Katrina, You're Fugged

Katrina, all the gold chains in the world won't make the shoes and the bag work with that rainbow of aggression that is your outfit. Is that a leather mouth under your breasts?

Donald Trump may love a good woman, and he may love a woman who can sell, but I think he'd agree with me in asking you to repeat to yourself three times an hour, "Do not dress like I am for sale. Do not dress like I am for sale." Hookers aren't fashion icons, Ms. Campins. No one picks up a whore because she was wearing a really edgy dress.

Go change.

Ben Affleck Bloat Watch 2004: Victory In Our Time

Don't go getting all excited, but it appears that Sydney Bristow may have finally vanquished her most formidable opponent: Ben Affleck's rampant, spreading bloat and its most cherished companion, puffiness.

Voila:

Should I lay off the smack, or does it appear that he's getting close to his fighting weight again? He hardly barely looks water-logged at all.

Well played, Ms Garner. Well played.

If You Want My Body, And You Think I'm Fugly...

Rod Stewart mistakenly believes that the Royal National Institute for the Blind Gala is going to be attended only by the blind, and, thus, wears his bathrobe as an overcoat:

Britney Fugerline

This photo was sent by an eagle-eyed reader:

Why is Britney shrieking?

a) She's looking in a mirror
b) Something, somewhere, is itching and burning
c) She found the greatest onesie for her future spawn that has "I'm Jailbait (But This Is An Old Jumper)" emblazoned on it.
d) She just caught sight of the wedding ring on her finger and has awoken to what she and her life have jointly become
e) She is realizing that she passed a dumpster on the way into the store without even stopping to dive in and see if anybody threw out any snacks, or perfectly good unbroken condoms that can be re-rolled for reuse.
f) Wouldn't you be, if you were Britney?

Dyed to Fug

Allow Ms. Thora Birch to demonstrate one of my biggest beauty pet-peeves: Dyed-to-match, or at least lightened, eyebrows.

When people go blond and bleach out their brows -- especially if they are fair-skinned -- it washes them out and detracts from their eyes, generally really ratcheting back the cute (see: Barrymore, Drew, Never Been Kissed... perhaps this is why, Drew).

Look at Thora. It looks like she shaved her brows off, and the effect is that her forehead goes on for ten miles. [And before anyone accuses me of being hateful, because some people have alopecia: I agree, alopecia sufferes are the real heroes, but Thora Birch does not have alopecia.]

All it would take is some Nice-n-Easy to darken those right up so that her eye area has some definition. Better, if she goes to a full-on salon, she could get a weave, because her hair is kind of thin and damaged and appears to be retreating from her very aggressive forehead, which is annexing patches of her skull at an alarming rate.

However, more problematically: Thora Birch needs to eat some carbs. People shouldn't make carbohydrates the enemy. Carbs love you. They want to insulate you and prevent you from becoming a shrunken bag of bones. Sometimes, they want to help you take a nap on your keyboard in the middle of the workday. Let them.

Fug of Arcadia

The best thing I can say about this photo is that I might be in love with the pink coat on the woman in the background.

Amber Tamblyn is not a stick, and I love her for it, but she's also not a dramatically pear-shaped spinster schoolmarm -- the effect presented by this choice of dress. You could lie her down on a table and a nearby funeral director would go, "Ah, just the tablecloth I need for this wake today."

Also, Amber needs to get her colors done. She defaults to a shade of lipstick that's between Fire-Engine Red and Hooker Scarlet, and it completely dominates the rest of her lovely features. It's all I can see when I look at her (well, that, and what appear to be shoes made of fabric that matches her depressing skirt).

But seriously, the mouth looks like she stole it from Ronald McDonald, and that's sick and wrong. Nobody loves a clown, Amber. Nobody. Not even God.

Selma Fug

Here's the thing. I think Selma Blair is quite pretty, when she's got a modicum of body fat on her skinny bones. She usually dresses quite nicely. She gets a pass from my division of the fashion police on most occasions.

