Random Fug

Christina DeRosa, the best I can tell from the information available on the interwebs, is one of those Actress/Models/Whatevers that abound here in Los Angeles like fleas on a feral cat.

In her case, the Whatever seems to involve having to dress like the lovechild of Joey Tribbiani that time he was working as the Hombre Cologne man, the weekend floor manager at the Gap, and a stripper with a gladiator fetish.

If you are styling a 16-year old British actress starring on a show called Shameless, please don't let her out of the house in an outfit that attempts to prove her show title is apt:

[Photo: Splash News]

This kid is going to look at this picture in five years and be like, "Seriously, you people let me wear that? Why? What is wrong with you? I WAS NOT DANCING IN THE NUTCRACKER."

Still, don't worry, Rebecca. We ALL wore stuff when we were 16 that would make us cry today. Like vests, or cropped sweaters the likes of which Valerie on 90210 would wear with extremely high-waisted, possibly pegged jeans. So when you DO flip past this photo in your family album in several years' time, comfort yourself with the knowledge that -- while it IS a misguided deployment of a tutu -- it's not any of those other things. And hey, if a foot-breaking epidemic sweeps through the entire cluster of ballerinas slated to play Clara this year, you can step in and save Christmas.

When we got an e-mail this morning titled, "The Most Heinous Jumpsuit Of All Time," I thought to myself, "Well, that is coming up against some pretty stiff competition." It's like saying you've found the world's foulest-tasting Brussels sprout, or the douchiest-ever Chad Michael Murray facial expression: There's just too much competition to know for sure.

But, once I laid eyes on the jumpsuit befouling wee pixie Jaime Winstone (British actress, daughter of the actor who is currently trying to make us care about Beowulf on film despite the fact that 99 percent of people who had to read that in English class -- as I did, THREE TIMES in my life somehow -- wanted to hurl themselves off the nearest bridge), I had to concede that this one is probably pretty close to the top of the list:

Listen, we all fondly remember Madonna's crazy conic-bra phase. But the only person who should attempt geometric boobs in this lifetime or anyone else's is Madonna herself. Also, I am pretty sure that thing is made of 150 thread-count sheets she picked up at a Marks & Spencer clearance sale. The tailor presumably had donated his or her hands to science before getting around to finishing this with nothing but feet and his/her teeth to do it, and it's so waistless and borderline dowdy that it resembles nothing so much as wearable fashion for the incontinent -- Depends by Talbots, or something. And finally sweet god, she caught Stumpophrenia from Kristen Bell. It couldn't be worse.

Could it?

It's got to be a little awkward when you show up at a major event and parts of your dress are the exact same color as the carpet.

But I bet it's even more awkward to when the entire crowd is speechless, trying to decide if you are paying tribute to Penicillium mold, honoring Green Week with an homage to the idea of an environmentally friendly Elizabethan England, or simply inspired enough by the concept of a Cabbage Patch Kid to style yourself as though your head is sitting on a bed of greens.

Every so often, as you have probably gleaned from how often we yap about it, we're inspired to let our fingers do the walking on our Random Fugs -- sometimes, we'd rather have another bag of Kettle Chips, of course, but other times our curiosity gets the best of us, and so far no cats have been harmed in any of these episodes.

More often than not, actually making an effort is richly rewarded by awesome information that warms our cold, dead hearts. Take actress Wolke Hegenbarth, for example. When you translate her Wikipedia page -- which we assume is probably not the most reliable or accurate way to read German, but we don't mind; it's almost better when it's jacked up -- it tells you that in addition to her TV role, she's starred in such moving cinematic poetry as One Dog, Two Suitcases, And A Very Large Love, and of course the classic Dead Trousers.

Evidently, the latter was a documentary.

In it, we learn how a girl and her obsession with bikini waxes led to the tragic ritual suicide of all her pants, which shredded themselves in protest because she refused to wear anything that covered her upper thighs. If a disco beach party breaks out -- as we assume it will, because nothing says "disco beach party" to us quite like the German Television Awards -- she'll be well prepared to do the Hustle either in or near the ocean.

Apparently, a theme at this year's boob-tube fete in lovely Deutschland was, "Have you heard about my waxer?" Behold:

Hopefully, medics were on hand to ensure that this Spanish actress was not being slowly asphyxiated by a renegade twelve-pack of black buttons and its venal fabric ally:

However, the upside is that anyone seeking the perfect elaborate neck brace -- with matching jacket! -- need look no further. When whiplash becomes the height of fashion, this woman's nape stylist will make a mint. I'll take ten percent.

I deeply, deeply hope that this woman is preparing to be Spain's entry in the next Eurovision Song Contest, because nowhere else would this outfit be more magical and appropriate -- and yet, at the same time, downright frumpy.

Somewhere in Vegas, a stripper is copying this look to wear to a funeral.

Completely missing the point of the revolution it's bastardizing, Nike is oddly pleased to announce its new line of dress sneakers to be sold under the slogan, "Looks like a sneaker, feels like a pump."

And who better to debut them than a girl who looks like she spent $2 to rent a dress from a costume shop specializing in ill-fitting nightgowns. Which I guess might come in handy if you're playing Daisy Mae in the little-known Lil' Abner 2: Lil'er Abner, wherein Daisy is frightened to learn the details of coitus and flees from her marriage bed. For the red carpet, though, I might've gone with something that actually fit, and was somewhat attractive, rather than an outfit that Forever 21 would cast out of its stores for being "too poorly made."

This inventive dress works brilliantly if you're attending the same formal event as, say, the old high-school rival who makes you want to drop through the floor, the coworker you're pretty sure has the SARS, or the boss who doesn't realize you're secretly a spy and are there on a very sensitive undercover operation:

To hide, simply bury your face in the cranium-sized fabric attachment or yank it right up over your hair, and everything will fly right past you. So stress no more when you bump into the ex-boyfriend who you realized was off his nut when he started talking nonsense about how he wants to name your children "Spackle" and "Rotary Phone," and how showers are too damn bossy for their own good, forcing you to fake your death to get him to stop calling you, except now you're at the same restaurant and if he recognizes you he'll mace you or, worse, put you on the phone with his psychic friend. This will hide you as adeptly as a funeral shroud.

I think I've figured out why Peter Pan didn't want to grow up.

The poor lad's mother was a dominatrix, and it beat the yen for puberty right out of him.