Uberfluff

Hold it right there.

Are you taking this to a potluck of some sort?  Is it a joke potluck?  As in, "Hey, you know what would be funny?  If we all brought something totally heinous to the potluck and then just ordered pizza." 

If you answered "yes" to the first question and "no" to the second one, the only remaining conclusion is that you hate the people at your book club/swim team party/family reunion/etc.  Because I cannot think of any other rational excuse for attempting to make other innocent human beings consume jello salad.

I don't even know what possessed people to invent a foodstuff consisting of chunks of things suspended in a congealed jelly-like substance.  Yes, I know that congealed salads and aspic were the height of elegance in the 19th century and such, but we're talking about an era featuring people who felt the need to cover up piano legs because of the obvious sexual overtones the wooden sticks gave off.  These are not the people one should go to for party tips.  If my English Lit classes are any guide, the only thing there was to do in the 19th century was hang around feeling repressed until you died of tuberculosis.  No wonder they turned to gelatin salads. 

But this is the 21st century, damn it.  We have nachos.  And pesto.  And beer with cutesy names.  Really, it should be obvious why making a jello salad is a poor decision.  When was the last time you yearned to bite into something quivering and squishy in order to savor a chunk of some other slightly firmer food.  And . . . wait a minute . . . are there green olives in there?  In jello?  Good Lord.  What are you, a sadist?

I think we can all agree that Kanye West is a little bit crazy, albeit in a generally entertaining way.  So it's with a little trepidation that I'm going to point out that his . . . er . . . girlfriend, Amber Rose (and I'm totally sure that's her real name too), has reached a place in the Poor Fashion Decision Hall of Fame with this ensemble.

(*note: Kanye just burst in here to let me know that he's gonna lemme finish, but just wanted to point out that Beyonce has worn way more crack-tastic outfits.  To be fair, he has a point.  Beyonce has worn some horrific stuff.  The words "ghetto-fabulous boy scout uniform" spring to mind.  But let's stick to the bizarre choices in front of us, shall we?)

Where to begin?  How about the fact that an outfit whose entire raison d'etre is looking incredibly sexy and outrageous succeeded only in making her look sloppy and strangely dowdy?  And must I point out the unfortunate boob thing going on there?  And the really strange thing is that we're talking about someone who has a nice body.  How is it possible to be nearly naked, and yet somehow make yourself look worse than you would in a thong and pasties?  And speaking of thongs, the nude panties aren't helping things here.  They remind you of nothing so much as the illusion netting that figure skaters wear, and make you distractingly focused on what they're covering up.

And speaking of covering up, why the big coat, Amber Rose?  I mean, if you're going to pretend that a few shreds of fabric are really a dress, then why get all modest about it and hide the effect with a giant coat?  Why not just commit to the look?  Unless, of course, you're also concerned with the possibility of an indecent exposure charge or the more prosaic fact that it's January in Paris and slightly on the chilly side.  Jesus, woman.  Why did you wear this dress again?  Oh, right.  I forgot.  You're an attention whore.

For the record, I don't have anything against tanning.  And not tanning.  Generally, I don't really care how comparatively pale you are.  I will say, however, that I understand the impulse to spray tan.  This ain't Elizabethan England.  Super-pale skin doesn't say "I spend my days at leisure in the Riviera."  It says, "I really, really like role playing games."  Alternatively, it could mean, "I think the vampires in Twilight aren't realistic enough.  You should read the fanfic my friend Morpheus wrote for True Blood.  Now that's real."

And I understand why people in bodybuilding and wrestling go for the spray tan.  After all, it helps accentuate muscle definition and really contributes to the oily sheen look.

That said, let's all try to remember a few things when it comes to self-tanning, shall we?  First, a bold, coppery color isn't natural for most brown-ish people, much less the more Caucasian among us.  Try to aim for "light golden bronze."  Not "expired peanut butter."  And second, attention to detail, people!  Think about the lines from your clothes, jewelry, hats, glasses, and so on.  It kind of ruins the effect when everything is tan except a circle around your eyes.  It makes you look like the world's dumbest racist.

