly shirt (okay, sometimes maybe there was an air of, "Could I... could I maybe... possibly...?" but it was always followed by an immediate return to consciousness along the lines of, "Wait, no, sweet God, no, the world is not ready for my negative-six pack") but, well, Madonna wore belly shirts, and anything Madonna did sartorially was pretty bodacious -- except maybe for the conic bras -- and worth trying to imitate in the privacy of your own home.

I stress: in privacy of your own home. Fergie Ferg, it is never, ever a flattering or attractive idea to tuck a shirt under your bra -- or look as if you have -- unless perhaps somebody is about to operate on your stomach and a very attractive person is holding your hand, wiping the delicately attractive sweat of pain off your brow, and staring into your eyes while whispering that there is No Other Way.

In conclusion, her shirts are silly, and I have revealed too much. 

The last time I wrote about Fergie, I bid temporary adieu to The Fug, which she had banished from her closet long enough to show up at the Poseidon premiere without eliciting any snide "sinking ship" comparisons.

But I think we all knew, deep down, that she wouldn't be kept down for long; buoyed by the sheer atrocity of her idiotic ditty that's currently marauding its way to the top of the pop charts, the Duchess of Fugsylvania is on her way back.

This ensemble is one part Annette Funicello, one part Sandy from Grease in the end when she turns slutty for Danny Zuko and that makes everything okay, and two parts Hot Topic's Krayzee Sum'r Clozeout Clearance Sale!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And to that I say, no thanks, troll. Your London London Bridge can go down all on its own, Fergie Ferg.

I'm not happy about what I'm about to do.

This whole thing reminds me of the deal with me and wedges. When wedges came back in, I hated them. They seemed so '70s to me, and not in a way I wanted to revisit. For some reason they struck such a visceral chord of distaste within me. I liked my heels separate from my shoes, and I really didn't like them made from something that's better served plugging a wine bottle until I'm ready to open it. "I am NOT buying a wedge, I don't care HOW hard Lucky and Steve Madden try to push me," I proclaimed on more than one occasion. "And don't even get me STARTED on those damn espadrilles that are coming in again."

Well, of course, then I started accidentally admiring wedges on people, and making tiny exceptions to my firm anti-wedge stance. And then suddenly I owned something sort of wedgey, and poof, fast-forward to April, when I bought some espadrille-wedgey things that tie around the ankle for my honeymoon and I had to check with my friend Carrie that I wasn't crazy and that they didn't look all that vile, and she confirmed they really were cute on, and suddenly there I was with a fusion of two hated things burning a hole in my suitcase. I felt dirty. And I wore them constantly when I was away.

I thought of this when the following photo flashed across my computer screen this morning.

Will you look at that? Fergie looks... classy. And pretty. The dress fits her in the most flattering places, she accessorized it really tastefully, her hair looks washed and brushed, there are no horrid little braids or formal shorts or C-3PO boots in sight, she appears momentarily sober and able to stand upright under her own power... in the immortal words of Wentworth Miler on Ellen, "Brava, brava."

WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?

I grappled with this all morning. Was this the first step down a treacherous, slippery Fergie slope? Would I wake up in a month unfugging her all over the place and saying to myself, "You know, she does rock a 24-inch zipper on her shorts"? Would Jessica try to talk some sense into me, leading to me locking myself in my bedroom with copies of Us Weekly out of which I would lovingly cut photos of Fergie, knowing it was just her and me against the world -- a cold, cruel world that didn't understand legwarmers and pants-wettings? Would she have to tie me to a tree and stage an intervention, a carefrontation, in which all my friends baited me until I broke and then patched me back together again?

Then I realized that I've held strong against the Black-Eyed Peas for their entire gnawing existence. I've been tough on leggings. I won't stand for dresses over pants. And my crusade against overlong pants that eat a girl's feet has marched on with vigor. So there's no reason to think Fergie will break me -- Fergie, the bane (and, therefore, the life-giving manna) of much of GFY's existence. There's no reason to think she'll weaken my resolve. And there's no reason to think that when I go see Poseidon, I will suddenly find myself weeping inconsolably when she is (please please please please) crushed by a falling piano.

And thusly, I slapped some sense into myself, because so few bid a lasting adieu to The Fug and certainly Fergie won't be that kind of pioneer. It felt right to be strong and give credit where credit is due. So congratulations, Josh Duhamel, you kept her clean and pretty for the duration of the pre-premiere red carpet. I salute you. If you can keep up this good work, we can finally go out for that romantic dinner you've always been after. Okay? Great.

Fergie would like to join the legions of celebrities who use a red-carpet appearance to demonstrate that everything is fine, and peace is, like, the shit:

And indeed, everything is fine: She is still scary, and still sartorially confused (is she fox hunter? An 18-year old? A pregnant snowboarder? Who can say), and that's the way we like it. That's how we know the world is spinning properly on its axis.

She does appear to have learned one lesson, though: that dark pants are a safer fashion choice, because they are more apt to hide any, ahem, wet spots. Perhaps that's why she's flashing the peace sign -- because she's come to terms with her incontinence.

So, there are some men in my life who have admitted to me -- shamefaced -- that they think Fergie is kinda hot. But even they DON'T KNOW WHY.

I certainly can't explain it:

Here, she's about to say, "Why, yes, I DID think it would be a good idea to pair a shiny, capri-panted tracksuit with a pair of boots I stole from the wardrobe department of Battlestar Galactica. Now, who wants to talk about bladder control?"

This is how bad things have gotten: It takes her holding an adorable stuffed monkey hostage, swinging him from her belt loop, to make us shrug and say, "Well. It could be worse."

Although, possibly not for the monkey. The poor thing is begging for SPCA interference.

Trust me, this hurts me as much as it hurts you.

[Photo by Daily Celeb.]

Let's be clear: I don't like the dress -- mostly, the colors and the bodice. Oh, and the sash. Basically, the whole thing isn't really my cup of tea. She looks like a limon. Juice her and some Sprite would come out.

But... this is Fergie we're talking about here. Fergie. The Urinator. The Whizzing Bandit. The Wet Spot. The Leaky Bladder.  The Trouser Golden Shower. The Ninety Year-Old Urethra. We know this woman's history. We are lucky she didn't show up in a urine-stained pair of formal shorts with a waistline somewhere near her armpits. We are fortunate she left her knee socks and legwarmers at home. The Sweet Baby Jesus is to be exalted for the fact that she doesn't look like Pippi Longstocking on a paper route. In fact, we should consider ourselves downright blessed that she appears to have showered and styled her hair.

So in sum: Dress? No thank you. Lack of suspicious stains and the appearance of an effort having been made? We'll take it, and we'll give credit where credit is due.

I'm sure it's only a momentary lapse of all-out fug.

[Photo by Daily Celeb.]

Very savvy, Fergie -- overalls are an excellent choice to conceal your Depends.

This cover is mind-bogglingly unattractive:

It is fug on a Peldon-shaped platter. It is the festering volcanic pustule on the chin of the Fugtown Express's oily conductor. I do know that it's hard to compete with cover lines of such stunning genius as "My Designer Vagina Transformed My Sex Life," and "Leeches Stopped My Nipple From Falling Off." Really, I sympathize with Fergie, because outshining those gems is an uphill battle. But the fact remains that, if this photo is to be believed, Fergie needs to stop worrying about her heart so much and start phunking with her estrogen levels.