Caucasian Confucius: How to Be "Hot"

I am a pretty mediocre-looking 17-year old girl. I am a bit overweight and have some acne, along with a pale complexion and carrot red hair. I'm from a middle-class family, so my clothes are decent, but not exactly top of the line. I don't think I'm ugly or anything, but all the pretty girls at school make fun of me. How can I be attractive and stylish like them? Help me! - Gertrude, St. Paul, Minnesota

Dear Gertrude,

You came to the right place, because I'm telling you, the Style Network ain't got nothin' on Caucasian Confucius! By the time I'm done with you, girl, Teen Vogue will be begging you to be their next cover girl. But we've got some work to do first.

First, about your name: Gertrude. It is, I am afraid, a hideously unattractive moniker. Michael Jackson's son laughs at your name, and his name is "Blanket." You will never be considered pretty and stylish as long as you call yourself Gertrude. You could suddenly transform into a Victoria's Secret model, but if your name is still Gertrude, you will still cause the sales reps at Abercrombie to vomit when you ask to try on a miniskirt. So from now on, call yourself Carmelita. It's exotic and ethnic-sounding, so people will focus on that instead of your pimples.

Now about those pimples, Carmelita: I don't know how many bathroom mirrors you have shattered with that face of yours, but unless you want to be picking glass shards off the floor for the rest of your natural life, the zits have got to go, and I don't care how well they match your hair color. Turn on your television to MTV and watch until you see a commercial for Pro-Activ. Quickly write down the toll free number on the screen and order your free 30-day supply. Jessica Simpson uses Pro-Activ, so you know it's good. Of course, Jessica Simpson would probably smear motor oil on her face if a doctor told her to, but don't worry about the details; just use the damn stuff already.

Now that your skin is all cleared up, it's time to tan! You're from St. Paul, Minnesota, so putting on a bikini and laying out in your backyard won't do you a lick of good this time of year. (Plus, I don't want to imagine you in a bikini. I just watched "Saw III" and frankly, I've seen enough scary images for one day.) Call up your best friend and ask her if she wants to go to a tanning salon with you. After remembering that you have no friends, borrow your parent's car and go to the salon yourself. Tell the lady at the front desk that you want to get fried like a Sunday morning egg. She'll take you into a little room with a tanning bed. Take off all your clothes, except your granny panties, and lie down on the bed. Pull down the lid, and stay there for about an hour, soaking in all the ultraviolet rays your melanin-deficient skin could ask for, and then some.

Now get out of the tanning bed and look at yourself in the mirror (assuming it didn't crack when you first walked in the room). Notice anything different? That's right, your forgot to put on sunscreen! Congratulations, you now look like the result of a spring-break hookup between a frat boy and a giant beet. Don't worry, Carmelita - in a week, all that burned skin will flake off, revealing a beautiful, shiny layer of malignant melanomas. In the meantime, it's time to change your name again. Adios, Carmelita; Hao, Pochahontas.

Now, there's no time to waste! Before you die, you still need to accessorize. A sizeable accessory collection is the trademark of every true "it" girl. You don't see Kristin Cavallari and Lauren Conrad strutting around Laguna Beach and West Hollywood with store brand purses, do you? Listen up, girl, because the following advice will get you laid, which is the real reason you asked my advice in the first place.

First, there's the jewelry: every popular girl needs a box full of it. And forget about those hideous beaded necklaces and woven bracelets you bought at last year's school Third World Culture Appreciation Week craft fair. Borrow the keys to your dad's Chevrolet and book it to the nearest high-end shopping mall (use Mapquest; I know you've never been there before). Find a classy jewelry store, preferably Tiffany And Co. Inside, you will find a simply marvelous display of fashionable bracelets, which come in a wide range of prices to suit any budget. Of course, you most certainly can NOT buy the cheap bracelet. All "it" girls will know immediately that it was the least expensive one, and will laugh at you and tell all the cute guys at school that you have genital herpes. Buy the $300 bracelet. "But Caucasian Confucius," you say, "I don't have that much money!" No problem! The kind-hearted saleswoman will be only too happy to let you charge the bracelet to a store credit card. In other words, it's free!

Next, trot across the mall to Nordstrom. Locate the women's section, where you will find a truly mind-blowing array of handbags. The handbag is what separates the wheat from the chaff, the contenders from the pretenders, the men from the boys (well, the gay ones at least). In other words, if you don't have a knockout handbag, you are so not getting an invite to Kyndra the Platinum Blonde Slut's next backyard pool party. Bags made by Juicy Couture, Chanel, Dooney and Bourke, and Betsey Johnson are always fine choices. For pure shallow bitchiness, however, you can't beat the Fendi Spy bag. "But Caucasian Confucius," you say again, "that bag looks almost exactly like my uncle Opie's bowling ball bag! Why is it so hot?" Who the fuck knows, Pochahontas? Just put the bag on a new Nordstrom credit card (remember, that means it's free!), and be on your way.

There, you're officially accessorized! Only one more hurdle remains between you and the glories of the high school "in" crowd: a car. Kyndra wants you to come to her party now, but there's no way she is inviting anyone who still has to ask their parents for a ride. Get some nerd in the Computers Club to hack into your parents' online bank account, and "borrow" their debit card number. Drive across town to the Land Rover dealership, and buy the Discovery SUV. Prohibitively expensive, yet cheaply made and possessing the worst fuel economy this side of a Humvee, the Discovery is the symbol of air-headed superficiality and excess. In other words, it is you. If your parents' account doesn't have enough money to cover the cost, the honorable, morally-upstanding car salesman will gladly extend to you a line of credit. How nice of him!

Pochahontas, I think you're all set. You've got an exotic name, a clear complexion, a (literally) killer tan, an exorbitantly overpriced piece of jewelry, a handbag to make you the envy of rich bitches everywhere, and a completely impractical new mode of transportation. In other words, my dear, you are hot.