Oh, and finally?  Lift your arms in the spray tan booth, genius.

Is that you, Gaius Baltar?

I will begin with a caveat: I have no idea whether Jake Gyllenhaal's acting in Prince of Persia is any good or not.  Frankly, I don't care.  We're talking about a video game movie, for God's sake.  He could be the reincarnation of Lawrence Olivier and I don't think it would matter much in light of the fact that he's playing a character whose most distinguishing feature was a nifty time-bending game function.  So his ability to get to the heart of this character is not really relevant to what follows.

I have massive problems with recent Hollywood casting patterns.  Though maybe I shouldn't get obsessed with the time line here, considering that Hollywood has been making bizarre casting decisions since its inception.  What else can we say about an industry that once cast John Wayne as Genghis Khan?  (For real--look it up.)  But there has been an unfortunate tendency to cast unconvincing pretty boys as fearsome heroes as of late . . . culminating in the mysterious action career of Shia LaBeouf.  But for the moment, I'm focusing on the casting of Jake Gyllenhaal in the Prince of Persia.

Look at the picture.  Which half seems more natural to you?  If you said, the geeky plaid one, that's because you're not an easily manipulated idiot.  Note to Hollywood producers:  a six-pack, some leather and chains, and a new haircut do not a badass make.  Instead, you've given us a hero who looks like he'd be more comfortable changing the toner in the copier machine than slaying bad guys.  It's kind of like the guy equivalent of one of those girls who has great hair and a killer body, but with a bit of a butter face.  It looks fine from far away, but when you get closer, something seems very wrong.  I don't like my action heroes to look like macho-y versions of the guy at the party who won't shut up about Coldplay.

(Incidentally, this was also a problem with the casting of Colin Farrell as an Alexander who seemed to be in a perpetual sulk about the lack of good pool parties in ancient Macedonia.)

--On the girl, that may be the least convincing hipster geek portrayal ever.

--Oh wait.  I was wrong.  The least convincing hipster geek of all time is actually the guy in this ad.

--Why is he working out?  And with two of those Tae Bo rubber bands, no less?

--And why is he working out in cut-off shorts?

--Not to mention that he's doing the 5 o'clock shadow with the carefully mussed hair look.  This is the guy equivalent of putting on make-up before going to the gym.

--And shouldn't he have composed himself in the other room rather than coming in all gaspy and sweaty to quiz his girlfriend about her music downloads?  (And he was definitely in the other room doing some kind of exercise tape.  He's using rubber bands.  This more or less eliminates the possibility that he was off training for a triathalon.)

--Stand up straight, damn it.

--And what the hell is with that action figure?  Who is it?  Why do we care?  Am I supposed to impressed by the fact that you got it for $10?  That's what action figures cost, numbskull.  And if you're going to make a big deal about the action figure and zoom in on it all importantly, couldn't you at least have used Skeletor or Destro or someone I'd actually be impressed by?

--P.S.  There's no way that guy collects action figures.  That would use up crucial hair-styling and Tae Bo time.

Seriously?

Were you smoking crack?

What the hell, Jesse James?

Now, with the most recent South Park making fun of people who moronically wonder what could possibly cause wealthy and successful men to cheat on their wives, I tried not to be stupid about the Jesse James/Sandra Bullock scandal.  Of course, there's no reason why Sandra Bullock couldn't get cheated on just like everyone else.

But with this?  Really?

Look, it would have been bad enough for him if he had got caught having affairs with B-list starlets or his personal assistant, or any of the other typical celebrity fare.  But to betray America's Sweetheart (who, coincidentally, just won an Oscar) with someone who looks like the walking, talking embodiment of herpes?  Was he sick of being successful?  Was this just his way of committing career suicide?  Mission Accomplished, my man.