However. Girlfriend needs folicular assistance. Check it:

What is with the hairline? Sweet fancy Moses, it's eating her face! Selma, Selma, Selma! Rita Hayworth had her hairline plucked. Catherine Zeta-Jones had her lasered. Please, for the love of God, do something about yours before you end up in Teen Wolfe: The She-Male Years.

Or, you could just keep your bangs:

See? Pretty. And no one will know about your teeny tiny twohead. Problem solved.

You Try And Come Up With Another Pun For Lil' Kim

I don't even know anymore.

It's not like I'm surprised. It's more like I'm wondering when we're actually going to see her entire vagina. I'm about to start taking bets. I'll take the under on 6 months. Who's in?

Her Fug Prerogative

Britney's got a new single coming out, the cover of Bobby Brown's "My Prerogative" that's attached to her Greatest Hits album -- the premature appearance of which suggests that nobody really believes wholeheartedly that she'll have a "great" hit ever again, so they might as well strike while the Frito Pie is still hot.

As such, it's nice to see Britney already thinking ahead about her future, and turning to alternate sources of income -- specifically, what one can only assume is preparation for a gig as a Clearasil spokeswoman:

It's like she rubbed her chin in Crisco, which might well be close to the truth if she was anywhere near the loins of her new husband.

Zits are tough. And what's a girl to do when she can't find her legendary wrinkled cut-offs, probably because they're wadded up on the balcony underneath a pile of empty Colt 45 bottles, three used condoms, and a spittoon?

Why, she turns to her very best distressed grass-stained pants, that's what:

And for good measure, she gets a gigantic Coke stain on her shirt.

I can't wait for The Best Letter I've, Like, Totally Ever Written, Y'All, because I'm eagerly anticipating the chapter wherein she explains her apparently unquellable impulse to communicate through bawdy t-shirts and trucker hats. "Carpe Assum -- Seize the Ass," her hat proclaims. Okay, Brit. We get it. You're edgy. You're nobody's princess. Neither am I anyone's princess, yet I still find time to clean my clothes, wash my hair, and actively not wear trucker hats with "clever" messages on them. Why don't you give me a call? I can show you how.

American Fugly

Thanks to an eagle-eyed member of the Fug Army [the Fugmy?], we have been notified of an alarming development in the appearance of Mrs Warren Beatty, the traditionally very lovely Annette Bening. Ms Bening has been somewhat absent from the public eye of late, due, I presume, to the fact that she spat out four babies in a fairly short period of time and is probably really very tired.

She has also, apparently, been very busy transforming herself into Clay Aiken.

To wit:

Annette:

Clay:

Now, Claymates, put down your burning torches. I pass no judgement on the Clay here. God knows, people go nuts for him, so whatever he's working, it's working for him. But if Annette Bening wants to transform herself into a twentysomething pop singer with a rabid fan following, I think she maybe should have chosen a woman.

There's Something About Fugly

And Cameron wonders why Justin won't marry her?*

Maybe because her years of hard-living [read: alleged drug use] have caught up with her, and she's looking more and more like an elderly Madonna 2.0 [read: Esther]? Except Madonna would never wear a side ponytail under a fedora.

I can only assume that Cammie is suffering from another outbreak of her infamous acne [I can't wait for the next article in People magazine: "Cameron's Tragic Battle With the T-Zone"], and is covering it up with layers and layers of power, thus explaining her alarmingly chalk-y complection.

Nothing, however, explains the eye-liner.

Except maybe the [ALLEGED!] drugs.

*Since posting this, we have been informed that this picture is rather old. It was forwarded to us by a reader. Overcome by the fug, I didn't check the dates on the photo, and it was used. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. We are now therefore dutifully noting that Cameron, apparently, has a long history of fugliness and looked old before her time before we even realized it. However, it must be said that this purple fedora and ponytail probably have not factored into Justin Timberlake's ALLEGED reticence to ring her up. We do, however, stand by the ALLEGED rumors of ALLEGED drug use.

