So I’m reading this editorial about Ashlee Simpson’s disasterous performance at Tuesday night’s Orange Bowl game, when I read this:

When Ashlee came on and began to perform, though, I literally dropped my fork. Then I cupped my hands over my ears, but it didn’t help. Ashlee’s singing sounded like a cross between a political prisoner being tortured and a test of the Emergency Broadcast System.




I happened to look out the window and noticed that some of my neighbors were running down the street, their hands over their ears, screaming for help. I wanted to help them, I really did. Yet I was gripped by horror and disbelief. I was practically catatonic. For their sake — and for mine — all I could hope for was a swift end to the halftime show.

Okay, I’m sure she was awful, and as far as I can tell, there’s no logical reason for her to be famous in any way — she’s certainly not a looker (she seems to me like a cross between Barbara Streisand and Joan Jett). But that’s just plain mean.