As I was perusing the latest edition of Cosmo (as any 25-year-old hetero male does), I read something that absolutely shocked me. No, it wasn’t the article about how you can judge a guy’s personality based on the shape of his ass, although I was quite fascinated to discover that my apple-butt means that I’m looking for an “emotional connection with a woman.” Rather, I’m referring to the article in which the brilliant minds at Cosmo dubbed Milli Vanilli protégée Ashlee Simpson the “Fun Fearless Female of the Year.” I mean, rampant hurricanes in Florida, a tsunami in Asia and now this… I might have to start going to church.

First of all, anyone whose first name doesn’t pass the spell-check on the computer can’t possibly be named the person of the year. As soon as the little red, squiggly line appears under her name, she should be immediately disqualified. However, with the number of celebrities these days naming their children things like Moonwatch and Rainbowlina, that rule would soon have to be thrown out anyway for there to be any eligible contestants.

Even if she did spell her name in a normal way, what exactly qualifies this tailcoat hitchhiker to be named the female of the year? Her spinoff reality show, cleverly called “The Ashlee Simpson Show,” could possibly be the worst television spinoff since every series that the former cast members of “Seinfeld” have participated in. At least her older sister Jessica, while being half a retard, manages to entertain us while she constantly drives husband Nick Lachey to the brink of suicide. As far as I can tell, Ashlee’s show consists of 15 minutes of her wailing away in the recording studio like a wounded Maltese and 15 minutes of her whining incessantly about her pseudo-boyfriend.

But I haven’t always been so anti-Ashlee. Following last October’s embarrassing performance on “Saturday Night Live,” during which the “performer” was caught lip-syncing, I actually empathized with the poor girl. I was willing to accept her excuse that she opted for the prerecorded version because she had a mysterious illness that affected her vocal cords. However, when she followed that dismal performance with a public appearance a couple months later at the halftime show of the Orange Bowl, all bets were off. Her live performance on this national stage, where everyone in the country was just waiting for her to fall flat on her face… well, let’s just say it made me long for the days of her lip-syncing.

For those of you who escaped the agony of witnessing this brutally bombastic assault on the eardrums, I will now muster all of my skills as a writer in order to adequately describe to you what it was like: It sucked ass. I wanted desperately to change the channel, but I was unable to do anything but stare at the television with my jaw in hand. When the auditory sodomy finally ceased, the entire stadium stood and booed so loudly that the television station had to cut to a commercial in order to limit the humiliation. Well, I don’t know about “fun,” but she gets my vote for “fearless”; either that, or she’s just a glutton for punishment.

Somehow, her resume just doesn’t scream “Female of the Year” to me. I do admit that the competition was scarce this year. Britney is busy shopping for size small wife-beaters for her fianc