Outta My Fug

[Photo: INFdaily.com]

ASHLEE SIMPSON: Pete?

PETE WENTZ: What up, baby?

ASHLEE: Do you think we look too matchy-matchy tonight?

PETE: What are you talking about? I think we look fierce, both individually and collectively.

ASHLEE: Sure, but....you know, we're promoting my new album.  Shouldn't I stand out more?

PETE: I'm not sure I understand you.

ASHLEE: I mean, don't we want people to pay attention to ME tonight? Not US?

PETE: But I thought YOU were US. I am YOU. You are ME. WE are WE. And I told you, you didn't have to wear the hoodie.

ASHLEE: That was just so we could better show off our matching bangs.

PETE: And? AWESOME.

ASHLEE: I guess.

PETE: Ash, I just want you to be happy. And what says "conjugal happiness and sensitive yet catchy emo/punk rock" like matching outfits?

ASHLEE: Fair enough.

PETE: PS -- am I accidentally sitting next to Bobby Trendy?

Well Played: Ashlee Simpson?

Just the other day, I was wondering what Ashlee Simpson was up to. Not in a, "Do you think she's brushing her teeth? Ooh, maybe she's flossing!" kind of way. I am not a stalker. And if I were, I don't think I'd pick Ashlee Simpson as my stalkee.  I would be more likely to stalk, like... I don't know. Ian Ziering, maybe. You know, for one thing, he'd probably appreciate the attention. Plus everyone loves Steve Sanders. Win-Win!

Anyway, it appears that she was actually off dying her hair and buying one of those big-ass clutches that I've decided I want (it fits a lot of stuff, AND it's easy to smack people with):

I don't know, you guys! I think she's kind of working it. But I also suffered a head injury this morning when a box containing a pair of wooden heel boots fell off the top shelf of my closet and onto my head. Does she actually look sort of cute - in that prim way that I dig -- or is it just the giant hematoma talking?

poll by twiigs.com...

If You Fug My Autobiography

This isn't exactly a proper fug, as I don't really have an issue with Ashlee Simpson's outfit here. Sure, it's kind of quasi-Goth, especially with her slinky slumpy posture and copious eyeliner, but I own like 32 different black shirts, so I feel her need for monochromatics.

And while she's seemed to have made a habit of brushing her hair only sporadically -- perhaps in an attempt to look as Mary-Kate-ish as possible -- at least she's kind of committed to that whole I Just Rolled Out of Bed look. The thing I'd like to draw your attention to, dear reader, is that our little Ashlee managed to pose in front of a sign for Hornitos without bursting into 5th grade giggles. I suspect Jessica may not have been able to hold out. (Jessica Simpson, that is. Not me. I did not make a "I'm feeling hornitos" joke and then delete it, no sir.)

Fugployee of the Month

Seriously, J Simp is such a tragic figure right now:

What is her deal? It's beginning to feel like this creature  we've been seeing lately is not the real Jessica Simpson, but will actually soon be revealed to be the Jessica SIMson, a simulation of the real J Simp, available for purchase at the low, low price of $199.99 on QVC as they branch out into the lucrative but as yet untapped world of sex dolls.  And, look, dude, we're not saying that there aren't some evenings when you finish your steak frites and wonder what to wear to XYZ Event and think, "tonight, I fully want to resemble a Real Doll," but for real, you can't do that EVERY NIGHT or people will begin to  cast aspersions.

Jessica Fugson

There is something so refreshing about rediscovering my feelings for Jessica Simpson, like a dip in the pool after a hot, sticky day. My distaste for her is a constant, like the tides, and unless she saves my dog from a hostage situation (for example), I suspect it will never leave me.  And even then, I think my reaction to her might be, "I know she saved my dog from a hostage situation, but DAMN. Does she EVER close her mouth?"

To wit, her new ads for whatever the heck it is she's selling/promoting/designing/making in her basement while listening to a tragic mix of John Mayer and Nick Lachey tunes she's titled "Why Can't I Keep A Man? OHGODWHYGODWHY?":

J Simp is a pretty girl, okay -- although I think she's better suited to her old blonde hair -- but holy hell, did no one notice that she's got the exact same expression on her face in every one of these photos? She looks like she's trying to do long division in her head.

Fuglee Simpson

Okay, Ashlee. It's great that you're in love -- seriously, we're all very happy for you, given what a muscular streak of misery your sister usually turns into when she's not in the tabloids hiding behind her hair while a dude pulls her around by the hand. So, be happy.

But why does love have to equal Repetitive Headgear Syndrome?

[Photo: Splash News]

We respect that, since Pete Wentz stopped so graciously telling the press that you two would only be a great love story in another lifetime and started allowing himself to be photographed wrapped all around your waist, you might be content taking a backseat for a while during his band's tour. But I feel like 7 times out of 10 that I've seen you two together lately -- usually in the pages of one of the gossip rags that winks up at me from my doorstep every week -- you have your noggin stuffed inside a fedora. (The other three times, your head is free as a bird but your hair clearly hasn't been brushed in 72 hours -- although I'm pleased to see you have at least taken a comb to it in recent memory here -- and 10 times out of 10, you are hiding half of your face somewhere in the vicinity of Pete's right ear.)

What gives, Simpson the Younger? Does Pete yank out your hair in the heat of passion? Do you just bump your head a lot? Did Ken Paves screw up your weave? If it's that last one, there ARE other hairdressers. Just because he is your sister's only friend doesn't mean you have to pay him to make your hair look so limp that you hide under a hat all the time. Free yourself.

Fug the Cover: Jessica Simpson

And she's back! After a brief hiatus while she was dating John Mayer and simultaneously was accosted with my favorite headline ever, namely, "IT'S NOT A FAT SUIT," my nemesis Jessica Simpson is BACK.  (I like to have a nemesis at all times. For a while it was a woman I worked with [NOT HEATHER] who used to correct my grammar all the time, except she'd change it so that it was WRONG. Another time it was my landlord, who charged me for DEPRECIATION ON THE WASHING MACHINE. That ass. And then, of course, there was Paul Giamatti. HE KNOWS WHAT HE DID.) But Jessica Simpson is my favorite nemesis, because she's always doing totally dumb stuff.  Sure, I suppose it's exciting to have a brilliant, Lord Voldemort-y nemesis, because it challenges you and all that, but I'm lazy. It's so much easier to have a nemesis who's likely to hoist herself on her own petard. In fact, I suspect her petard is exactly what Jessica is hoisting in the cover shot below:

Why else would she have her arm all stuck up in the air like that, in what might be the most AWKWARD-looking cover I have EVER SEEN? The good people at Glossed Over (also not fans of this cover) swears that J Simp is holding a bundle of balloons, and I'm sure that's true. What's also true is that they appear to be about ready to rip her arm right out of its socket.  It doesn't even look like HER arm. Hell, it barely looks like AN arm. She looks like she just happened to wander in front of a narrow, flesh-colored pillar. (There's a dirty, easy joke in there, isn't there? I'll give you a moment to make it to yourself.) She also sort of looks like she's got fangs, a development I never noticed before. With the new darker hair and the new sharper teeth, is she a vampire now? And shouldn't that information be on the cover? Hell, I'd totally buy a magazine that promised "A Look Inside Jessica's Dark New Blood-Sucking World."