Fug Watch: Celebrity Facial Hair

This photo of Keanu Reeves came from an fug-eyed reader:

What is Keanu thinking? Is he marveling that strange things are afoot at the circle K? Stunned that ER is still on the air? Saying to himself, "Wow, that Spears kid has moxie"? Silently counting back to the last time he bathed, and realizing he's gone an impressively long time without soap? Pointing to his beard as if to brag, "Lookit! I can grow pubic hair on my jaw!"? Or is he simply trying to remember who he is, and what he once looked like?

Somebody please send him a Gillette care package.

Meanwhile, here's Billy Crudup:

There's something slimy and skeezy about the new, wan outcropping on his chiseled chin. It seems to accentuate his demonic angles. And with the hair grease it gives the impression that he thinks he's about to sell you a pre-owned Dodge, with all of the innate, exciting social status that comes with a new Dodge, yet none of the sticker shock.

But you know what, Billy Crudup? I don't want your tainted used car. [Yes, that's right, I said used, sucka-bitch -- what of it? Go pre-own a shower or something.] I don't want to come within twenty yards of your hair grease that looks like it hasn't been changed in a month. And I want you to keep your titian-haired Nancy Drew of a chin in the bathroom, until such time as it has been eradicated with a razor or a bucket of Nair. You look squirrelly, kind of like you might run out on your eight-months pregnant girlfriend to take up with your beanpole co-star and... oh. Ah.

Well, carry on, then, I suppose, Billy.

Fuggrieved

I didn't realize funeral homes employed court jesters. Thank you, actress Sylvia Miles, for bringing your rather unique new profession into the public eye. If I am ever bereaved or aggrieved, I have only to think of you tap-dancing atop a hearse in this, your uniform, and I will feel better.

Fugarama

Dear Karenna Gore,

Why so schlumpy?

Love, Jessica

Fuglias

Seriously, this hurts me more than it hurts you.

I admit, I quite like Jennifer Garner. I am invested in her personal happiness. I think she's adorable. And she used to dress quite nicely.

However. Things seem to be taking a turn for the worse. First, her Emmy dress, which looked like the unholy union of a doily factory and a jujitsu studio. And now....oh, it's the little things that clue us into the fact that something's gone horribly wrong with J. Gar:

Black leather trench.

Brown leather bag.

Darker brown suede boots.

No. No, no, no. Now, listen: I'm not one of those Accessories Nazis who screams that your handbag must match your shoes. However, I do think they ought to be complementary. And three different colors and textures of leather in one outfit? Is not complementary. Each of these pieces is fine on its own, but together they make her look like Wilson's Leathers vomited on her in the limo. Did she not think about her outerwear at all? Did she just put on the first coat she found in her closet and grab the purse she took to Whole Foods earlier in the day? What's wrong with J. Gar? Have we just caught her on an off night -- I mean, it's a sartorial misstep, to be sure, but it's not like she showed up dressed like Carmen Miranda -- or is it something more...sinister?

Has she been affected...by The Affleck?

Reality Fug

From a recent reality television event in Hollywood comes three cautionary tales:

1) Heidi Strobel of Survivor:

Heidi teaches us that breasts are not meant to look like eggs. And any top that pushes your girls around in such a way that they look like a giant duck gave birth on your chest -- well, that is not a top that should be worn outside the house. And let's not even get into her "tan."

2) Jenna Lewis, also of Survivor:

Those are cute shoes. I think Jessica has those in red. And the skirt isn't that bad. Oh, and I like leather jackets, generally. And the sequined shirt, while not my personal style, is very LA club-scene. So what's wrong with this picture? Everything, in that none of it really belongs in the same ensemble. There is a fine line between fresh showgirl and fresh-faced school girl, Jenna, and it doesn't like to be straddled like a man on a sex tape. [P.S. Lopsided hair doesn't make you look cute. It makes you look like you rolled out of the limo drunk and half your updo fell out.]

