Twifught: New Fug

There are a lot of things going on here that I don’t quite understand — the skirt that gets shorter in front if the part of a lady she should want to hide the most; the pattern that looks like the tiled top of a small patio table — but nothing is as confounding to me as Christian Serratos’ mouth.

It was chilly last night in LA, but not THAT chilly. Did somebody give her a blueberry Popsicle in the limo? Is she about to turn completely blue and blow up the size of a planet and need to be rolled to Willy Wonka’s juicing room? If not then I hope it’s just a bad makeup choice, because if those lips have anything to do with the one soiled kneecap she appears to be rocking, I may quit on our nation’s youth.