Fug the Way Down

Remember Ryan Cabrera? He dated Ashlee Simpson for a while? Mostly while her TV show (what the heck what that show called? The Ashlee Simpson Show? Ashlee!? The Ashlee Simpson Hour of Power? You'd think I'd remember, as I used to watch it religiously thanks to the fact that I had bad taste) was on the air. You know, this guy:

He sang that song "On the Way Down," which until about three minutes ago I thought was called "All the Way Down," and which is apparently...not about what I thought it was about.  Anyway, it was kind of a catchy tune, although the kid is no Tyler Hilton, let me tell you, and despite having a penchant for making wacky faces for the camera and SERIOUSLY WORKED OVER HAIR, he didn't seem like a bad kid:

Wow. I mean...wow. That hair look some WORK. There is a LOT of product in there, and I'd be interested to know how many CHI ceramic flat irons lost their lives in the heroic struggle to get it to stand up like that. Anyhoozy, you'll be interested to know that Mr Cabrera has -- perhaps due to an incident in which his mother and manager staged an intervention along with Ryan's close personal friends from Robinson Beautilities --  abandoned this labor-intensive look for something more....natural:

Maybe not so much. I'm glad the ozone layer over Ryan's house is no longer depleting at an alarming rate, but now I'm concerned that he might have trouble getting as many dates as he used to, as this new 'do plus the scoop neck tee (boys: please don't. Maybe if you're French. Otherwise, don't) makes him look kinda like a guy who warms up the audience  from 10am to noon Tuesdays at the Comedy Store  and is sort of pissed about it.  And while I can actually see his hairline, this hat plonked on top of his cascading curls sort of screams OMG GUYS THE ROGAINE ISN'T WORKING.

On the other hand, Ashlee's new boyfriend has been looking kind of sharp lately:

Something else for Jessica to get annoyed about.

Major Fug Star

Poor, poor, poor Jessica Simpson. Seriously.  She went from being America's ditzy sweetheart to having her picture on the cover of Star with the headline, "JESSICA SIMPSON: IT'S NOT A FAT SUIT" splashed across it.  That's rough, dude.  And then she and John Mayer broke up (again) (maybe he LIKES fat suits?) and then allegedly she and Ashlee had a fight about how Ashlee is hot or something now? (I don't remember what they're fighting about, but supposedly they're feuding.)  And while her ex is rolling around the Bahamas with his girlfriend, she's at Cannes having fully completed her transformation into Depressive Dead Eyed Wax Figure:

This is usually the place where I say something like, "she's a beautiful girl, but why does she look so monochromatic?" But actually, I suspect that I know why she's so monochromatic: she's in the middle of going from brown hair back to blonde, which is why she currently looks beige all over. (Though that doesn't excuse how lank her extensions look. Has she also broken up with Ken Paves? The loss of a girl's gay OR her hairdresser can be more traumatic than losing her boyfriend, so in the interest of preventing J Simp from having a Britney-style melt-down, I sincerely hope she has not lost the both in one) So instead I will ask why she's dressing like a 50 year old extra from that episode of Dynasty where they go to the Carousel Ball and hang out with Gerald Ford. Her jewels are beautiful, of course, but overall, she looks like the human version of a Judith Leiber bag.

Listen, girl, there's no lost love between us, but you're REALLY YOUNG still. And single. And in France. And I know you're probably sad that you're in France with your weird Dad and not some cute boy, but you've got to man up and work it right now. Star magazine insinuated that you were so fat that you might be COVERED IN LATEX (which is patently absurd, albeit hilarious).  So DO NOT leave the house dressed like a handbag. Just don't.

Met Costume Institute Ball Fug: Jessica Simpson

I so wish I had been a fly buzzing around Anna Wintour's champagne flute when she first spotted Jessica Simpson at the Met's Costume Institute Ball Gala hoo-ha last night. Because, honey, it seems that while our backs were turned, J. Simp went a little overboard. On everything:

This is one of those dresses that someone with small boobs could fully rock, and I like the brown hair, but overall the effect kind of veers into Blow-Up Doll category, which is really both rather grim and also not entirely unexpected when you consider the source.  But when you're carrying around that kind of (real and admittedly spectacular) rack, you can't just strap 'em in and bounce off like that, especially to a formal event. What if the right one makes a run for the border, in front of everyone? What if the Power of the Cleav mesmerizes the cater waiter and he walks into a pole, dropping caviar everyone and giving himself a black eye, therefore totally RUINING his upcoming audition for All My Children?  What if the left one is done permanent damage by the pressure of being wedged in like that and never lies down properly in a bikini top again? What if one of them pops out and hits Anna Wintour right in the bob? A girl could NEVER live that down. Hasn't Jess been through enough already?

However, I've got to give John Mayer props for working a Johnny Depp-type thing:

I wonder if Kate Moss made a play for him over the crudite.  Can you imagine the tabloid headlines?  Can you imagine the catfight? I've got five bucks on Jess. She is NOT going though another messy public break-up if she can help it, and if that requires hair-pulling, I think she's got the chops.

The Fugs of Hazzard

Dear Readers,

I'm going to do something we don't do very often around this parts, and fug someone despite not having the picture at our immediate disposal (for reasons both boring and technical). But, truly, you should be grateful that you can't see Jessica Simpson's new high waisted (PLEATED!!) pants.

Are you back? Can you still see? I'm so sorry for inflicting that on you. It's bad, right?  All the fashion mags have been panting over the the high-waisted pant for the last few months ("Oh, they make your legs look longer! Oh, no, seriously! Seriously, they look awesome! We promise, you'll WEAR THEM. WEAR THEM. WEAR THESE $2400 HIGH WAISTED PANTS.") and while I am THRILLED that the era of mad crazy low rise is over,  J Simp's Doom-Trousers are a sterling example of how very hard it is for someone who is not built like a model to pull off pants that essentially come up to your pits. If you've got boobs AT ALL, super-high-waisted pants pose a problem. Because you look...sorta stumpy in them, all boobs and then PANTS PANTS PANTS PANTS. And while I treasure pants, and love pants, and want to MAKE love to pants and regularly request that people consider pants, THESE pants are an assault to the concept of pants. 