3) Finally, here's Trishelle from The Real World:

I'll grant that Trishelle usually looks worse than this, but it doesn't negate the fact that she's wearing a red satin sack that appears to be fitted only slightly, and down by her pelvis. She probably just wants to draw attention to her favorite and most-used body part, but instead it just makes her look like she has a drawstring. But the worst part -- it's more visible on a close-up -- is the little swatch of flesh-toned fabric poking out on her left shoulder. Yes, Trishelle wore a high, v-necked camisole under this low, straight-cut camisole-style dress. She looks like Miss Hannigan.

The lesson here: Miss Hannigan, while the real hero of Annie, dresses less for public consumption and more for bathtub gin consumption. So unless Trishelle is on her way to locking herself in the lav with a glass, a ladel, and a giant paddle for stirring, then she's wearing the wrong thing.

Fugshion Design

I've never been a bigger advocate of granny panties than I am today.

The whole emsemble on the woman on the right has a distinct and alarming "Empress's New Clothes" vibe to it, where the woman mugs and poses as if nothing is wrong, while people (see: woman in the background) watch in quiet disbelief and think, "I wish I could look away from this person's buttocks, but as they are hanging out in plain view under a filmy skirt, I can't really help it and can feel myself growing stupider by the second."

The kicker? This woman, Jemima French (not to be confused with Jemima Khan, the socialite dating Hugh Grant, who mostly only shows off her knickers in the form of a bikini she is wearing while lounging on a yacht and making out with him), is -- or at least tells photographers she is -- a fashion designer. But if this outfit is any indication, Ms. French is probably not a very good fashion designer. Indeed, she might be a very stoned fashion designer. As if there weren't enough problems with a translucent skirt, a gauzy top, black lace undershorts and a garter belt, she paired the aforementioned Lingerie Of The Undead with the frumpiest, clunkiest pump on the planet.

Run, Sadie Frost. Release that woman and run.

Wicked Fug

If I'm not mistaken, she is pregnant, which accounts for the billowing. But -- and I know this may sound revolutionary to people like you and me, who aren't models -- I do think it's possible to have a violet maternity frock and not pair it with a brown tweed poncho, orange shoes, a purse of a different color in the purple family, and red lipstick so bright that cars in Montana are stopping at what they think is a red light. I swear I've seen pregnant women actively not wearing this combination, so here's hoping that she stops before she has a sweaty affair with Roy G. Biv and goes a little more monochromatic.

Ben Affleck Bloat Watch 2004

Having watched this season's premiere of Saturday Night Live, I was relieved to see that Ben Affleck seems to be getting his horrible creeping bloat somewhat under control. His body appears considerably less squashy -- thanks to a man-corset? You didn't hear it from me -- although his undereye bags still make him look like he recently regained consciousness in the alley behind the local Boobs 'n' Booze. He remains a mere shadow of his former handsome self, to be sure, and he certainly seemed steeped in bitterness at certain points during the episode, but it does seem as though Jennifer Garner is forcing him to take first baby steps toward debloatification, although she's been unable, as of yet, to completely irradicate the fine sheen of flop sweat that seems to engulf him 24/7.

To wit:

Sadly, I guess he's still too mired in the slow motion trainwreck that is his life -- and those, my friends, were his words, not mine -- to shave.

Gyllenhaal Fugs Again

What is this? Her lower half looks lumpier than oatmeal. It's like the top half belongs to an entirely different dress, which she is still wearing underneath but which got a stain on it, so she grabbed a piece of satin and a nearby ribbon and made herself a second skirt. And then she slouched for good measure, making a bad choice of waistline even worse. Way to go, Maggie -- it's nice to see you carrying the fug torch.

Vivica A. Fug

Her breasts are drooping over the leather corset like the last desperate goo being squeezed from a toothpaste tube. Her face says, "And so WHAT if the people in the front row can see straight up my Fallopian tubes?!?" And her birthmark says, "You think a womb view is bad? I've seen 50 Cent's wang and it's not worth a nickel."