In fact, it's so bad that it almost begs for conspiracy theories as a better explanation.  Honestly, which sounds more plausible--that Jesse James cheated on Sandra Bullock with Ms. STD 1998?  Or that this is the "Diversion" stage in an elaborate plan to infiltrate Al Qaeda bases in Afghanistan?

And really, Tiger ought to be calling Jesse James every morning to say, "Thanks for knocking me out of the tabloids."  At the very least, I hope Tiger sent James a fruit basket.

Granted, in the past, I have made no secret of my annoyance with Lady Gaga.  It's not that I think she's a particularly bad singer or anything like that.  She's fine.  That's it.  Just a run of the mill club singer with your basic repertoire of club songs. It's not exactly reinventing the wheel, you know?  So most of my irritation stems from the insistence that this particular incarnation is any different from the last dozen merely because she likes to wear weird stuff and talks like she was scripted by Playboy and the AIDS Awareness Fund.


Here's the thing that brings her into the Poor Decisions realm.  It's not for the weirdness of this particular outfit--hell, on a Lady Gaga scale, I'm not sure that this rates more than a 5 or 6 in strange.  Apparently there is no object too bizarre for her to put on her head.  Just yesterday I saw a picture of her wearing a large silvery-chrome lobster.  No, this is just the moment when it switched from, "Hey, here's a girl who tends to cover her head and face with crazy stuff," to, "What the hell is with her covering up her head?  Girl has some issues."


Because really, what other than some deep-seeded psychological problems would make you willing to spend hours with your head encased in red lace?  It's making me itch and hyperventilate just looking at it.  Previous crazy chicks (ahem, Bjork) have proven that dressing like a total space cadet can encompass any number of looks, so why the fixation on covering her head and face?  We're well out of quirky rebel territory here and bordering on totally freakish tell-all biography followed by alarming Barbara Walters interview.  And it still doesn't make the music any more interesting.

This is a classic, almost cliché bad decision, but I'm feeling nostalgic today and want to pay tribute to some famous, older mistakes . . . 


The infamous Batman nipple suit.  Just take it all in.


Really, there's so very much that was wrong with this that the nipple suit seems more like a symbol of a bad movie than anything else.  For starters--George Clooney?  As Batman?  What the hell were they thinking?  Clooney can seem clever, capable, and conceivably sneaky or slightly underhanded.  That's why things like Ocean's 11 fit him to a tee.  (He can also does a great self-righteous blowhard, but he doesn't get any credit from me for just playing himself.)  What he's not is badass.  And he's certainly not a wealthy playboy-turned-vigilante.  Playboy, sure.  Vigilante, no freaking way.


And then, you compound the problem by adding Robin, whose weird relationship with Batman always triggers the urge to call Child Protective Services.  And Batgirl.  Why Batgirl?  Was the set-up not ridiculous enough yet? And you cast Alicia Silverstone, who has yet to realize the promise of those Aerosmith videos, and who (on a good day) is only slightly smarter than dryer lint, to play Batgirl.  Mostly so that we can witness a chick fight with Uma Thurman.  Who is inexplicably dressed like an eco-Drag Queen.  And don't even get me started on Mr. Freeze or the Alfred subplot.


But in the end, it all comes down to the Batsuit nipples.  Why would someone include nipples on their body armor?  And think--just to get to this point, there were artists and prop people and producers and such involved in the approval process for the Nipple Suit.  And yet, no one--not one person in the whole development line--stopped to point out that Batman had headlights.  Was the set really cold?  Am I missing some secret comic book lore about Batman's secret shame of overly-large, sensitive male nips?  Better hope the Joker never finds out about that.

Seriously, what the hell was he smoking when he wrote this one up?  "Hey, let me create an exact copy of the worst hotel band you've ever seen, only with CGI aliens?"  What about this says "Exotic Outer Space Location"?  They have back-up singers for God's sake.  Mixed alien back-up singers.  Maybe they can team up with a unscrupulous alien record producer and start a crappy alien girl band.  I wonder which one gets to be the sexy one and which one gets stuck being "sporty"?