AND TO HUMANITY.

So, readers, when you're standing there between the mannequins at Bloomingdale's or Macy's or Filene's or Barney's or Target or Banana Republic or J. Crew or Forever 21 or where ever pants are sold, and you find yourself thinking, "Huh. I'm totally going to try on these high-waisted, pleated pants,"  do not let me stop you. I would never prevent a fellow shopper from trying anything on. "Just try it ON" is my mantra. Sometimes things look better on you than they do on the hanger! And maybe you will look super hot in high-waisted pleated pants. I mean, you're pretty hot to begin with. So it's possible. But if you try them on and then suddenly feel like you've gained ten pounds in the walk from the display to the dressing room, DON'T BLAME YOURSELF.

Think of J Simp, and blame the pants.

Fug the Advert: Ashlee Simpson

So, I guess Ashlee Simpson is the spokesperson for Skechers now?

"You know what the Kids Today are like,"  the ad exec who put this ad together -- let's call her Alison Parker -- might have said.  "They LOVE to sit around, buying stuff on the internets, wearing knickers! Sometimes, they just toss on a kicky vest and manage to levitate their CD into thin air! It's awesome. Sometimes -- if they're super cool -- their faces start to look kind of eerily like the skulls on their knit caps! And they all wear SKECHERS, a brand that looks totally, totally, freakishly misspelled the more closely you look at it! They're going to love this ad!"

AMAs: Fug The Alarm

Poor Assica. So unprepared was she for the exertions of being The Favored Simpson, she completely forgot to wash her hair and have Ken Paves rip out her ratty extensions. Which is why Joe should never have allowed her to stand next to somebody who probably has two shampooers, three professional weaveologists, and six personal hairbrushing lackeys on her staff.

Ms. Knowles, on the other hand, has made the intriguing style choice of borrowing her pumps from a West Hollywood impersonator named Beshlongce, who we imagine croons tributes like "Bootyvicious," "Humpin'," "Saliver," and "Rim the Alarm" while dancing on top of a Cadillac parked outside Rage.

She is also apparently beginning to see some advantages to gallavanting around town in buttock-length skirts:

This awards season, make it The Year Of Never Having To Lift Anything Up Over Your Hips When You Need To Use The Restroom.

Indeed, thanks to this helpful poster-worthy photo, we expect that in 2007 all the various academies, societies, groups, clubs, and Elks Lodges will launch a campaign to install latrines right into the auditorium seats themselves. Think of it: No more televisually inconvenient seat-fillers; no more awkward Christine Lahti moments where the recipient is accidentally (or just pessimistically, I suppose) spending his or her category's precious air time as a chance to visit the facilities.

Sweet Fugs

Oh my God.

We knew she was depressed, but taking the veil seems to be a bit drastic.

Listen, Jess: The Sound of Music was just a movie.  You can not enter a convent in the hopes that the Mother Superior will dispatch you off to a mansion, where the man of the house -- a deliciously stern military man -- will fall in love with your moxie and musical skills. That doesn't actually happen all that often. Try Match.com or something first, okay?

Fugployee of the Month

The repeat offenders just keep on coming.

Hopefully, instead of diving asshead-first into one of his monologues, Dane Cook is actually explaining to the crowd and to Jessica Simpson that unless she is auditioning for the Women In Waders 2007 wall calendar, or indeed wading through the detritus of her fake relationships, ENOUGH IS ENOUGH with the past-the-knee boots over jeans. Especially when you take into account that she's wearing them with a cropped blazer, which is so ill-proportioned compared with the rest of what she's wearing that it looks like she shrank it in an attempt to Brave Little Soldier her way through a load of laundry.

Of course, the way our luck runs with these things, he's not saying anything of the sort, choosing instead to delve into of his truly groundbreaking, intelligent bits about Burger King. Which... look, as long as he's not repeating his tired and terrible opening monologue from last week's Saturday Night Live (in which he attempted to infuse suicide with dark comedy in a way that would make the entire cast of Heathers bury themselves in unison just so they could spin in their graves, then thoughtfully repeated the joke at length in case we didn't yawn sufficiently the first time), then we'll consider it a victory of sorts.

Employee Of The Fug

Jessica Simpson has been going through a bit of a rough time lately, we imagine. To recap, she lost the post-divorce publicity battle; her lip implants backfired; her career as an actress may well rest in the bawdy frat-boy paws of Dane Cook and the grasping, sweaty, deliriously crazy mitts of Andy Dick; her father is still her father; and her sister has totally stolen the Family Mojo by starring in Chicago on the West End and overhauling her nasal passages.

What's a girl to do? I mean, aside from try to take comfort in the soft, incubatory embrace of a fake romance with a slightly bloated "sensitive" musician who can woo her with syllables and the promise that he might one day write a song and allow the world to assume it was about her? That's the natural first reaction; nothing cures a broken heart like a hollow, shallow publicity stunt, especially one that ends in a cover of Us Weekly on which the word "DUMPED" screams across a photo of you with your lips puckered and slightly parted, as if someone has just offered you a chocolate malt and then yanked it away in a cruel prank against your sweet tooth.

Fortunately for J.Simp, the next step was to normalize her gymorexic physique and Crayola-colored skin.

Oh, but one step forward, two steps back. Because you know what doesn't help in this situation? Thigh-high boots that look like you stapled them together with some felt you bought at Michael's:

The red purse might help her spirits a little. But the boots, Jessica. The boots. You are not so intriguing that you can rebound from your current tragic situation in just any old crazy shoes. You're not becoming the type of person who can pull off over-the-knee faux-suede naughty boots simply because you are Who You Are.

Now, Victoria Beckham, sure. Thigh-high boots? No problem. Kind of fabulous, actually. Not because they make sense, but because we've come to adore her for her half-nutter, half-genius fashion sense. Yes, she can put a foot wrong, and indeed often she puts them both there, but on the whole she's so intriguing that even her missteps come back around to being awesome. (Indeed, we had fervently hoped she would eventually be immortalized as a sort of latter-day Joan Collins, but without the help of the late Aaron Spelling -- rest your beloved soul, you mischievous soapy mastermind, you -- we're having to recalibrate our expectations a trifle.)

