Fug File: glittery

CFDA Gala Fug Carpet: Marcia Cross

Oh my God, Marcia Cross. My precious, occasionally homicidal, fake-suicidal Dr. Kimberly Shaw.



Met Ball Fug or Fab: Maggie Gyllenhaal

For as cracked-out as Stella McCartney herself looked, she did a nice job dressing our once-and-possibly-future Fug Nemesis Maggie Gyllenhaal here:

The color is pretty, the neckline is nice, and Maggie pulled out some soft hair minus her usual treadmill wisps. At the moment, I’m feeling it.

this too shall pass… maybe


Oscar Party Fug Carpet: Jessica Biel

Poor ol’ Jessica Biel. If she’d gotten invited to the Oscars, you know she’d have taken Justin on her arm. But he got invited, and who did he take? His mother. Now, this isn’t unusual for him — he loves bringing her as his date places. But given all the rumors that J.T. spelunked Olivia’s munn and wants to dive into Mila’s kunis, having to meet him at the after-party — compared with getting to exit a limo and pose with him on the red carpet — must kind of suck.

Jessica Biel

So maybe that’s why she showed up in a sexed-up disco dress that not only appears to be pointing at her visible navel, but also makes it look like her crotch is raining glitter. It’s curious, considering it was at an awards-show post-party where J.T. and Biel — newly dating — drove dumped Cameron Diaz to a public jealous hissy. Here’s hoping this doesn’t end the same way for Jessica, but if it does, it won’t be for lack of trying. Although I think the very top part is quite pretty on her, as it goes down, the dress bellows, “Hey, so, Mila might be really pretty and all, but are there any talking airplanes that FEEL in Black Swan? No. So until her genitals can spew sparkles, I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT.”


Oscars Well Played: Amy Adams

It’s possible that I only love this because this was yet another awards night — in a long, long era of them — in which way too many people showed up in nudes, white, black, or red. (Do NONE of these crazy-ass attention whores understand that if you wear a color, you will AUTOMATICALLY get a pantload of press for it? Let the rainbow be your pimp.)

But it’s also possible — nay, probable — that I love it because it’s awesome.

Amy Adams

Amy looks so beautiful here, and an entire galaxy better than she did in that horribly ill-fitting white dress from the SAGs (the post about which included me whining about how gorgeous fair-skinned redheads should wear colors, and ta-da, she has proven either that I am wise, or that old adage that even a stopped clock is right twice a day). The big question with Amy was the jewelry — specifically, the necklace:

Emeralds are a girl’s best friend, though


The Fugtastic Four

So, it came to pass that several of my friends and I watched Honey last weekend, because Jessica had somehow never seen it. (I KNOW.) It’s one of the most important movies of our time, obviously. TWoP recapper Couch Baron said it best when he called it a cross between The Wire and Black Swan; the sad thing is, if you look at her resume, it’s entirely possible this is the best movie she’s ever done, and that is not me saying that Honey is a good movie.¬†Anyway, aside from all the other lunacy — including Missy Elliott’s two scenes and Joy Bryant’s refusal to wear a bra, and also the plot itself — Jessica’s character Honey displays a real affinity for telling people that “[their] flavor is HOT.”

Ergo, I ask you: Is her flavor hot?

Jessica Alba

Me personally, I don’t love spicy food. But let’s pretend: She was well on track for those flaming-hot buffalo wings that made Man vs. Food cry, until Sleeve Cape made its presence known. That may have watered things down to a flavor level of Taco Bell.

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Golden Globes Fug Carpet: Leighton Meester

I kept trying to put my finger on what I didn’t like about Leighton Meester’s outfit, and then somebody tweeted us something that summed it all up: that, essentially, she looks like the fanciest sister-wife in the commune.

And it’s TRUE. This is totally what it would look like if Blair Waldorf and Chuck Bass decided to become high-society Upper East Side polygamists, using the Empire Hotel as their compound. Blair would fancy herself Queen First Wife, and she’d thusly be allowed to have a slit in her skirt that inches higher than anyone else’s, and a specific measure more bling on her feet than the next wife down the chain, and the next, and so forth. And she would COUNT. Oh, she would count. If she suspected the second or third Mrs. Bass tried to thwart the rules by out-fabbing her on the jewel front, Blair would sit down and count every last stone on the shoe three times over — like she was in an Amazing Race challenge — just to be sure she still reigned supreme. They could call the ensuing Gossip Girl spinoff Big Bass, or Bass Love, or Chuck and Blair Plus Lair — or if you really want to get porny about it, The Holy Bonin’ Empire, but that’s only if it gets picked up by Cinemax.

Contrast this to what she wore to the Art of Elysium gala, always inconveniently timed to be right before the Globes, because they won’t think of the bloggers:

See? I Avoided Any Rude ‘Waldorf Salad’ Puns!