Alexa Fuga: The Fuggening

Founding Fugee Alexa Vega makes a not particularly triumphant return to the pages of Go Fug Yourself thanks to the pants she chose to wear to the premiere of Hilary Duff's sure to be amazing film epic Raise Your Voice:

The shirt? Cute. The shoes? Cute. The hair? Cute. The... pants? Can we even call them pants? Because they look like they used to be jeans, until her ride to the movie broke down by the side of the LA River and she decided to roll them up and wade to the premiere, but she misjudged how high she needed to roll said jeans, or something, so they got all wet and she had to just shove them over her kneecaps and trudge the rest of the way through the sludge, and because she couldn't live with the feeling of Wet Jeans slapping against her leg for the rest of the night, she decided to leave them like that, in all their jean/knicker/demin pantaloon-y glory.

That was not a good call on her part.

Fugg Boots 3.0: The Regina Boot

Because the world always needs a new winter-boot money pit that hipster sheep in LA can wear without reason:

Meet Regina boots, which run $239 to $450 at a New York boutique run by an Aussie woman who loudly decries Ugg boots as only being worn by Australian thugs. Curious that her salvo in the battle to eradicate Uggs is to pimp another fugly piece of footwear that Pamela Anderson-types can wear with hot pants. It's sort of like offering to replace the trucker hat with a trucker-newsboy hybrid that has all the space for ironic messages, but with none of the mesh.

Thank you, lady. You've given us "C" in what promises to be a multiple choice question of neverending growth, "What is the most hideous pair of so-called 'trendy' boots? (A) Uggs, (B) Mukluks..." Thanks a pantload. Unless dog-sledding is about to become the new poker, in which case, you are both a sporting and a sartorial psychic.

The Fug Files

Oh my God, what happened to Assistant Director Walter Skinner? [Also known as actor Mitch Pileggi]

Clearly, he's finally been tossed out of the FBI and is now living in Washington's alleys and vacant lots, on the run from shadowy mystery men who need information that only he has, information that will help them bring down the X-Files, forever. No, for real this time. Yes. Really, this time. Actually, for real. Forever, seriously, you guys. And so he's on the run! Wearing an unsightly baseball cap that he appears to have rescued from the gutter! Rummaging through dumpsters for food! Failing to shave regularly!

Or he decided this was a good look for the WB's Rock the Vote party. You know, one or the other.

I ask him, please, Mitch -- rock the MACH3. You look like a vagrant. Agent Mulder looked better when he was dead. All the times he was dead.

The Fugly In Red

To the inventor of what is apparently industrial-strength boob tape:

Lil' Kim has taught the world a lot of important lessons. For example, as long as there is a swatch of fabric somewhere on your person, then technically you are considered clothed and fit for public consumption. Or, as demonstrated above, that as long as something encircles part of your arm and is somehow connected to the rest of the outfit, then that thing can be considered a sleeve. My life will not be the same.

But I owe you a debt of gratitude, because without your marvelous double-sided invention, the world could not safely learn these lessons. We wouldn't be able to study at her School of Skank, because we'd be forced to behold Lil' Kims nipples while she's teaching, and that is considered the leading potential cause of blindness and/or insanity. So thank you, kind sir or madam. You are the real hero. You are the reason she can wear her wrist on a red fabric leash without also letting the dogs out; your tape is the Breast Police, and it is blessedly unafraid of making arrests.

God bless you and keep you.

Mother, May I Sleep With Fug?

Looks like Donna Martin didn't graduate from the school of good taste:

Tori Spelling mistakenly equates "mismatched 80s fug wear" with "cute top." A pink and black rugby-striped blouse? Okay, fine. If you want to do that 80s thing that was so big nine months ago. But over an aqua tee? Oh, honey. Honey. No. Pink and black and aqua? Not even Kelly Taylor could pull off that unholy, Miami Vice-ian horror.

And the necklaces? Why? Why all the necklaces? Don't draw any more attention to your horsey neck than you need to, Tori. Especially not when you're wearing a top that's wrestling with itself for attention.

