Given the things Lady Gaga is usually in costume as — of the mutant-alien-dominatrix variety, with the occasional Zodiac mummy thrown in — I’m pretty sure Elizabeth Hurley should be offended that she’s on the list now too.

I’m not sure the iconic safety-pin dress was high on the world’s list of experiences to re-live, but then again, Lady Gaga is not a democracy. Her weekend of palling around with Donatella Versace yielded a lot of fuggery, actually, but this looks more like an homage Lindsay Lohan would pay to someone than an idea Lady Gaga would have. Maybe after dressing up as her own perfume bottle, she felt creatively sapped.

If Donatella went back in time and redecorated Ancient Rome, we’d be seeing a lot of these in lieu of those taupe togas.

I hope we see a LOT more of these, like, right now:

Is she grazing on that head-wreath? I promise, carbs taste better. Also, I’m stunned her Web site hasn’t marketed these as actual centerpieces — or bridal bouquets — you can order. Imagine calling 1-800-FLOWERS to order a festive Gaga head for your Easter table. Or to hang on your door during the winter months. Nothing would send away door-knocker marketers quite like her petunia face.

Gaga dipped into the world of color a few times, actually — like when she looked like one of Paris Hilton’s home furnishings — but as usual she is more entertaining when she fancies herself deep and dark.

The sight of that man’s admirably straight face is only matched in entertainment value, for me, by the vision of her trying to stuff her entire cranial bird into a car.

This body condom happened right after she slid out of Elephantitis of the Vag. Actually, that entire concert is a feast, including the time she wore a motorcycle. But nothing will top her entering out of the birth canal. I am genuinely terrified that her next concert will be her dressed as a sperm, being ejaculated into the rafters.

And this would be the neck brace she’d have to wear for the next year after pulling that stunt.

This photo is one of the most wretched ones of her oeuvre; I am stunned at the amount of labia we’re seeing, or might be seeing, or are millimeters from seeing. I can’t think about it. I just don’t want to be that close with her. And since I couldn’t bring myself to repeat that dubious gem, let’s check out this one instead, which I just noticed has some nipple so be careful at work.

The questions I have about this are so many and so explicit, I could write an essay. Surely she’s just sitting at home in plaid flannel PJs most nights, watching Bunheads and trying to make heads or tails of it, when she sits up ramrod straight and calls her regular dude — Freaky Isaac or something — and says, “A full-body harness with a small replica of a WWE title belt. Have it for me by Wednesday.” And Freaky Isaac hangs up and turns around to his torture wall of elasticized materials and starts yanking on all of them to see which are least likely to chafe.

Let’s switch to Miley. Before I begin, though, look at this woman in the background holding up her iPad to document this special moment, and know that there are two-hundred JUST LIKE HER in the audience at Fashion Week now, and how iPads should be banned for that use in the tents because it’s IMPOSSIBLE TO SEE. WE ARE ALL HERE TO WORK, PEOPLE, NOT JUST YOU.


That skirt is so bad, I’m shocked Vanessa Hudgens doesn’t have one. Miley’s dog is like, “Why are animals always dragged into this?” I hope it is pen pals with Aubrey O’Day’s pooch.

And isn’t it a weird blast from the past to see Miley with so much hair? It’s hard to imagine that she ever looked like this:

And in fact, when she DID look like this, we all said, “WOW, Miley has NO HAIR ANYMORE, and WE LOVE IT.” I also love her shoes. But the outfit looks like something you wear in a movie about people who have sex in the boardroom. It’s probably called Sex In The Boardroom, and it dispenses with plot because it gets in the way of all the pumping.

As Jessica noted in the Round One post, Miley really did have a penchant for black-and-white stuff this year — like, this heinous Marc Jacobs outfit that she wore in New York, and whatever madness she put on her body while shooting a video with Lil’ Kim. Which itself is maybe one of the last places we’d ever expect to find Miley Cyrus. Maybe, as her trousers would suggest, she was simply there to make a little extra scratch by serving as a referee.

But Miley, like her opponent, also has a real fetish for black ensembles that are translucent, boob-focused, or both.

This looks like shards of three aborted garments — a shrug, a bathing suit, and a cocktail dress — that a frustrated designer just slammed together before going to Happy Hour.

This looks like she electrocuted half the lining out of it.

If she’d stuck with the dress underneath, we might’ve been onto something here. Then again, that wouldn’t fix the fact that she’s leaking sideboob.

“Mistress Cyrus will see you now. For $10 she will read your palm; for $100 she will whip you first and then salt the lashings.”

No, Miley, don’t turn our back on us. Fug Nation gets to decide when this is over for you. And in fact, that’s what Fug Nation is going to do right now.

Archives: Lady Gaga, Miley Cyrus


Justin Bieber has a message for the two percent of you who voted for Christina Ricci in the last round.

The thing is, I can understand it from a self-preservation standpoint. Nobody wants to see this again. But from a Purity of the Contest perspective, THOSE PANTS ARE ATROCIOUS. I am not sure why the boy went for dropped-crotch nightmares this year — are we supposed to think he’s grown up so much that a regular crotch cannot contain him? — but he was RELENTLESS.

And the bandannas don’t help. This photo looks like he’s trying to mug this girl and she’s too busy laughing at how absurd he is to remember to break his pinky.

Even Julianne Moore appears to think he is a pipsqueak.

That’s a lot of game face from a lady who’s wearing a dress that ghastly. Maybe she’s just supremely confident that Fug Madness is HERS this year.

Bieber would like to dance it out with her.

Julianne doesn’t want to stoop to such shenanigans, and anyway, this isn’t her dancing drape.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Bieber says to his dejected crotch. “She’s just afraid of you. And she REALLY can’t handle my kerchiefs.”

And Julianne is like, “Son, if I wasn’t afraid of this dress, I’m not afraid of anything.”

And so Bieber tries to be sensitive, and wheedling. “PLEASE come out to play, Julianne,” he seems to say. “I’ve teased up  my Miley Cyrus haircut and EVERYTHING.”

And she’s like, “You want to go? You REALLY want to do this thing? Fine. Bring it on. My sleeves are the astroturf on the playing field of your NIGHTMARES.”

And Bieb’s like, “I’m sorry, what was that? I was busy having my knees surgically removed and then sewn onto my testicles, JUST so this pair of pants would feel right.”

And Julianne just smiles and says, “It’s okay, I can stand here all day, having this nightmare over and over where I am too literal and show up at the SAGs in this godawful thing that tramples on my fine genetic legacy.”

And Bieber’s like, “Bring your eyes down South, y’all. DEEP South. And then tear them away from my weaponized slippers so that you might gaze upon my ELASTIC-CUFFED QUILTED SOCKALOONS.”

“Now let’s stop this bickering and let the people vote. Besides, I think I got my junk caught in my spacesuit zipper and I need to massage the swelling away. THIS IS WHY I CAN’T WEAR REAL-BOY PANTS.”

Archives: Justin Bieber, Julianne Moore