ESPYs Fug Carpet: Fugapalooza

I can’t pretend to understand the person who makes the guest list for the ESPYs. In addition to the usual amalgam of athletes and Playboy models, which seem to go together like chicken tikka masala and delicious yummy warm naan bread (I really, really should not fug on an empty stomach), there is always a completely random assortment of B- to Z-list “celebrities” whose attendance is more of a mystery.

Like reality TV’s own I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-A-Kardashian, a.k.a. Brittny Gastineau, a.k.a. She Whose Name Really Relies On The “And Sometimes Y” Rule Of Vowels:

Okay, actually, I sort of understand how she got in the door: Brittny’s father was a New York
Jets defensive end who went to the Pro Bowl five times. But even so, I’m pretty sure she had to call someone and
REMIND them of that in order to get this invitation, just so she could
show up and maybe bump up against Brett Favre. I appreciate her attempt to add a sporting bent to her dress — if Sasha Cohen ever does an exhibition skate to Donna Summer’s “Bad Girls,” this might come in handy, and it even looks like Brittny could be wearing nylons — but unfortunately Brett might not be enticed by the cleavage if he is too busy trying to figure out why she stapled a napkin to her bikini line.

And then there is Alan Thicke, a noted Olympic gold-medalist in Sitcom Parenting and of course the current world-record holder in composing cheesy TV themes and game-show music:

And he has brought with him a date (his wife, methinks) who has stitched a dress entirely out of Pottery Barn throw-pillow covers. I would make a comment about how I think it’s experiencing some growing pains in her chestal region, but I am clearly above such blue tomfoolery.

Finally, of course, whom else would you expect to see at a sports awards ceremony but One Tree Hill’s Sophia Bush — who is not only a multi-year All-American in fake cheerleading, but who is a future Hall-Of-Fame hurdler thanks to her talent for stepping over her ex every day at work.

This is a big ol’ “feh” to me. She’s gorgeous and she’s got great legs. Why would she pick a dress that’s kind of unflattering to her waist, seems to be cramping her boobs and shoving them south, and turns her gams into a total afterthought?

Like anything I guess it could’ve been fabulous in person, but combined with the hair, it’s photographing frumpy. Overly mature. And not in a “grown-up starlet” way; rather, in the vein of a middle-aged society dame throwing an intimate catered meal at her Upper East penthouse for the new prep-school head master and 100 of her closest friends, in the hope that some bubbly and a few stolen moments over mini-crabcakes can schmooze her kid into the class presidency.