So.  How many beers do you think were consumed leading up to this picture?  I'd say that the over/under is sixteen.


The sad thing is that this is one of those moments that will be remembered for years--and all because they messed it up.  Make this leap, and everyone acts mildly impressed and then goes back to arguing about Avatar.  Miss it, and total silence will fall on the group long enough  to ascertain that no greater injury than pride and the ability to have children has been sustained.  And then, everyone will laugh for the next 3 hours.  And then laugh some more, on and off, for the next three weeks--at least until everyone in the extended social circle has heard the story.  And then they'll laugh about it at reunions, weddings, and so on . . . for the rest of your life.


And all because you wanted to impress some dumb slut.  (Because, let's face it, guys aren't trying to leap over their buddies in the effort to win over a Rhodes scholar.)  Next time, just tell her that your cousin knows LeBron James and save yourself a few minutes of agonized writhing in the sand while you pathetically insist that you're fine.

He knows when you've been sleeping.  He knows when you're awake.   And apparently, he also knows now that Chipotle barbacoa burritos don't exactly agree with you.


Poor Santa.  Is there any indignity that we (as a society) won't subject him to?  This is the kind of thing that probably has him fondly remembering shilling for Coca-Cola and being portrayed by Tim Allen.  Here, we've managed to combine two completely unfathomable decorating habits: trying to dress up one's toilet and over-use of Christmas decor.


Of the two, I find the very principle of toilet decoration to be the more mystifying.  I've never understood why a fuzzy shower cap is supposed to be a positive addition to one's toilet.  Is there something inherent in cheap yarn that just screams, "class," when appended to a toilet seat cover?  Was there some kind of Life cover story back in the '60s where Jackie Kennedy posed next to the new White House toilet toupees that can explain this bizarre trend?


So given the weirdness behind decorating a toilet, the fact that someone went the extra mile to create a Santa theme seems almost like a logical next step.  Well, except for the fact that most of us don't like an audience in that particular room, so adding a happy Santa face to the bathroom experience seems a little misplaced.  I guess you could pretend that he's rooting you on, but this is really not the time to be sitting in Santa's lap.

I confess that I'm becoming something of a connoisseur of bad tattoos.  Maybe it's because I'm afraid of needles.  Or maybe it's because I can't even commit to a preference for pizza over burritos, much less a self-defining phrase and image.  But I just can't shake that sense of childlike wonder that you get when you see a truly awful tattoo.  The kind that makes you feel that no amount of alcohol could excuse this particular ink-related decision.  The kind of tattoo that even Helen Keller on a three-day heroin binge would have the sense to avoid.


And so I present my new nominee for worst tattoo ever by an alleged professional athlete.


Witness Melvin Costa.  I think that it's particularly fitting that he's an "ultimate fighter" type, as I have a major axe to grind about the ubiquity and growing lameness of mixed martial arts.  (Let me give you a subject.  The Ultimate Fighting Championship is neither Ultimate, nor Fighting, nor a Championship.  Discuss.)  Let's just soak this one in for a moment.


Yes, that is a swastika.  Yes, as a part of a Nazi eagle symbol.  But wait! There's more.


No, you're not imagining things.  Right there, artfully arranged around his bellybutton in suitably fancy lettering, are the words, "I have a small penis."


Alright then.  At least he's set the record straight.


Now, in Mr. Costa's  "defense", there are various explanations given for his tattoos.  Unfortunately, they tend to run along the, "I was in prison," line.  This isn't really sufficient excuse for combining the concepts of "I'm a racist, neo-Nazi asshole," with, "I'm also lacking in the packing."  (FYI, the only acceptable explanation? "As part of a secret government negotiation, as long as I publicly sport these tattoos, no terrorist organization will launch an attack on American soil.")


The really incredible part?  The man has somehow managed to make both Nazis and the Minimally Endowed look worse.