I guess we should give thanks, however, that at least we're not being treated to yet another viewing of the man-made crater between your breasts. Small favors, right?

Young Fug

Hey, almost-unrecognizable-and-surprisingly-mannish Amy Davidson, listen up: One simple rule of fugging oneself is matching one's hat with one's eye shadow:

Guys, consider yourself warned: If you persist in voting this year, we cannot be held responsible for the fate of your genitals.

And finally, because it's always worth noting, somebody still needs attention:

Is that shirt really made to make it look like she's wearing a bra outside her clothes? Or... is she actually wearing a bra outside her clothes?

At least her mother finally put a collar on Courtney, so that if she gets lost people will know who she is so that they can return her. Of course, knowing this family, the collar probably says, "Please return to: Ashley Peldon," which would render any good samaritan stumped.

My Prerogifug

Britney Spears is so right. I am sorry that I don't have what she has. To wit:

What girl doesn't dream of a marrying a David Silver lookalike who actually purchases -- and wears! In public! -- a trucker cap that reads "Rock Out With Your Cock Out"?

I think I speak for all of humanity when I beg you, Kevin, to put the cock away.

The Fug Pimp

This man's name is Archbishop Don Magic Juan. Which makes perfect sense, especially if that actually is a blinged-out chalice in his left hand:

His Holiness looks like the Von Trapp Family pimp. His poor mother will sure miss those pale blue curtains, but it was well worth it for the matching sombrero. Ol√ɬ(c), homeslice!

I'm guessing the theory is: The more uncannily he resembles a couch, the more chicks will splay themselves all

Top Fug

Thanks for dressing up for the premiere of Shark Tales, Goose.

What's with the backpack? Is the erstwhile Dr. Greene living, per chance, in his car? Has he sold every pair of jeans he bought after he joined the cast of ER, thus leaving him with this one pair of reverse-cut, pale washed women's jeans he scavenged out of the dumpster behind the Gap on 22nd and Wilshire? Or is he just "keeping it real?" All I know is, I never see George Clooney looking like this. And I never see Anthony Edwards in anything approximating Ocean's 11. Hmmm. Wonder if there's a connection. Memo to Edwards's agent: get your man in a suit, stat.

The Fug and the Restless

It's like a little mesh tumor. Or a sartorial head-wound.

Maybe somebody bought it for her dog and Victoria Rowell misunderstood.

Mimi Fuggers

Is Mimi Rogers reliving her high-school prom?

I'm happy to see that she's so fond of her knit poppy-adorned doormat; not as ecstatic that she turned it into a poncho. But, judging by her expression, her date got them a hotel room for after the prom-queen coronation, so at least she'll get laid despite looking like she bled out on the operating table all over her white dress.

Fugson's Creek

"Sorry I'm late, you guys! My tap class ran late and I didn't have time to change!"

The Fug Sense

Judging by her sulky facial expression, Mischa Barton didn't think to look in the mirror until after she arrived at the party:

This is sort of a melange of fug. The frumpy purse competes with the frumpy cardigan, which is bedecked with the kind of cursory glitter you see on the sweaters of octagenarians. Vying with those two elements for attention: the see-through black undershirt with pink bra.

It's like she's a 90-year old stripper who's trying to prove she's Still Got It. Come on, Mischa, don't age before your time. Go back to being who you are: a young starlet who hilariously think she's Got It, but who actually has nothing but the VDs she probably caught from her oily boyfriend.

Fug, Actually

Somebody remind me what the big deal is about Keira Knightley, because on a good day it sort of confuses me...

... and as featured on Page Six today, in full Overtired Vampiress mode, I'm pretty much totally perplexed. She needs some eye makeup remover. And a wig. I just... really? Really?

New York Fugshion Week: Beware!