But Jessica, we're not there with you. Not yet. You are not Posh Spice, honey. You are not British pseudo-royalty. Perhaps the flickering bulbs in both your heads emit the same low wattage, but where we suspect Posh Spice is quite funny behind the scenes, we don't have quite the same high hopes for you. [Don't take offense; you created the monster with Newlyweds, so you have no one but yourself and your Svengali father to blame for that preconception.] 

Ergo, all the boots make us think of is who you aren't. Now, definitely keep trying -- we love a good phoenix-from-the-ashes story just as much as the next tar-hearted cow -- but you might need to aim a little less ambitiously. Your embers aren't quite cold enough yet for a glorious, Posh-esque, dramatic resurrection in oddball footwear.

The Name On Everyone's Lips Is Gonna Be FUGLY!

INT. Night. The party following Ashlee's Simpson's debut in Chicago:

ASHLEE: Can we finally agree that I'm the cute one now? Can we? Seriously, Jess! I'm totally the cute one now.

JESSICA: I can't believe it's come to this so soon. I felt like I had at least five more years of holding you off. But the divorce hit me like a ton of bricks, Ashlee. And then that disaster with John Mayer.  And I've totally gained weight since I stopped working out nine hours a day. Even my hair is, like, all....

ASHLEE: Lank? Lackluster? Meh?

JESSICA: I was going to say, depressed. Those commericals are true, dude. Depression HURTS. It hurts everyone AROUND ME. Aren't you hurting, now, too?

ASHLEE: I feel great!

JESSICA: Nothing even fits me anymore. I made this top from one of the curtins in my hotel room.

ASHLEE: Well, at least you're crafty now that everything else has fallen apart! You know what they say: when God closes a door, he opens a window, or whatever! Your window turned out to be arts and crafts! That's awesome!

JESSICA: I guess. Where's the cheese table around here?

A Fug Affair

I would love to have been at the Simpson Family Meeting where it was decided that Jessica ought to wear this little number:

MA SIMPSON: What should Jessica wear to that Yahoo! thing tomorrow?

PA SIMPSON: Pasties!

MA SIMPSON: No.

PA SIMPSON: Hot pants!

MA SIMPSON: Not again.  What about a slinky little cocktail number?

ASHLEE SIMPSON: Um, I totally hate to be a bitch, but am I the only person who's noticed that she looks like she's been living on a steady diet of KFC lately?

MA SIMPSON: Look, Ashlee, for the last time: we are not sending her out there dressed like Buckethead.

ASHLEE SIMPSON: That is not what I meant! She's totally been riding the lard pony, you guys! We were all at the Simpson Family Weigh-In this morning. You saw her charts. She's so gained weight since we booted Lachey!

JESSICA SIMPSON: (silent due to laryngitis, gives Ashlee dirty look, throws a highlighter at her head, gives her the finger.)

ASHLEE SIMPSON: You guys NEVER thought this would happen! DID YOU? NO! You NEVER thought I would be the hot one! AT LAST! THE STICKS OF BUTTER I HAVE BEEN WHIPPING INTO HER NUTRA SLIM SHAKES ARE WORKING! I HAVE FINALLY DEFEATED HER MAGIC METABOLISM! SURE, IT'S ONLY LIKE FIVE POUNDS, BUT I WILL TAKE IT! THANK YOU GOD! MY BLOOD SACRIFICE IS IMMINENT!

JESSICA SIMPSON: (holds up sign reading: "It's just three pounds, but even if it were 35, I'd still be hotter than you, you tragic little desperado.")

MA SIMPSON: Don't be ridiculous. She's maybe just a little bloated, and she's still very pretty. Let's just put her in a car hop costume and hope for the best.

ASHLEE SIMPSON: WHY DOESN'T ANYONE LISTEN TO ME? I'M THE PRETTY ONE NOW AND YOU'RE STILL IGNORING ME! SHE CALLED ME TRAGIC! I'M NOT TRAGIC! You don't think I'm tragic, do you, mom?

MA SIMPSON: Huh? Oh, we thought you'd left. Run along and play, I have to brush Jessie's hair 1000 times now.

ASHLEE: I HATE YOU ALL!

Fug The Cover: Maxim

That intoxicating aroma wafting through the air is, we at GFY News Service have confirmed, the smell of desperation emanating from Camp Simpson.

But first: Consider for a moment the last time Jessica Simpson appeared on the cover of Maxim. It was in 2004, she was still pretend-happily married, and her father was still gleefully exploiting her as the sort of sexy blonde angel-next-door.

See? They're working the whole virgin/whore, "You want me, but I'm taken," rumpled princess thing. You almost get the impression Maxim wanted her more naked but she and Joe were able to say, "No, that's not her image, and you need us more than we need you, so go along with it."

But now, what with her being a rumpled princess of a different sort, Jessica is in a different situation. She's being painted more often than not as a selfish little sinner who cuckolded her husband with a series of utter man-whores, she's completely boring, and she's being forced to hawk some humiliating wigs that are so mind-bendingly atricious, even Cher, or Dolly Parton, or hell -- Dame Edna -- would sooner strap roadkill to their heads than wear her pseudo-coifs.

So what happens? Maxim comes knocking, and her knockers knock back:

This cover just reeks of C-list "look at me, look at me!" desperation. It's the sort of blow-up-doll approach to publicity that a person would take when she thinks she's on her way up, not when she's been at the top for a few years based on her sweetheart image, raked in millions, dominated the tabloids, and stirred up a national obsession with her marriage. What makes it more pathetic is that she's still stuck with that disastrous, tacky fright-wig of a mop on her head -- unless she is actually wearing one of the titular creatures from the promised "World's Most Horrifying Pets" story, in which case, that's savvy art-directing.

As such, the whole package is less "portrait of an untouchable fantasy" than "chick with the nice rack who works at Dairy Queen and won an online cover-girl contest." How Team Simpson let this happen is beyond me -- it's almost like admitting defeat -- but perhaps there's some truth to the idea that Ashlee gets the royal treatment now and, until she can redeem herself with a movie and/or a respectable romance, Jessica is relegated to clawing her way through any old publication that will tell her she's still got it.

So what's next, Jessie? FHM? Jugs? Wicked-Hot Chicks Monthly?

Jessica Fugson

HEATHER: I wonder if we should finally do something with that Jessica Simpson dress that everyone's e-mailing us about. It is ugly.

JESSICA: I know. But, ugh. It feels like it's been covered.

