Misc. Awards Shows

When American Idol isn't on the air, I kind of miss Paula Abdul's nonsensical natterings about how whichever poor slob is up to bat really made the song her own and truly spoke to the soul of the unicorns who live in her swimming pool and is a sparkling jewel in the firmament of paradise but was a little off-key. I also miss her tendency to show up wearing, like, a choker as a bra and a pair of jeans on her head. Which is why this pleases me:

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Remember this look, ladies, because you're going to see it again come fall. Or, technically, come January 1st, because I am pretty sure it's the prototype for one of the Rose Parade's floats this year.

Well, I've gone back and forth and around in circles on this Fergie outfit. I am just about ready to pull out all my hair and move to Alaska, where Geo Beach can do a whole episode of his show on how blogging there is way harder than anywhere else because -- oh, I don't know, my fingers will be too cold to type, or something.

So I'm going to turn it over to the professionals and let you be the jury.

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The prosecution is ready, having been gagging over the giant dried-out-looking braid for about three hours now, noting that they haven't seen a rope that unappealing since the one their seventh-grade gym teacher made them climb in class. Since the defense momentarily passes out from the potency of its rope-burn flashbacks and subsequent lifelong inadequacy issues, the prosecution charges forth with the suggestion that this is not Fergie at all -- that the Fergie WE know would never stick a disco belt over a clashing caftan and call it genius, which therefore forces them to conclude that Fergie skipped this event entirely in favor of making lasagna with Josh Duhamel, and sent her waxwork in her place.

The defense stands up and congratulates Fergie on that choice, because really, given the choice, we would all rather spend the evening making lasagna with Josh Duhamel; the prosecution objects, claiming the defense is simply trying to woo the jury by tweaking its hormones. Forced to make an actual statement, the defense decides to point out that the red parts of the fabric are really pretty; that the hot pink, while maybe a little overly bold, does at least add some drama;, and that it's all light-years better than when Fergie wore cropped ties and shirts tucked up into her bra. Confident in a victory, the prosecution shotguns a case of Diet Coke and breaks into a rousing rendition of "My Humps," until the defense -- misinterpreting "a rousing" as "arousing," hops on You Tube to look for some of Duhamel's greatest hits from his days on All My Children, forcing the judge to send the jury out to deliberate.

Could someone explain to me how and why Phoebe Price got invited to the Teen Choice Awards? HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE? She is far from being a teen, and surely is not the choice of any teen. Was she asked to attend as a cautionary tale? Be ye not a fame whore, my children, or this shall be thy fate?

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Because that actually kind of makes sense.
Oh, LC. I don't even know. I suspect you may have belted a polyester bedspread from Goodwill:

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Now that he's a hit as Chuck Bass on TV, I suppose Ed Westwick is probably sniffing around looking for a massive movie role for when he's on hiatus.

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Unfortunately, they've already cast the role of the controlling, obsessive, moody, tired-looking, clammy, creepy, mentally intrusive, decades-old, stalker-ish "romantic" vampire Edward in the Twilight movie. Better luck next time, Ed!

Apparently, the whole general idea with Lil Mama's childlike garb is that she's the baby of the rap community. It seems kind of silly to me, but hey, not my problem.

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Right now, based on her facial expression, I'm a lot more concerned for the spider that's going to sit down beside her while she's eating her curds and whey. I would hate for that quaint story to end in death.
I can't pretend to understand the person who makes the guest list for the ESPYs. In addition to the usual amalgam of athletes and Playboy models, which seem to go together like chicken tikka masala and delicious yummy warm naan bread (I really, really should not fug on an empty stomach), there is always a completely random assortment of B- to Z-list "celebrities" whose attendance is more of a mystery.

Like reality TV's own I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-A-Kardashian, a.k.a. Brittny Gastineau, a.k.a. She Whose Name Really Relies On The "And Sometimes Y" Rule Of Vowels:

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Okay, actually, I sort of understand how she got in the door: Brittny's father was a New York Jets defensive end who went to the Pro Bowl five times. But even so, I'm pretty sure she had to call someone and REMIND them of that in order to get this invitation, just so she could show up and maybe bump up against Brett Favre. I appreciate her attempt to add a sporting bent to her dress -- if Sasha Cohen ever does an exhibition skate to Donna Summer's "Bad Girls," this might come in handy, and it even looks like Brittny could be wearing nylons -- but unfortunately Brett might not be enticed by the cleavage if he is too busy trying to figure out why she stapled a napkin to her bikini line.

And then there is Alan Thicke, a noted Olympic gold-medalist in Sitcom Parenting and of course the current world-record holder in composing cheesy TV themes and game-show music:
Insert the usual blah blah about Kate Walsh here: She was great on Grey's, but turned into a weird Ally McBeal clone on Private Practice to our great dismay, we all miss the redder hair but this ain't bad, boy is she in good shape YADDA YADDA YADDA:

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I just want to know why she's popped up wearing something that used to be a light fixture at the Bellagio.

Jessica and I were just discussing that it's been a poll-tastic Friday so far at GFY. But I am here to break that streak, because I am sure we don't have ambiguous feelings on this:

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You know that if the Tin Man had been in a disco band, his backup dancers would've worn this jumpsuit. I could throw her up on my dashboard to reflect the hot LA sunlight back off my windshield, although I am also tempted to put last night's dinner on her stomach and fold her up into a swan.

Phew! I got through that whole thing without a poll. I knew I could do it.

The majority of you forgave Rihanna for dressing like a lemon cake. But can you forgive her for this contraption?

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Before we all write this off as Rihanna being deeply original and offbeat, I should point you to our girl Kelly Clarkson, who did the "Like A Dead Virgin" thing a few years ago with -- I think -- equally stupid results. Of course, Kelly stopped short of strapping her tutu to a weight belt, and did not take care to add... what is that, a dickey? With tiny sleeves? A RUBBER dickey? It's bad enough that I look at a transparent tutu pyramid and shrug, "Eh, been there, seen that," but a DICKEY? Is THIS really where we are now, America?

Also, I know it's just a reflection off her metallic collar -- and we all know how awkward it can be when our metallic collars catch the light weirdly; it's my private pain -- but whenever I look at her neck, I see half of a gleaming silver mask staring back at me. Do you think her maybe-probably-boyfriend Chris Brown was gazing up at her and silently singing, "Rubber Dickey, you're the one; you make Sexy Time lots of fun! Rubber Dickey I'm awfully fond of you"? Or was he too busy thinking, "The PHAAAAAAANTOM of the Opera is HEEEEEEERE, INSIDE MY MIND"?

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