Random Fug

This young lady was, according to Google, Miss Australia 2006.

Her talent was cardio-funk, and boy, is she proud of it.

Actress Dominika Wolski is cute in a way that suggests that she probably regularly finds herself competing with Dominique Swain for roles and is probably often mistaken for her thanks to the similarity in names, as well. I'm sure she's tired of having to explain that, NO, she wasn't in Lolita and she's really not sure how to address your rude line of questioning about her post-Lolita career or lack thereof, because she's a totally different actress but she'd also like to know what the deal is with Swain, so maybe she can stop having to deal with her.

Or maybe there's a more sinister explanation. Maybe Wolski is slowly -- so slowly! -- taking over Swain's identity -- you know, mostly so she can get into parties. It would explain the sort of awkward flowered frock and moderately mismatched boots:

As well as all the posing in front of Dominique Cohen's logo. It's all Dominika/Dominique/Dominique up in here, and I must confess, it is turning even my head. Who is who? What is where? How is "Dominique" even a word, with all those vowels? Did this outfit used to belong to an underage florally-fixated cheerleader named Florita? Where did I leave my pants? I can't unravel this kind of tangled mystery so early on a Monday.

Sometimes things are so crazy that they stop being crazy and swing all the way around to being SPECTACULAR. Like the outfit on (the extremely pretty) Miss Poland, Marzena Cieslik, here pictured at the Grand Prix Ball in Melbourne. I do not know why Miss Poland is kicking it in Australia, but I guess that it probably has something to do with the weather.  Anyway, this dress takes Pageant Fashion and kicks it up to the proverbial 11:

Tulle! Sequins! Illusion netting! Contrasting colored boobs! AWESOME. This is so over the top that I must embrace it. It reminds me of one of my favorite scandals from my past: when I was in high school, we had a Latin teacher who was sort of quirky and interesting, but in a very... sort of scholastic-seeming way. Well, I guess she had some kind of crisis, because she left the school under a cloud of mystery, but not before donating a huge box of clothing to the school's drama department, which I was involved in (I know, big surprise, right?). In the box were several elaborate beaded, ruffled, neon gowns, all of which were cut to the navel. We later learned that Lady Latin had been a nationally ranked ballroom dancer until she had been BANNED FOR LIFE from the National Ballroom Dancing Association -- or whatever the national ballroom dancing association is called -- for behavior not befitting a ballroom dancer. The rumor, which was naturally immediately accepted as truth, was that she had been caught in a particularly shocking and perverse orgy, corrupting her fellow dancers, probably so as to throw them off their dance-game, but my guess from the adult perspective is that maybe none of this actually happened and she just decided she was tired of nude t-strap sandals and high school girls and quit ballroom dancing and teaching, in that order, and ran off to somewhere more interesting to do something else.  But I'm still pretty sure that Miss Poland's night is going to tragically end in her being banned from Miss Universe for doing something inappropriate that this ballroom-dance-inspired gown forced her to do.

See? THIS is the sort of thing we wish American starlets would go back to wearing:

You know, to give us something to talk about.

Her boobs! They're in jail! What heinous crimes could her boobs have committed? Arson? Espionage? Extortion? Conspiracy to commit murder? Assault and battery? We must KNOW. Have they been committed for life, or is there a possibility of parole? Might she let them out for good behavior? Or are they going to end up in the hole? So many questions!  At least they have each other, as they waste away behind bars.

Welcome to Cipes.

Cipes is apparently a "spiritual surfer" of some sort. He's out on the town because he's part of the cast of TwentyFourSeven, a reality-based version of Entourage that MTV is giving us for Christmas. It's worth noting that the starring gang, in almost every photo from the premiere party, poses together either with rampant finger-guns, peace signs, or those ultra-hip upside-down peace signs -- the latter two usually accompanied by that special brand of man-hugging wherein arms are slung around necks, or some embracing that is half-hug, half-chest punch. It's sort of gloriously terrible.

But, back to our boy: Cipes' biggest problem will not be getting hit by a stray finger-gun bullet. No, the greatest threat to his budding career as a hanger-on will be lawsuits filed by Giovanni Ribisi and his people, all seeking compensation for the mistaken-identity disasters that will surely lead to well-intentioned sightings e-mailed to Defamer and Gawker that say: "Just saw Giovanni Ribisi waiting for his car at the valet; he appeared to be wearing old pajama pants and slippers with some sort of tunic under his coat. So sad to see that he's so completely lost his mind that he no longer bothers to get dressed; guess those Friends residuals can't buy a guy some real pants."

Be warned, Cipes.

Okay, so this fug significantly less random to our friends in the glorious U.K., as Ms. Buchanan fronts a band over there called Sugababes, and is notorious within that collection of fine young ladies for being the only founding member still sticking with the group.

Which may or may not be a good idea, considering that one of the duties incumbent upon carrying the glorious title of "Sugababe" is showing up in public wearing tragic and problematic trousers.