HEATHER: Yeah, it's possible everything's already been said about it. Also, I'm still just really sick of her. I can see her beady little eyes through those sunglasses, and I can feel a headache coming on already.

JESSICA: I know. It's like I don't even have the energy to make fun of the dress because she makes me so very tired.

HEATHER: Sweet GOD, though, that this is terrible. It's like if Salvador Dali painted a seascape that he thought existed somewhere in Dante's second ring of hell. It's beyond awful. It's not even flattering.

JESSICA: And the shoes. Usually these people can at least get the shoes right. It hurts me when they don't.

HEATHER: She looks rough. I feel like having no friends and being the big PR loser in her divorce war is kind of turning her into a kooky recluse.

JESSICA: It's about time. I've only been waiting, like, two years for her to retreat into her mansion and draw the shades.

HEATHER: Seriously, where did she get the idea that people in the outside world wanted to be exposed to that pattern? She's the lucky one; she's wearing shades. They protect.

JESSICA: Maybe Ken Paves told her it looked good. And then transferred a bunch of money to a Swiss bank account.

HEATHER: Maybe Adam Levine once told her that he gets horny at surrealist toga parties.

JESSICA: Or maybe Joe told her that if she didn't do something dramatic to get herself back in the public eye, she could be... replaced.

HEATHER: It worked. She is just a step away from Muumuu City in that travesty.

JESSICA: I do wonder if, now that everyone's more interested in  Ashlee's nose and Nick and who he's rebounding with, she'll finally go all Sunset Boulevard on the world.

HEATHER: Haha. "I AM big. It's the tabloids that got small."

JESSICA. Right. With a turban! Oh my God, if she'd worn a turban with that...

HEATHER: Turban's are a washed-up diva's best friend.

Fuglee Simpson

I actually think that poor little Assica Simpson -- who, by the way, really does seems to have been gently, professionally anorexified so that when an America that's sick of her philandering sister decides to hug Assica to its collective cushy bosom, we can't secretly giggle about having pinched an inch in the process -- looks very nice with her new nose. I didn't mind her face before, and don't think she needed the rhinoplasty, but she seems happy, so apparently, kiddies, it is true that money will buy you such things. Hooray! Take a mallet to your piggy banks! (Or, a nose, if you want to force that issue instead of politely asking your parents if they have a few thousand dollars in small change.)

However, I'm not sure why Assica is hiding her light under the symbolic bushel of that hat. She's arduously sculpted herself into Jessica's equal -- some might say, as I do, that she out-cutes the depressed and depressing Mrs. Lachey -- and now she's shoving it all under a ridiculous Robin Hood Goes To The Office piece of headgear. There are better ways to kick off summer, Assica. Sigh.

Fugployee of the Month

Oompa-loompa doompety-doo
I've got another fugging for you.
Oompa-loompa-dumbety-dee
Tanorexic fame-whores are frightening to me.

What do you do when your affairs are a mess,
And the press has been siding with your cuckolded ex?
Spray yourself gold and fluff up your cleav,
'Cause that's all the tricks you've got up your sleeve.

But hair and skin should never maaaaaaatch....

Oompa-loompa talentless hack
Before you buy those orphans, at least dye yourself back.
But even Foreign Baby Love can't redeem you --
Sorry, but that's what overpublicized marriage, a horrible show, calculated stupidity, genuine stupidity, a horrible movie performance, a year of fake public appearances before a bitter divorce rife with rumors of your infidelities, a brilliant PR campaign by your husband, that hideous "Angels" cover, and having no friends in the world besides your hairdresser (although, look at yourself -- is he REALLY your friend?) because even your father is more interested in Ashlee now will DOOMPETY-DO.

The Sweetest Fug

Oh, yeah. This is a great look:

This outfit reminds me of a moment in my youth. Picture it: Southern California.  Late spring, 1993.  My senior English class sits in a warm classroom, all of us staring out the window and not down at our copies of Heart of Darkness. We have all been accepted to college. We are done with high school. My English teacher, Mr. Moran, asks a question about the book. None of us can answer. Not a single one of us has read even a word of it. We are all slacking off. Instead of berating us for this, however, Mr Moran just looked at us all for a long beat, sighed, and said, "Fine. I'll just TELL YOU what happened."

The look of resignation on his face, the look that said, "I could fight this, but why bother?," the total expression of having simply given up, but not really caring that he'd given up anymore, that's what we're seeing here on Ms Simpson. Her sister's cuter than she is now, her dad doesn't love her anymore, no one wants to see her movies or eat her Pizza Bites,  her best friend is cannoodling with her ex-husband, that skinny twerp from Maroon 5 dumped her via text...why bother? Why even wash your hair? Just toss on a schmatta and last season's LV and go out and eat some chicken wings with your accountant.

The Jessifugcation of Ashlee

Okay, either Joe Simpson really hates Ashlee and wants to pretend she's Jessica, or he thinks Jessica is so early 2000s and is all set to replace her. Either way, his youngest child is inching ever closer to being able to assume the duties of Jessica Simpson should it be deemed that Jessica Simpson is unable to or incapable of performing them. [I personally feel that day has long passed us by, but Joe Simpson did not ask my opinion, so we're still stuck with her for now.]

At any rate, check out Assica at an appearance in Australia:

Long blond and wavy extensions, orange skin, signature pose, shrinking body that leads to a more dominant, prominent chin... all the hallmarks of Jessica are there. Assica has even chucked her punk clothes for something that looks ripped off from her sister's wardrobe. Now, all Joe needs to do is successfully marry her off to Ryan Cabrera, like he's been trying to do all along, so we can see if Newlyweds: When Pop Singers Collide II can FINALLY produce some little bundles of money to carry on the family name and pay for Joe's retirement castle.

Although if we go down that path, then it's only a matter of time before Assica gets linked some alpha-male star of an MTV show and then rumored details of the tryst will make the "ass" in her name all too literal, and then she'll have to put on a happy face for a year before getting a divorce and having a fling with, like, James Blunt, or something.

Joe! This path doesn't work! Stop her!

