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.