There’s a club that’s popular these days with the kiddies in Hollywood called Trousdale, and EVERY SINGLE TIME I read it as “Trouserdale.” In the case of Rumer Willis, I wish it HAD been Trouserdale:
I imagine Trouserdale to be the pants equivalent of taking your pet to a giant field and letting it run around, frolicking free, maybe snacking on some plants or hot dog scraps that somebody left behind from a picnic. Like, you show up to Trouserdale, and everywhere there are people handing you trousers that magically fit, just like those traveling pants except you don’t have to share them or make up any disgusting rules about not running them through the washing machine.
This might be what my face looked like if I ever went to Trouserdale:
@grubreport @thebestjasmine I always felt like they ruined Dean specifically in service of Jess, which is lazy writing for your love tri -H
Man Fugs: Somebody’s Head-Suit Needs Dry-Cleaning…
Around the time of Fug Madness, when Jessica and I were considering the seedings, we almost did a mini-tournament on the side just about horrible dude hair. It was rampant. (Then sanity prevailed and we realized we couldn’t possibly do that without our heads exploding and our freshly spritzed grey matter making our spacebars stick.) But recently, now that most shows are on hiatus, we’ve had a run of bad coifs that began with the atrocities Brad Pitt has committed upon himself this year, picked up again with the otherwise-adorable Zachary Levi’s nohawk and Peter Krause’s I Can’t Believe They’re Not Clip-In Bangs, and continues apace with such luminaries (or loon-inaries) as Penn Badgley, The Kutch, STILL Brad Pitt, and Ron F’ing Swanson. Leading the pack? Good old Al Pacino, who apparently never met a hand-dryer into which he did not try to jam his face.
[Photos: Getty, Flynet, Splash]
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