Fugly of the Month

People. I thought we had an AGREEMENT. I thought we were going to pretend that Jessica Simpson DIDN'T EXIST.  I feel like we TALKED about this, and I CRIED, and you all AGREED that she was OVER and I wasn't going to have to LOOK AT THIS ANYMORE:

OH MY GOD STOP TAKING PICTURES OF HER! Please, for the love of GOD STOP IT. I do not want to look at her big fake huge fake stupid fake lips -- which look ABSURD in this photo, which was taken SEVERAL FEET AWAY, can you IMAGINE what they look like if you were trying to KISS HER?  -- and her stupid 2001-era newsboy cap and her dumb 2002-era Uggs and her lazy, albeit timeless sweatpants. That whole outfit is, head-to-toe, a trip through Clothing Fad Memory Line of the last five minutes of all of our lifes. And, girl, while I get that you just want to run to the market to pick up a 40, how hard is it to throw on a pair of jeans? For real. THE REST OF US HUMANS MANAGE TO DO IT. WHY DO YOU THINK YOU'RE NOBoy u3 HB609ut noegn;Gn;lg;NGng;'Heoi9yo4hyunyne;w25i8585kskjwrttjjwjwflkg3w59i85qwqa..f74

[Editor's note:  We apologize for the above. Jessica will be back posting regularly when she recovers from what the doctors are calling "a mild case of rage-induced psychosis." They seem to think that as soon as she stops clawing at her face in anger and smashing her skull against her keyboard, she will be able to type again. They would like us to warn you all, however, that this kind of Ragaholism is highly contagious, and that if you have any of the following symptoms, you should put down your US Weekly and consult a physician immediately:  bursting into hives and/or tears at the sight of Joe Simpson, Dina Lohan or Kathy Hilton;  uncontrollable shaking when Jessica Simpson's "Pizza Bites" commercial comes on the television; gutteral, primal screaming when faced with yet another article about that random girl Nick Lachey may or may not be sleeping with; gutteral, primal screaming when no one listens to your theory that Nick Lachey is probably sleeping with Matt Leinart; and/or falling into a comatose state when you realize that you recognize Jessica Simpson's fucking hairdresser and, what's worse, also know -- off the top of your head -- his full name.]

I Didn't Fug Your Boyfriend

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

Ashlee Simpson Named DERELICTE Spokeswoman.

Los Angeles -- January 27, 2006.  Ashlee Simpson is officially the new face of the DERELICTE line, DERELICTE spokesman Harve Montalban announced at a press conference held today at  DERELICTE headquarters in downtown Tarzana.

"Ashlee has really impressed us with her grasp of the DERELICTE lifestyle," Montalban told reporters. "For the last several months, she has lived, slept, breathed, ate and walked DERELICTE. When we thought she could not get more DERELICTE, she proved us wrong, as you can see from the photo to my right [attached to this press release].  Ashlee IS DERELICTE."

Montalban rejected reports that DERELICTE was looking to replace its former spokeswoman, Mary Kate Olsen, because she had shown up at several events looking clean and happy. "Mary Kate decided it was time to focus on her acting," he said. "We're sure she's still DERELICTE on the inside, and we wish her the best."

Speaking through her agent, Simpson said that she was thrilled to be the face of DERELICTE. "I've been a fan of DERELICTE for a long time," she said. "Finally, someone's noticed me."

About DERELICTE.
DERELICTE Inc. is a leading international fashion line offering clothing, accessories and personal care products for men, women, children and babies under the DERELICTE brand name. Worn almost exclusively by desperate starlets and lazy rich people, DERELICTE takes its name from the word "derelict" and embraces the idea that it's cool to look homeless when you're actually a millionaire.  Fiscal 2004 sales were $204,562.39. DERELICTE Inc. operates about 7 stores in the United States, the United Kingdom, Canada, France and Japan, and is considered one of haute couture's hautest lines.  For more information, please read US Weekly.

Jessica Fugson

For months now, all the gossip has been a tangle of "Nick is a cheat," "Jessica is a cheat," "they secretly hate each other," "Joe Simpson is an asshead." The only thing anyone could really agree upon was the latter count. And now, all the magazines seem to have decided that, despite denials from the Lachey camp, Jessica finally stood up for her poor wounded self and Nick had this coming. I'm sure you've seen the screaming yellow headlines: "WHY JESSICA DUMPED NICK," "WHY JESSICA LEFT NICK," "JESSICA JESSICA JESSICA JESSICA," "HI MY NAME IS JOE SIMPSON AND I AM A SPIN-CONTROLAHOLIC..." You know the drill. The accompanying stories attempt to claim that she was taking control of a dying marriage, and isn't she brave, and he's a total dog...

Personally, I never thought she was that upset about it, really -- and, well, if we're being honest, I think the Knoxville rumors are true and this whole thing's been a farce for almost a year now. But recently, I began to wonder if perhaps she was more upset about this whole thing than I originally thought. Why do I feel that way?

Exhibit A.

That thing has enough room for Aretha Franklin's breasts, and therefore makes Jessica look like she has two deflated sacks hanging from her chest.

Clearly, nobody would wear this unless she -- or he, I suppose -- were had gone totally blind from grief. Or perhaps it paralyzed her, and Ashlee freaked out, because it's her mandate to be Jessica-lite, and if Jessica isn't out and about, whom can she imitate? So after several attempts to rouse her sister into getting dressed for the Big In '05 awards, poor Ashlee had to resort to rolling up Jessica in whatever pieces of cloth she could find, slapping some color back into her cheeks (wish she'd called and asked me to help), and finally shoving her out onto the red carpet.

Tragic, really.

Fuglyweds, or WHEN WILL THE SHAM END?

NICK: Hey, Jess, do you think they're buying it?

JESS: What?

NICK: IT. THIS. THIS SHAM OF A MARRIAGE WE'RE KEEPING UP FOR GOD KNOWS WHY. IT'S NOT LIKE ANYONE CARES ABOUT US ANYMORE.

JESS: Huh? Oh, um. I dunno. Probably.

NICK: Seriously? HOW CAN YOU THINK THAT? EVERYONE KNOWS IT'S OVER!

JESS: Hmm? Sure, honey.

NICK: YOU'RE NOT EVEN LISTENING TO ME.

JESS: Mmm-hmmm.

NICK: And what are you WEARING? Are those TIGHTS? WITH NO PANTS? UNDER A BIG SHIRT? AND A CROPPED SWEATER? WHO ARE YOU? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUUUUUU?

JESS: Uh-huh.

NICK: I WANT A DIVORCE!

I Didn't Steal Your Fugfriend

"Hey guys!

"What-what! Give it up for my outfit! Hey heeeeey! Why wear tights when jeans do just as well? Word!"