New York Fashion Week Fever strikes again. NYFWF is a rare, serious disease that affects mostly women between the ages of 22 and 35. Symptoms include: dressing like Florence Henderson in The Brady Bunch, if there was an episode of The Brady Bunch in which Carol Brady fell into a deep, deep depression and started drinking during the day, leading to drunk shopping and even drunker hair-styling [see subject above, who has a severe case of Bradyism]; delusions and hallucinations; the inability to tell if an outfit is attractive or if it makes you look like your Mom, circa 1971, especially if your Mom was on a serious diet of Quaaludes in 1971; no appetite, leading to emaciation [this symptom not visible in the subject pictured above. Please see: Wintour, Anna; Lauder, Erin; Grubman, Lizzie; any Von Furstenberg you can nab]; a pathological and crippling fear of mirrors and, correspondingly, an avoidance of one's own reflection. Treatment is severe and often requires stay in a rehabilitation center, where the afflicted is: forced to try on clothing that actually fits; fed three meals a day, two of which include carbs; and beaten with a plastic bag full of colored L'Eggs pantyhose [as pictured above on subject's legs] until he or she agrees that the only legwear options that are really acceptable in this day and age are the bare leg or the opaque tight.

Be on the lookout for symptoms of NYFWF in yourself. If you are a woman -- or, more rarely, a man -- interested in fashion, you are at risk. You may find yourself seriously considering buying a pair of Mukluks. You might hear yourself saying, "That Chloe Sevigny looks adorable!" You might decide to wear a pair of gold lame hotpants to the office. If any of these symptoms occur, remove yourself from New York Fashion Week immediately and seek treatment.

Fugicide: Life On The Streets

It appears that the Curse of the Baldwins has struck again.

It's not that Daniel Baldwin was ever "the Hot Baldwin," or "the talented Baldwin," or even "the other Baldwin." He was always "the other other Baldwin," or, in his darker times, "the Baldwin that almost (allegedly) ODed." But now, tragically, it appears that he has become "the Baldwin that ate the other Baldwin."

The Fug After Tomorrow

Dear Emmy Rossum,

Look at you! You are a very, very pretty girl, and you're very naturally slender, which makes you lucky. And you have great curl formation, which... suck on it, bitch, but first pass the product my way.

But that's neither here nor there. I have a more important question (aside from, "Um, are you at a Hollywood event, or are you a bridesmaid?). And that is: Are you eating?

Now, I get it -- weight fluctuates naturally; stress leads to weight loss; Jake Gyllenhaal wasn't good about feeding you rich soups while you were languishing in that library with him during The Day After Tomorrow... All these things make sense, i suppose.

But really, I just want to make sure you're not Mary-Kating yourself into oblivion, because that wasn't really good for anyone. I mean, all the fat twin wanted was to make some more caper movies, and now she's relegated to being The Sister Whose Name Hasn't Become A Verb -- in addition to being stuck in a career that will no doubt be confined to starring with MK in very special Lifetime Original Movies. Like Once Bitten, Twice High, about twins who get hooked on crack but are saved from their dealer (Kirk Cameron, as you've never seen him) by Bill Cosby, their gruff but lovable neighbor, and their kindly doctor Neil Patrick Harris, in a role you've seen him in before, but before all those other roles that were parts you'd never seen him in before.

Anyway... What was I saying? Oh, right: Just make sure that the next time the Phantom of the Opera kidnaps you and drags you into his dungeon, he offers you up some nice, butter-laden French cuisine and crusty bread while you're forced to watch him frantically and repeatedly, er, play his pipe organ.

Eat.

Cheers,
Heather

Fug Vogue Awards

Oh my God, you guys! Bai Ling left the house looking weird, and with 80 percent of her skin showing! Can you imagine? What are the odds?!?

Seriously, this woman confounds me -- she's another one who shows up everywhere, but whose relevance I can't quite understand or recognize. I mean, other than the fact that her main mission in life is to be as naked as she can be. She's got to be stopped.

Maybe it's because I'm posting late in the day on a Friday, or maybe it's because she won't stop popping up all over the place in outfits that look like The Island of Dr. Moreau has a fashion line, but I am very, very intolerant of The Bai Ling Experience. She's no Courtney Peldon, who would go to the opening of a mouth -- and dress like she wants to put something of hers in it -- but Bai Ling is grating nonetheless. Can't someone contain her? Where's the mob when you need it?

