Contest

“They are always holding Beauty Contests all over America,” said
Simple. “Why don’t nobody ever hold an Ugly Contest?”
“An Ugly Contest!” I cried. “For what reason?”
“For the same reasons folks hold a Beauty Contest,” said Simple, “for
fun. There are so many ugly womens in this world, it would be fun to
see which one wins.”
“Beauty is as beauty does,” I reminded him, “not how it looks.”
“Oh, no!” declared Simple. “Beauty is as beauty looks. You can’t tell
me an ugly chick, be she ever so nice, is going to look pretty, not even if
she goes to church every day and three times on Sunday. She may look
holy, but she cannot look pretty if her mama did not born her so.”
“The Lord made everyone in God’s image,” I said.
“Don’t bamboozle me like that,” said Simple. “If God is bowlegged,
sway-backed, merinery, and buck-toothed, skippy! That I do not believe.
But some womens is all of them things—and wear slacks besides. There
are more homely womens in the world than there are pretty womens.
So it would be easy to hold an Ugly Contest every week-end. And at
the end of the year I would have an Elimination Contest for the Ugliest
YoungWoman on Earth. I bet whoever won that Grand Prize would get
all kinds of Hollywood, TV, radio, and movie contracts, not to mention
a week at the Apollo.”
“The winner might get all those things,” I said, “but the poor girl
would have a hard time finding a husband after so much ‘ugly’ publicity.”
“With all the money that Ugly Champion would be making, she could
not keep the men away from her,” said Simple. “Facts is, if I was single,
as much loot as the most famous ugly woman in the world would be
making, I would marry her myself just to spend some of her cash. Ugly
is as ugly does, and if that woman did me good, I would not care what
she looked like. Then if she uglied away into paradise, died in due time,
and willed me her fortunes, my memories of her would be beautiful. No
rich woman can get too ugly to find a husband. Money talks.”
“Perish the thought,” I said, “that the winner of the Ugly Contest
would have to pay a man to marry her. Poor girl! That would be a
hollow triumph indeed for all her trophies and her scrolls. But tell me,
since Beauty Contests have rules, you know, by which beauty is judged—
measurements of busts, waists, hips, and thighs, tint of complexion and
tone of hair—what rules would you set up for judging an Ugly Contest?”
“Busts the flattest, hips the barrelest, legs the thinnest, and the rest of
it, come what may,” said Simple. “Also I would give a prize for the tightest
slacks on the biggest haunches, the highest heels on the longest feet,
and the hair with the most colors in it. Just a two-tone hair job or a wig
would not get nowhere in my contest. I would give a prize to the head of
hair with a red streak, a yellow streak, a green streak, and a purple streak
in it—and only then if it had an orange horsetail as well. Oh, my ugly
woman winner would be a mad Myrtle without a girdle, I’m telling you!
She would look like King Kong’s daughter plus the niece of Balaam’s offox.
To win my contest, she would have to be a homely heifer, indeed.
“But I would give her a great big prize, then put her under contract for
all personal appearances on stage, screen, or at Rockland Palace. I would
charge one thousand dollars-a-day commission for the public to look at
her—the Homeliest Woman in the Whole World. The Ugly Champion
of the Universe! If ever she went up in a spaceship, she would scare
the Man in the Moon to death before she had a chance to meet him.
Miss Ugly would be so ugly she would be proud of herself, and her
mama before her would be proud of her, as would her daddy when he
learned how famous his daughter had got to be—pictured endorsing
every filter-tipped cigarette, singing commercials for toothpaste, and
posing for beer.
“Seriously, I believe I will start such a contest, get me maybe a thousand
entries, hire a big hall, Count Basie’s Band, and have me an Ugly
Parade instead of a Beauty Parade, appoint Nipsey Russell and Jackie
Moms Mabley as judges, and take a big pile of money. Besides, such a
contest would make me famous, too—as the only man in the world with
nerve enough to call a whole lot of women ugly! ‘Jesse B. Semple, promoter
of the Ugly Contest!’ And if I found a woman uglier than I am a
man, more homely than me, I would give her a special prize myself. A
gold beer mug with my picture on it, engraved:

To You From Me
Your Ugly Daddy
Jesse B. Semple
Congratulations