Grammy Awards Fug Trial: Carrie Underwood

Good old Carrie Underwood. No matter what’s happening in the world, you can count on her to wear at least three different things on any given awards show night, and generally they all leave me scratching my head and wondering if any of them are secretly cute, or overtly awesome, or obviously evil. It’s like I have no fugdar with her. That’s why the Fug Justice System exists. Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. It’s time for Exhibit A in The People vs. Yet More Carrie Underwood Outfits.

The prosecution opens by noting that this looks like what a witch might wear to her local planetarium. Excited, the defense’s second-in-command jumps up and announces that this has given him an excellent idea for his child’s Science Fair project and asks to be excused. A prosecutor sneers that, if the idea if stomping on empty aluminum cans and then gluing them to a trash bag, then by all means, go, because then the defense will lose the Science Fair too. Dejected, the defender sits down and swigs from a hip flask. The judge holds him in contempt for not using a flask that straps to the ankle, which is more interesting.

Moving onto Exhibit B:

Buoyed, the defense shouts out that this dress is completely lovely and that only a wall-eyed alien with cataracts would question that. The prosecution strokes its collective beards, real or imagined, and wonders if perhaps the midsection of this thing makes Carrie look a bit lumpy. The defense snorts with mirth, pointing out that Carrie Underwood is NOT lumpy-of-torso, and therefore who cares what the dress is doing, because we all know the truth. No one is sure how to respond to this logic, so the prosecution mumbles something about boob bronzer and then huddles over its notes for Exhibit C.

Next up:

“HOT PANTS!” the prosecution screams. The defense objects. “FORMAL SHORTS!” screams the opposition, undaunted. The defense objects again. “SPANGLED SHORTS ROMPER!” yawps the prosecution team as each member beats his or her head against the table on anguish. The defense wonders how they can mount a case against something without knowing what, in fact, it is. “HOT PANTS FORMAL SPANGLED SHORTS TOMPER WITH GIANT SLEEVES AND A HARNESS. WHAT IS SHE, THE DREAD PIRATE ROBERTS’ CONCUBINE?” the prosecution shrieks, gasping for breath, caught somewhere between a guffat and a gut-wrenching wail. The defense ponders this. “Everyone knows the Dread Pirate Roberts was really Westley, and that he was saving himself for Buttercup, so now they’re just talking LYING NONSENSE,” the lead defender concludes. The judge threatens to start handing out fines for excessive use of capital letters.

And finally:

As they huff smelling salts and whip out their blood-pressure pumps, the prosecutors wave off this last dress, confident that they’ve already made their case and possibly unable to stand up without their hearts exploding. The defense sighs that it’s boring to argue without an opponent, goading one prosecutor into lifting her weary head and suggesting that this is the color of split-pea soup. The rejuvenated defense team announces that the prosecutors are on crack and that this is a lovely outfit, flattering and young and romantic; when the prosecution wonders aloud if it would be better strapless, without those little transparent shoulder things, the defense hurls some asparagus spears at them and knocks them all out cold. The judge grows tired of these shenanigans and sends out the jury to deliberate.