I have no idea how this girl ended up half-naked and handcuffed.  Nor did the website from which I "borrowed" it.  I don't know who she is, and while the previous site identified her as a "goth girl," I'm not entirely sure that pasty skin and a predilection for black automatically marks one as a goth.  Which leads to the poor decision here.


You might think that I'm referring to whatever chain of events led to this winning and oh-so-flattering pose.  Not at all.  Granted, I highly doubt that this was the result of good decision-making, but it's not the main problem.  Nope, the main poor decision is the choice to get this picture taken in the age of the internet.  What the hell was she thinking?  That millions of people around the world weren't going to mercilessly mock her when it was uploaded?  And if she didn't think that it was going to end up online, then that's even dumber.  I don't care who it is behind the camera--your husband, your boyfriend, a blind/mute eunuch. . . unless you know where he buried a Vegas hooker and can buy his silence, don't trust him with a digital camera.  Or at least do some damned sit-ups first. 

Mariah Carey gets a lot of flack from fashion types about her tendency to stuff herself into things that are too short, too low-cut, and too tight.  Honestly, that's not my problem here.  Frankly, I think the cookie bustier fits her better than 90% of the things she wears on the red carpet.  And, since it's obviously a costume, I'm not going to pick on her for wearing something off-beat.  Nothing wrong with dressing in costume every once in awhile.  Even if your costume is a tad . . . perplexing.  What exactly is she supposed to be?  My guess is that she was in a Spiderman/Incredible Hulk type lab accident, only instead of super-strength or heightened awareness, she has the ability to command pastries.  Or maybe she just exerts some strange magnetic attraction to flour and butter, so that baked goods jump off the plate, fly over, and adhere to her body as she walks by.  Whatever it is, any costume that requires that level of explanation is not a good one.

But what really makes it a poor decision for me is the way that it fails at being a classic "sexy costume."  (Note that I'm not saying that Mariah isn't sexy--only that the costume isnt sexy.)  I know it seems like a sure thing--pretty girl, revealing clothing, chocolate chip cookies.  But there's nothing sexy or yummy about cookies glued to some girl's underwear.  Admit it.  If this were just some random co-ed instead of Mariah, you'd wonder if she were smoking crack or just totally nuts.  Since it is Mariah, the answer is pretty obvious.

Yes, the fake bikini shirt.  Good for nanoseconds of hilarious fun.  There's so much wrong with the bikini shirt that I'm not even sure where to begin.  There is, of course, the fact that it's enormous--possibly the most unflattering cut in existence for all women, everywhere.  And there's the print.  Is it absolutely necessary to have shiny highlights on the body?  Is this person covered in canola oil and standing in a floodlight?  Normal people generally don't gleam like a silver wineglass.

However, the worst aspect of the bikini shirt has got to be the unflattering comparison that it inevitably raises.  I know that it's meant to be a joke, a way of saying, "I know I don't have this body, but isn't it funny that I recognize that?"  In truth, it's not funny.  It's a lot closer to wearing a sign that says, "Here is what a more attractive person looks like."  Because the sad fact of the matter is that I have never, ever seen this shirt on someone with a body even slightly close to the one pictured.  After all, if you looked like that, why on earth would you drape yourself in cheap cotton instead of showing it off?  Instead, the general effect of the bikini shirt is like that uncomfortable moment when an aquaintance says, "Do I look fat in this?" while expecting a comforting answer.  And she does look fat.  And you both know it.  So you stutter out an, "Of course not," but you both know that you paused a little too long before answering.

That's what's really wrong with the fake bikini shirt. 

When it comes to horrible, I-married-my-cousin-for-the-welfare-checks hairdos, the mullet gets a lot of flack.  And deservedly so, in light of the fact that it's horrible in every way.  But at least with the mullet, you can see where the idea had merit--even when the execution went disastrously wrong.  After all, the intent behind a mullet is to have a hairstyle that looks groomed in the front, but still has that rebel thing going on in the back.  So it turns out that schizophrenia is not a good theme for a hairdo.  But at least there was a plan.

