Fug

Last night in Los Angeles, the cunty cuntress of cuntery, Heather Mills, launched her new recycled fashion line called Be@one. Heather should've called her line Be@trash or Be@fug, because her clothes Be@SHIT!!

Heather told the audience that all of her pieces were made out of clothes and textiles that normally would be thrown into the trash. Heather said, "The collection consists of women’s and menswear, designed for the assertive, fashionable and eco-conscious person. All the fabrics used in the pieces have been carefully sourced and remodeled into something unique and highly wearable."

Wearable for who exactly? Old timey prostitutes who were just attacked by Jack the Ripper? Or child touching flashers who want to fancy up their look a bit? Seriously, all of these clothes look like the halfway point of a Project Runway challenge.

Heather, stick to being a big cunt and leave the designing to the professionals (like Sheree).

And I don't know about you, but in these pictures, Heather looks like something the Benjamin Button baby of Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag. It must be those maniacal eyes.

Will someone please fetch Anna Wintour a glass of room temperature virgin's blood, because I think she's got a few of her intern's souls stuck in her throat. It's making her throat look obese. Heads will roll for this!

Here's the cryptkeeper of Vogue wearing something that Mrs. Roper queefed up at the premiere of The September Issue in NYC last night. That shit is a documentary about the making of Vogue's mighty September issue. Sienna Miller was there, because her vagina sensed large amounts of married dick in the area. And because she's on the cover of Vogue next month.

Other hos at the premiere were Cassie (who was working a half "The Legend of Billie Jean" buzzcut), Marc Jacobs, his piece, Zac Posen, everyone's favorite lemon-faced beard, Melania Trump, her big sack of money and Diddy.

Squinty Zellweger's former homegirl, Kenny Chesney, is launching his own clothing line called Blue Chair Bay. Kenny told People that his new line, for both dicks and chicks, will be like “that favorite T-shirt that you’ve washed a lot that is kind of sun bleached… your favorite khakis, and your shirt that you’ve had forever."

Kenny says this isn't something he just stamped his name on. When he wasn't performing on stage or trolling the bath houses for a peen that won't quit, Kenny was getting his purdy hands dirty by helping to design this crap. Kenny even named some of the pieces after his favorite butt buddies friends, “I’ve got a shirt that says 'Bob’s Charter' and Bob is a buddy of mine that’s been living in the islands for a long time.”

Kenny didn't mention it, but his collection will also include assless chaps, jean shorts with dick hole cutouts, sleeveless shirts with built-in nipple clamps and puka shell cock rings.

This is the time where we all open our windows and shout "SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH, PARIS HILTON" in unison, because maybe our voices will carry throughout the land and break the crusty jizz barriers in Wonky's ears so she can finally get the message. I say this, because Parasite told Extra that Michael Jackson's daughter was named after her:

"My mom and Michael went to high school together and they were best friends since they were 13. So I grew up knowing Michael very well and when he had his daughter, he always loved the name Paris and grew up being an uncle to me. So he asked my mom if it was okay and of course she said yes and I think she's such a beautiful little girl and I'm proud we have the same name."

When whatever is left of her brains finally falls out of her asshole and she shoves it back in her head, she'll also realize that there's cities in France, Texas and Arkansas named Paris too. After her!

Paris, the only thing that will truly be named after you is a strain of the herp.

Here's the delusional one at the premiere of her MTV documentary Paris, Not France last night.

And here comes the part where Jon Gosselin thinks that just because he's living in NYC without his child army, he's now going to be some kind of playboy about town. Hear ye! Hear ye! Women of NYC, do not feed the douche! I mean that in several ways. Seriously, if you put anymore food or vaginas into Jon's mouth, his head, ego and body will blow up! Jon will become the Stay Puft Marshdouche and trample over all of us.

Last night, Jon went to dinner with someone who wasn't meth brows. Maybe Hailey asked for the night off, so she could finally sort out her CODE BLUE eyebrow situation?

Earlier in the day, Jon and Kate were forced to be together for a TLC photo shoot in Manhattan. It's amazing how calm the possum on Kate's head looks after being tranquilized, washed, brushed and fed. It looks so peaceful.

UPDATE: Jon's mystery date is apparently a reporter at Star Magazine. That's what Radar says anyway. Jon is going to have to send UsWeekly a bouquet of roses and a box of truffles, because they are going to be jeeeaaaaalooooous.

I fully encourage everyone out there to express your sluttiness through fashion, but making your titties look like a couple of stale cupcakes covered in sugar flowers is not the look. Cheryl Cole of Girls Aloud wore this fuggery to her birthday party last night in London. Unless your name is Johnny Weir, you do not wear fringe, mesh and applique flowers together.

And my memaw would not be pleased with this, because it looked like Cheryl ripped apart her favorite living room lamp shade to make this dress.

LOOKING LIKE A PROUD WHORE: Cheryl Cole is doing it wrong.

These are called Vibram Five Fingers and they just may be the official footwear of HELL. They are like CROCS-made condoms for your feet. They have been around for a few years, but some hos think the summer will belong to them. The makers say they can improve balance, give you better posture and make you look like a real asshole. I mean, look at those two bitches above. Do they look happy to be wearing that fuckery? No! They look humiliated, depressed and constipated. They might be contemplating chewing their own feet off, so they won't have to be seen with that fugness.

I'd rather slip and crack my ass bone on a hard rock (sounds sexay) than wear those rubber lizard socks! You know UGGS is going to make a winter version of these things just to fuck with us.

Tommy Girl's creamy pits (to match his creamy Scientolohole) and Stepford Katie's giant muffin face (made with barley, of course) came out to support Cameron Diaz as she received her star on the Hollywood Walk of FAIL yesterday.

You know, I'm trying soooo hard not to stare at the Scientology-made second trimester pillow under Katie's shirt. Please don't tell me there's an alien robot baby stewing in some test tube in a lab in the middle of the desert! Maybe that's why Tommy's arm 'ginas can't stop jizzing? The tiny crazy is excited knowing that he will soon have a new robot baby to parade in front of the world.

Speaking of terrifying, Cameron Diaz's FACE! What in the stuffed crust pizza hell did she do to her face? It looks like Botox is her new favorite topping. Bitch looks like a week-old stale calzone.

Exactly a week ago, I toasted to Heather Graham for choosing to wear this luxurious garment that just screamed "elegance and clearance hand jobs." The next day, the dress was on a thing called Kristin Calawhateverthehellhernameis. I gave the dress a quick side-eye, but I realize that a bitch has to sell their ass to make ends meet IN THIS ECONOMY (All together now: We know, Michael. We know!) But now the dress has gone too far!

Last night, it was all over Horsey Montag! This hurts, because you know that cheap nasty skank didn't even pay for the dress! The dress was doing it for free! I could understand if Horsey gave it an 8-ball and some milk, but you know that was not the case. Why didn't it come to me? I would've turned it out and we could've worked the ho stroll together. $2 dolla taint licks!

Don't be surprised if you turn on E! and see, True Hollywood Story: The Rise and Fall of Heather Graham's dress.

Never before has a fugshot caused my brain to almost malfunction because of the dozens of images flying at me. I saw DEATH, an anorexic Penguin, an overcooked Gollum, Mr. Burns in need of a haircut and a methed-up Riff Raff.

Who knew that Phil Spector was hiding a mullet and some broke down plugs underneath his wig.

This mug shot is trying to lure me into the back of a van by promising me endless supplies of candy. I am not taking the candy. NO.

Send your dry cleaning bill to The Smoking Gun for providing this portrait of fugness.