Mischa Barton, the weak link on The O.C., is quite the little fashion plate. She constantly puts herself out there in designer frocks, usually looks nice if a little bit on the Mary-Kate side of the Olsen line, and is generally fresh-faced and pretty despite having the acting range of the Post-It note I just pulled off the bottom of my shoe that says, "Jude."
Fresh face. Big smile. So why is she dating a giant tub of grease?
This is, unfortunately, the kind of fug that's hard to write without feeling a twinge of The Mean: The personal fug. Because although I have problems with his wardrobe above, I more often just generally wonder -- with complete befuddlement -- what the hell Mischa sees in this guy. He's usually sullen, and he looks like you could squeeze him and yield enough oil to run a KFC franchise for a week. When I come across a picture of him, I always think, "This person clearly smells like feet."
Sure, she's wearing a dress that looks like a bejewelled serpent is crushing her, but he's standing there like some sort of glam-rock lounge singer who can't open his mouth to speak because if he does, a giant gob of drool -- and maybe some chewing tobacco -- would drop out. His jacket there seems to be made of some weird scaly, shiny material -- and I will never get why guys try to wear neckties without buttoning their shirts. It's an "I Just Got Out Of Work, Am Nursing a Flask of Bourbon, And Am About To Roll Up A $20 And Put It Behind My Ear, So A Stripper Can Grab It With Her Vagina" effect.
But really, I have to call a spade a spade: Yeah, his jacket's kinda feh, but I just kind of think he, as a guy, is fug. Maybe if he ever acted happy, rather than carefully bored and superior...
... then I wouldn't be bothered about what he's got on, but when she generally appears to smell good and dress cleanly, it's very disturbing to see her hanging onto and constantly tonguing a guy who is as appealing as a walking pustule.