Which is more than you can say for the rat tail.  Rat tails had a brief vogue in my elementary school days, and even then we found them puzzling.  Why on earth would you want a random little lock of hair straggling down your neck like an escaped tampon string?  How does this flatter anyone?  You can't possibly try to claim that it sets off your neck or collarbone.  Mostly, it gives the impression that the barber had a heart attack mid-cut and couldn't finish. 

And a rat tail on a woman?  (I think this is a picture of a woman.  Admittedly, it's a little hard to tell.  Which more or less explains why this is such a bad hair choice for a woman.)  It just makes you wonder why God lets such terrible thing happen in the world.  You notice that even Aquinas didn't have an answer for why a compassionate God would allow rat tails on women.  I suspect he would have set the blame for this particular atrocity on Satan.

Allegedly "humorous" tattoos are a tricky business--like bumper stickers, only worse.  Yeah, that joke about beating up the honors student seems awfully clever when you first stick it to the back of your car.  But is it still funny and witty four months later?  (Answer: No)  A funny tattoo takes this fundamental dilemma and multiplies it by about 1000.  (Technically speaking, scientists have recently discovered that it actually multiplies that lameness quotient by a factor of 1473.259, but we're rounding down for simplicity's sake.)

It takes a certain amount of self-assurance to permanently mark your skin with a design that supposedly says something about you or your personality.  So what is the message being transmitted via a tattoo of a cat that prominently features one's bellybutton as the cat's asshole?  It seems pretty obvious that what the bearer of this tattoo is trying to say is, "I'm a moron who drinks a lot and has mean friends."  In fact, I'm not sure whether the poor decision in this case is getting the tattoo or having friends who encouraged him to get the tattoo.  (And yes, I am certain that there were others involved in this decision.  No one sits alone in their house, watching 20/20, eating a Big Mac, and thinking, "Yeah, I think I will go for it and get that cat's ass tattoo."  This is the kind of choice that is made with a chorus of supposed friends, all saying, "Dude.  That would be friggin' awesome!!  You should totally get that cat's ass tattoo.  I tell you what--I'll even pay for it."  And half a bottle of Jager later, there you are, trying to explain to the tattoo artist exactly where to start the base of the cat's tail.)

I don't think it's really necessary to point out why this particular tattoo is a poor choice.  Instead, I'm forced to ponder what happens when this guy meets a girl and tries to put the moves on her.  I realize that it's easy to make certain assumptions about his love life based on the evidence before us, but almost everyone gets lucky sometimes.  So when that inevitable moment comes, does he try to explain first, or does he just whip his shirt off and hope for the best?  Personally, I think that I would just go for it.  I'm not sure that there's any explanation possible that wouldn't have her sprinting for the door.  Unless it started with, "I was taking my Ferrari to the mechanic so that it could be shipped to my place in Tahiti, when . . . "

The Extended Man Thong.  You don't even need to see the front of this bad boy to know that it was a poor decision.  In fact, I think I can speak for the entire universe when I say that I'm very glad that it's not possible to see the front of this horrific contraption.  It's not so much a bathing suit as a mechanism for executing wedgies.  Which it obviously excels at.  One must assume that a similar strip of fabric runs down the front, giving the whole thing the feel of a festive shopping bag handle.

"But he's obviously gay," you might object.  "Clearly there are other standards in play here."  To which I respond, "They're gay, not blind."  If I were going to commit an atrocious crime of fashion like this, the last place I would want to do so is among a group of people who are known for personal style and good abs.

And why neon green?  Was it too subtle and understated a look when he tried on the black tank-thong?  Did he say to himself, "I'll never stand out in this.  I need something that really draws the eye."?  And finally, if you have committed yourself to a neon green tank-thong, maybe you should give a little thought to spending some time in the tanning booth before unveiling your new look.  Otherwise, onlookers might wonder a bit about the strange, pale, contrasting pockets on the back.