VMA Fug Carpet: Jessica Simpson

I JUST CAN'T TAKE HER ANYMORE:

I mean seriously. ENOUGH ALREADY. ENOUGH! ENOUGH! I am officially, 100 percent, totally and completely, utterly and deeply over Jessica "Is This Tuna or Chicken?" "Buffalos Don't Have Wings!" "Aw, look at my little sister, isn't she -- NO, LOOK AT ME AGAIN!" "I Slept With Johnny Knoxville OH NO I DIDN'T HOW DARE YOU INSINUATE THAT?" "I filed for divorce. NO, I DIDN'T. Or DID I? No. I didn't." "My dad is totally normal, I SWEAR!" "Listen, my marriage is totally awesome, REALLY." "Hey, check out my boobs!" "My ass, my ass, now let's talk about my ass!" "You too can have my Daisy Dukes body...just buy my exercise DVD! And my perfume! And my body glitter! And my line of jeans! And my SOUL!" "Hey, Star Magazine just did an entire two-page article on MY ASS, complete with EXPERT OPINIONS because everyone is JUST THAT INTERESTED IN THE RELATIVE BOOTYLICIOUSNESS OR LACK THEREOF OF MY BEHIND." Simpson.

Therefore, I decline to comment on her VMAs outfit, even though I could say that she looks like the top of half of a pirate bride paired with the bottom half of, oh, I don't know, SOME IDIOT WHO JUMPED ON THE FORMAL SHORTS BANDWAGON, but I won't, because Jessica Simpson won't go away until we all start ignoring her. Therefore, as far as I am concerned, she was never at the VMAs, she has never been to the VMAs, she has never HEARD of the VMAs, she has never had a hand in either V, or M, and she certainly doesn't deserve an A.

So let's all just go about our business and pretend this never happened.

Fugly Dukes

Okay, first of all, I am so over Jessica Simpson. Has no one noticed that, over the course of the past two years, she has morphed into an actual WAX FIGURINE?

And now she seems to think she's, like, the waxen love child of Sienna Miller and the jockey manchild Tobey McGuire played in Seabisuit:

What? Unless Nick slept with some nanny-type Simpson employee [like, say, Ashlee, who, to me, sort of looks like the girl down the street who babysits your little sister and who you kind of like hanging out with although you can never ask her for fashion advice and you certainly can't borrow her clothes, but because she's sort of amusing and her life is always a total mess and makes you feel better about yourself because, although things might be bad, at least you aren't chasing Wilmer Valdermananananana all over town], Jessica really has no call to adopt this kind of Homeless-British-Wan and Terribly Cold-But-Can't-Bother-to-Find-a Coat-Hell-This-Blanket-Will-Do-Knicker-Sporting chic.

Can't she just go away for ten minutes? Just ten. Just give me a second to catch my breath.

Fuglee Simpson

Ever since Papa Joe allowed her to re-blonde herself, Ashlee's just gotten worse and worse:

Honestly, I don't hate the shirt; it's not my style, but with jeans and boots and a slightly different approach to handling the transparency, it could be cute. And I don't think I hate the boots. But I vehemently hate them both with the capris.

Worst of all, though -- and further dragging down the entire outfit -- is her fried, bleached-out hair and heavy black eyeliner. She looks like a ghost of herself, a fact she is apparently trying and failing to cure with self-tanner; you can see a Lohan-esque band of pale skin by her hairline, but sadly, whatever color is there doesn't make her look any less washed-out.

I hope this battle with hair bleach isn't a slow, subtle, self-destructive way of lashing out at her life; that never seems to end well. I don't want her to end up knocked up by a bearded greasepole, living out her days as a puffy, vaguely dirty, walking grisly train wreck we can't stop staring at in case we spot something that we will then wish we'd never seen. Sound familiar?

Fugly Simpson

I think Jessica Simpson is getting gymorexic on us:

Lady J.Simp is sculpting herself a nice little masculine face and tree-trunk neck, topped by some shoulders that show the beginnings of some butch muscle striation. She looks like she's reinventing herself as a thug female Eminem. I'd hate to run into her in a dark alley -- although maybe that's because I would hate to run into her in general. She's exercising her features into stark, pointy, horsy relief, and it's beginning to alarm me.

I'm not even sure I want to talk about the cutoffs.

Except, I do. I get wearing your husband's (or Knoxville's? Or... her father's? No... no, I don't want to think about that) sweater. Or his boxers. Or his t-shirts. But, making cutoffs out of his jeans? No. Sorry, J.Simp -- no. I know no one who does that. Not even if they're missing the pant-wearer, yearning to relive the glories of illicit Louisiana nights. If she wants ratty culottes that badly, she should just hop on eBay and make it happen. Or, hell, call up Old Navy -- I'm sure someone from the braintrust over there is eager to follow up the Boho Reek craze by reintroducing the Bermuda short's billowy cousin.

However, I'd prefer that she can it altogether; if she doesn't, then Ashlee will start up with this, because she does everything Jessica does, and then we'll hit a fugly slippery slope.

Fugly Duke

"Yo yo yo! J. Simp in the hizzzzy.

That's RIGHT, beeyotchs! I am working this skirt! Yeah, it's falling off my ass [ask me about my Bikini Body, on the cover of this week's US Weekly]!  Yeah, it's totally too big for me! Yeah! It's totally like those skirts in that hella wicked Old Navy commerical, YEAH YEAH.

Listen, y'all, I am working it with these street braids and this wicked fresh Army shirt, because I love America, YO. I love it.  But you all gots to understand that I am not that stupid virgin girl who married a boy bander just to get laid any more, NO I AM NOT. This is the NEW JESSICA. Because I am NOT wearing whatever my Dad tells me to, at all, y'all. Have you seen Ashlee lately? She's the one with the blonde bob and the nose job -- I mean, the fake tan -- I mean...I mean, just look at her. She's the one under the thumb of our Svengali-esque parental figure. NOT ME. Because I am STRAIGHT UP FRESH [but still patriotic] NOW.  Knoxville told me to roll over and do it street style and I am DOING IT.  He said it would help my career.

Also, if I wear this skirt, I don't have to shave my legs.

Word. "

Daisy Fug

Jessica Simpson woke up this morning and took a long hard look at her wardrobe.

"I don't like any of this," she said. "I hate all my designer clothing. I hate all my jeans. I hate everything that fits. I loathe anything in here that looks even vaguely clean." She was silent for a long, long, long, long, long, long moment. Thinking.

At last! "I know what I need to do," she announced to the small, yappy, fluffy dog at her feet.

"I need to go Federline."