In other news, I hate the '80s:

All Ali Larter needs here is some really giant geometric earrings and hairspray to complete this dumpy, sloppy outfit. I don't know which Mensa evictee decided that 1980s fashion was ripe for a comeback, but that person ought to be locked up Clockwork Orange-style in front of as many movies like Just One Of The Guys as possible. This person must be broken.

Mr and Mrs Fugin Fugerline

How embarrassing! In all the excitment surrounding the preparations for her maybe fake wedding to self-proclaimed "pimp" Kevin Federline, Britney forgot to wash and comb her hair! How totally ugh to look so greasy and unkempt in People Magazine!

The less said about the trashy "November Rain"-inspired wedding mini the better. Although I'm sure Axl Rose, who's clearly, like, living at an EconoLodge in Los Banos right now, reading People and eating chicken off of Buckethead's...bucket...is probably wondering how he can get some people again, so he can have them call Britney's people and arrange a meeting.

I Fug Huckabees

Talia Shire was so proud of her son Jason Schwatzman's work in I Heart Huckabees that her neck started spontaneously blooming:

Thank god she pinned a hanky to her chest in case she starts weeping as well.

Jason's wink at the camera says, "You and I both know that Mom's Playtex 18-Hour Bra is showing. But don't say anything -- she hasn't worked in a while and she could use an endorsement contract."

Saturday Night Fug

So, you know how some people age really well -- either naturally, or with a little help from their friendly neighborhood plastic surgeon -- and some people, well, really don't?

Jan Hooks has taken a recent and somewhat alarming turn for the latter.

She's only 47!

Comediennes, a bit of advice. I know, because you are "funny," many of you feel that you must only be photographed making "funny" faces. Please stop. We know you are funny because we have witnessed you being funny. [Well, theoretically, anyway. I don't recall Jan Hooks being particularly side-splitting, but I also don't recall watching much of her stint on SNL] You don't have to create a visual cue with your face to remind us that you are known for being humorous. It's like the comedy equivalent of Zoolander's "Blue Steel," except way more off-putting. As my mother would say, "just look normal." Because I'm scared that the old adage has come true, and Jan Hooks's face really has frozen like that.

Fug & Order: Criminal Intent

GRAVELLY VOICED NBC ANNOUNCER: "Coming soon to NBC in November sweeps: A Law & Order spinoff that starts with a crossover you won't believe.

The brand new Law & Order: Fashion Police force will debut in L&O: Criminal Intent with a dramatic arrest... of one of their own."

"What's the charge, Officer?" Kathern Erbe's character will scream through her tears.

"You're under arrest for Reckless Deployment of Gold Lamé -- looking like a chocolate Emmy™ statuette that somebody only partially unwrapped," the officer will boom, throwing her up against the wall of the station as Vincent D'Onofrio sweats lightly and pulls at his thinning hair.

And then, the Miranda rights: "You have the right to remain indoors. Anything you wear in public can and will be held against you," the arresting officer will say, cuffing her. "You have the right to brown velvet jeans and a matching tank top, but only if you don't dress it up with any old spangly thing. You have the right to gold lamé, but only if you wear it carefully in the context of an evening gown and, at some point in the night, hurl a martini glass at the retreating figure of someone who has just bested you in a verbal joust. Wearing this gold lamé jacket violates the law and abuses these personal rights."

He will then drag her downtown as Erbe weeps softly, "I thought gold lamé was my friend."

The officer will smile at her pityingly. "We get that a lot, Ma'am," he will say. "Most people are easily seduced by the sparkle, but you have to remember that lame is more often your enemy -- it would willingly, knowingly, fug you and your whole family if it had the chance."

Erbe will then land in the clink and be recast on her show with someone who is pretty but whose talent is considerably less -- you know, the way it always goes with female leads on Dick Wolf shows.