Jennifer Hudson

May 15, 2009

Jennifer Hudfug

This is not okay. Not even if Jennifer Hudson IS secretly knocked up, as is the tasty rumor making the rounds.

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[Photo: Splash News]

In fact, unless she is holding up her arms in surrender -- as if to say, "Yes, Officer, I am currently possessed by the spirit of an aggressive Polterwang that haunted Jennifer Beals' closet when she was in Flashdance, so please arrest me and take me somewhere that can exorcise the demon and return me to my usual adorable and packageless self" -- then I simply cannot look at this outfit with anything but the urge to beat my brains out with an old VHS tape.
Lord knows I love Jennifer Hudson. There is not a lot her voice can't do -- I mean, I am a national anthem purist, so I hate it when people put in all these extra vanity bells and whistles, and she kinda did that toward the end at the Super Bowl... yet I STILL got misty and thought it was powerful and pretty. So clearly, something about her and her talent really gets to me. I also think she's gorgeous and am so relieved she's actually proud of her curves -- unlike most of the people in Hollywood who say, "I am proud of my curves," and either (a) are stick-straight size 2s, (b) immediately lose 20 lbs in two weeks, or (c) both.

So let's get the unpleasant part out of the way:

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This thing brings a new and aggressive meaning to the concept of a Kleenex pocket pack. And how did she resist the temptation to lean down and blot her lip gloss every twenty minutes? It's RIGHT THERE. I also can't figure out why there appears to be a cummerbund made of tissue paper strapping the offending white linen to her torso. Maybe the Kleenex company and the good people at Hallmark decided to join forces to create the world's first strapless dickey.

Happily for J.Hud, it gets better:
October 22, 2007

Fug in the City

I'm very sorry to have to induct Jennifer Hudson into the Dude, Is That A Bridesmaid Dress? Honey, No club:

Membership includes such perks as: people swanning by holding nearly-tipped-over champagne flutes and trilling, "and when are YOU going to get married, dear? Tick tock!";  six to eight unscheduled, early-morning phone calls from a woman named Mean Judy who works at the bridal store up the street, the subject of which ranges from how late you are in ordering your dress and how you'll probably therefore ruin the wedding and, it is implied, your friendship with the bride, to the demise of The OC, to global warming; strangers running up to you and throwing bouquets at your head; and a free lifetime supply of Spanx. The good news is that there will also be cake.

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