Welcome Back, Fuglee

Possibly realizing that his favorite daughter's angelic image was over the moment her leg went over Johnny Knoxville, quintessential creepy dad Joe Simpson apparently stopped forcing Other Daughter Ashlee to differentiate herself, and instead molded her back into a Jessica clone:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Cleavage? Check. Hearty, alarmingly orange "tan"? Check. Light hair in a bob? Check. Heavy eye makeup? Check. Ill-conceived clothes? Check, check, check, although Ashlee never had trouble with that one. (Unfortunately, singing sappy ballads is a bit out of her reach, as studies prove that whenever Ashlee holds a high note, the Earth's crust cracks, gas prices soar, and a kitten explodes. Ergo, Joe's going to have to make Ashlee brush up on her lip synching skills, which right now are about as polished as a junkyard Pinto.)

Maybe Joe is only trying to trick Johnny into knox-ing boots with this one instead of Jessica. That way, maybe the family cash cow will forced to consider returning to her starved marriage, thereby allowing Clan Simpson to milk her for a new show about about counseling and pre-nups.

Oscar Post-Party Fugshion: Jessica Simpson

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

STOP TANNING, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. People aren't supposed to look like that. I don't care if it's spray-on or sun-seared -- she's going to look like a pair of old boots when she's older. God. What's wrong with being flesh-colored?

Nothing But a Fug Shirt On....

Poor J. Simp.

First, Paris Hilton's T-Mobile gets hacked and the entire world reads that, among other juicy tidbits, Justin Timberlake shot Jessica down and she had to settle for nailing Adam Levine, and that she's addicted to the power.* And now, this:

Sigh. The Scarf Tied Around the Leggings is this millennium's variation on the If I Tie This Sweater Around My Hips, My Ass Will Look Smaller epidemic of 1995. You might feel like some camouflage work has been done, but it's really just drawing attention to the very area you're trying to conceal.

And then, there's the shirt. In a way, it's supportive and sweet of Jessica to be wearing Ashlee's merchandise. On the other hand, man, that's a bad concert tee. If only Tee Shirt Ashlee was wearing a shirt that had Jessica on it. And if the Jessica on this fictional tee shirt was wearing a shirt that had a picture of Ashlee on it, then....wow, now my head hurts.

Let us not even speak of the Return of the Leggings. No. Hush. I can't handle that today.

*Allegedly. Look, I'm just repeating what I heard from Paris.

You Make Me Wanna Fug Fug

Won't someone just put this girl out of her misery?

She's got a target right there on her chest already.

Pieces of Fug: Part INFINITY

It's official:

Ashlee Simpson simply can not dress herself. Forget all the hoopla surrouding the issue of her ability to actually sing. Has anyone checked to make sure the girl can even see?

Pieces of Fug. Again.

Dear Ashlee Simpson:

When Kelly Osbourne finds out that you're aping her look, she is going to kick your scrawny little ass. Sleep with one eye open.
We just thought you should know.

Love,
The Fug Girls

PS: No one's wearing pants that low anymore. We all got tired of having to get a Brazilian just to put on our jeans.
PPS: The sweater vest has never been sexy. It never will be sexy. It merely makes you look like you're a big Jack McFarlane fan, a goal we feel would be better accomplished through extensive use of jazz hands.
PPPS: Girls in ties are also over. I don't recall that look ever really working, unless you were Molly Ringwald or Shannen Dorherty as Brenda Walsh -- the former because, you know, she dressed kooky and latter because if you expressed dislike of her outfit, she'd cut you.
PPPPS: Hey, how's your acid reflux?

The 2004 Teen Fug Awards

In scanning a handful of photos from the Teen Choice Awards, I have found some compelling examples of people rampantly abusing their decision-making powers. Would a mirror have helped? Perhaps, but maybe it was just a shocking error in taste.

Exhibit A: Rachel Bilson.

Now, Rachel Bilson is adorable. If she'd just stuck with the dress and ditched the Half-Pint hairdo, she might've had a chance. Sure, it's a little rustic, but in a potentially very fetching way. But when she walked outside and thought to herself, "It might get a little chilly tonight -- I need something to cover my shoulders," she marked her doom by selecting not a classy wrap, or a cute coat, but in fact a castaway from the defunct Little House On The Prairie costume department.

I can't explain the choice of hairdo. Perhaps when she fugs it up, she refuses to half-ass it.

Exhibit B: Jojo

This kid is, like, thirteen, or something, which is a little bit ooky for me actually -- I feel like pop music, much like the professional tennis tour, shouldn't let anyone below a certain age participate. But, fine: Jojo has a hit song out while she's waiting for puberty, and so she gets to go to awards ceremonies.

However, Jojo committed the cardinal sin of changing outfits during the show without making sure it was an upgrade. On the red carpet, she chose this fetching peach top:

Very pretty -- she looks classy, if a bit like she's trying to outgrow her age. Still, she acquitted herself well here.

Yet by the time she hit the press room, Jojo had gone completely insane and dressed herself up like a flavor of Hubba Bubba gum:

The top seriously does look like the packaging on some insanely sweet 1980s-era sugar candy, like Nerds or some kind of watermelon-flavored chews. And maybe it's not even that horrible, or I'm just giving her some credit because she's thirteen. I'm not thrilled about the ruffle...It makes her hips look Duff shaped. If you want a ruffle on your clothes, you have to think about the ruffle. You have to map our your ruffle as it relates to your physique, and make sure the ruffle doesn't betray you. You need a ruffle strategy. Jojo, I believe, didn't have one. But you know what? I'll even give her that.

What makes this a true fug: The shoes. Nothing excuses those sneakers. NOTHING. Even Missy Elliott: Queen of High-Tops is at home going, "Oh, honey, NO."

Exhibit C: Ashlee Simpson.

Ms. Fuglee has bought into the idea that knickers are all the rage this season:

Ahoy, matey! She looks like a pirate's first-mate on a Carnival Cruise Lines marauding vessel. Knickers are just bad. Bad, bad, bad. Leave them to golfers and jockeys, please.

In sum: watch the layers, don't trust the ruffles, and burn the knickers.

Pieces of Fug

Such are the component parts of this Ashlee Simpson outfit from the MTV Movie Awards last month:

How do you take a boring blonde and differentiate her from her heinous fair-haired sister? Go through the bargain bin of bedsheets at a Cost Plus/World Market, fashion a "dress" out of one that's the color of cow's vomit, and cinch it with a giant leather yoke once used to rein in some oxen. Dye her hair, caution her not to wash it, and the throw in scraggly extensions that only go halfway around her head, serving to underline the natural lankness of her hair rather than thickening it.

Then give her those shoes: not a flat, not yet a wee kitten heel. An unholy way-station between two undesirable styles.

This is not the way to become the endearing Simpson sister.