She's looking down, all, "Daaaaamn, were these armpit-rise when I bought them?" These square waist-eaters make Mom jeans look positively trampy, like they've been out all night until a sleazy 11 p.m., sitting in a parked car with a boy inhaling second-hand smoke and sharing a bottle of soda without using a second straw. In fact, it's entirely possible Keisha's jeans are actually Chastity Capris, with the buttons doubling as a complex combination lock for added security. Tragically for Keisha, nowhere on the note subtly taped to the floor does it say, "Step 4: Run, Keisha. RUN, FOR THE LOVE OF PANTS, RUN!"

Of course, there is hope. If she sticks with it, the sisters Peldon have a scent custom-made for the likes of her. [You must forgive us our renewed obsession with these "actresses" and junior entrepreneurs, but since they've been with us here since the beginning, well, we're far too delighted by this turn of events in their lives to look away now.] Concocted by Brown and with the prose description winningly written by our favorite cherubic blonde mascot -- whom I saw with her sister and mother out in the wild on Saturday night! At the movies! Imagine! -- the perfume is called The Pop Star, and Courtney makes it come alive for us thusly: "In between musical acts she snacks a white chocolate chunk shortbread cookie nut cookie with macademia nut pieces, cookie crumbles, and a kiss of vanilla bean frosting!"

If that doesn't say "Sugababe," I don't know what does. So if Keisha can't escape the prison of these trousers, at lease she can smell like she sleeps on a dessert cart.

Dear Ms. Benedicto:

We are sorry to hear that you were killed off The Nine in its premiere episode and that you've been reduced to appearing in flashbacks; we're sorrier still to recall your stint on Dawson's Creek. Yes, we saw you. Don't mess with Pacey Witter, okay? That's your life lesson for today. Step away from Josh Jackson.

As delighted as we were to see that you "starred" in the soapy midemeanor Titans, we regret to inform you that at this time, we cannot get behind your latest pitch because nobody is looking to remake Robin Hood. Although we cherish your take that Robin is a Pat-like gender-bending female character who turns England on its ear by redefining just what exactly "Sherwood Forest" means, we suspect that nobody is terribly interested in seeing anyone -- male or female -- parade around in ill-fitting capri pants and pixie boots. But we appreciate your interest in the genre, and recommend that you consider seeking work at Medieval Times, or other such historically relevant places of employ.

Best of luck!

Sincerely,

Les Moonves

P.S. However, if you have a pitch for C.S.I.: Nottingham, please let us know, as we're always looking for ways to make forensics fresh and perhaps the olden days are the way to go. Call now and we won't kill you off in episode three!

Congratulations to gospel singer Soyara Moraes, winner of a silver medal in "Conceptual Fug: How to Abuse and Besmirch The Almighty Dust Ruffle."

We would show you the winner, but the poor sap was knocked on her derriere when an overenthusiastic event staffer tried to vacuum up under her, and the subsequent head injury sent her to the hospital. Fortunately, we know Soraya here can undertake all the necessary chores usually handed to the title holder, which include but aren't limited to allowing for the temporary storage up under her garment of dusty and unused abdominal exercise equipment, sex toys, and bills we don't want our parents to find right away if we die in an untimely accident.

Sometimes I think of the celebrity world as a carnival of fug. And then I start to daydream about starting a real Fug Carnival -- we'd hire somebody like Scarlett Johansson to run a roller-coaster ride evocative of her own up and down relationship with clothes; Jessica and Assica Simpson and their incredibly changing body shapes/faces would of course man the Fun House and all its manipulative mirrors; Fergie would run around as the bearded lady; Paris Hilton would be at the kissing booth, where you get a free antibiotic with each slip of the tongue; and we'd force K-Fed and Britney to sit in the dunk tank because that's the only way to guarantee that they get a real bath.

And then, I found this photo that inspired me to add a scary "It's A Fug World After All" ride -- even more terrifying than the original -- wherein you sail through a little waterway (made of vodka) and creepy dolls sing at you from the land on either side, telling you all about what's awful in celebrity fashion.

These are those dolls.

This shirt/dress -- Shress? Drirt? --  reminds me of the last few times I've been shopping, wandering through the racks trying in vain to figure out whether half of what's hanging there is meant to be a dress or a shirt. This happens a lot lately, and it's frustrating, because 90 percent of the time the answer is, "That's a shirt," and I have to put it down and walk away because it's too long to look flattering with jeans yet too short to be worn as a frock, for fear of wearing it in public and completely losing my mystery.

Sky Nellor has no such qualms, though, apparently figuring that a pair of fishnets ably doubles as a genital cover. Perhaps she needs some girlfriends to shop with her and provide a much-needed reality-check, in the vein of, "Tights are not pants," or, "Who do you think you are? Bebe Neuwirth?" And especially that old classic piece of advice, "If somebody sneezes too strongly, the world will see what your groin looks like when it's squished like sausage meat into its stretchy prison, and that's never pretty, so for the love of God, FIND A BETTER CONTAINER FOR YOUR LADYBITS before you forget yourself and break into a kick-line that splays open the cotton crotch." That one's as old as the hills -- Chicken Soup for the Fugging Soul.