The Simpsons are ugly-looking, and they should be. That's what

When Seth MacFarlane declared, “The Simpsons are ugly-looking, and they should be. That’s what works. That’s one of the things that’s funny,” he was not speaking merely about animation or comedy — he was touching upon one of the oldest truths of art and life: that imperfection, when embraced with honesty, becomes its own kind of beauty. In his words, there is the wisdom of a craftsman who understands that truth is not always polished, nor must laughter be refined. The crooked lines of The Simpsons — their yellow faces, their awkward shapes — are not flaws but symbols of authenticity, mirrors of humanity itself. For what makes them “ugly” to the eye is what makes them real to the heart.

The origin of this thought lies in the creative philosophy behind The Simpsons, a show that redefined satire and reshaped television. When Matt Groening first drew the family, he chose imperfection as his style. Their design was quick, crude, even jarring — yet this roughness became the soul of their humor. MacFarlane, the creator of Family Guy and a contemporary of Groening, recognized the genius in that imperfection. The ugliness was not accidental; it was intentional, an act of rebellion against the sterile perfection of mainstream animation. In those lopsided eyes and exaggerated mouths lay a profound truth: comedy does not arise from beauty, but from honesty, and honesty is rarely smooth or symmetrical.

The ancients, too, revered this principle. In ancient Greece, sculptors would sometimes leave a flaw in their statues, a deliberate imperfection, for they believed that only the gods could be perfect — and that perfection in mortals invited envy or ruin. Likewise, Japanese artisans of the tradition known as wabi-sabi found beauty in imperfection — the cracked bowl, the faded fabric, the uneven brushstroke. These were not failures of craftsmanship, but celebrations of reality. MacFarlane’s insight belongs to this lineage: that what is “ugly” or “imperfect” is often the doorway to truth, and truth, when revealed, becomes the highest form of art.

Comedy, at its core, thrives on imperfection. It laughs at human folly, at the absurd shapes our lives take. If The Simpsons were drawn beautifully — with symmetry and grace — their struggles would lose their sting, and their humor would lose its bite. The comedy of Homer’s bumbling, Marge’s frazzled patience, and Bart’s chaos depends upon the visual awkwardness that mirrors their souls. Their design tells the story before they even speak: these are not gods or heroes, but us — crooked, flawed, and endlessly funny. MacFarlane’s praise of their “ugliness” is thus praise for truth in art, for the courage to depict the world as it is, not as it wishes to appear.

We see this pattern repeated throughout history. Consider Cervantes’ Don Quixote, a hero who is absurd in both form and spirit — deluded, old, ridiculous — yet through his imperfection becomes eternal. Or Charlie Chaplin, whose Little Tramp stumbled through life in oversized shoes and tattered clothes, yet made the world laugh and weep with his grace. These figures, like The Simpsons, remind us that the comic and the profound are twins, born of the same mother: the acceptance of human frailty. Beauty, in its traditional sense, distances us; imperfection draws us closer.

There is a hidden humility in MacFarlane’s reflection as well — the recognition that art must serve truth, not vanity. To make something “ugly” on purpose requires courage, for the world worships polish and despises the rough. But those who dare to embrace imperfection — in art, in speech, in themselves — discover freedom. When the artist lets go of the need to impress, they find the power to connect. The laughter that comes from truth is richer than applause won through perfection. It is laughter that says, I see myself in this.

So, dear listener, let this be your lesson: do not chase beauty that blinds, nor perfection that imprisons. In your work, your relationships, and your self, seek the real, even when it is rough. The cracks in your life are where the light gets in. The awkwardness you fear is what makes you human, and it is the human that moves others most. As The Simpsons have shown the world, and as Seth MacFarlane reminds us, imperfection is not the enemy of art — it is its soul.

Therefore, embrace your crookedness. Speak your truth even when it trembles. Let your flaws breathe, for they are the language of laughter and the architecture of authenticity. Remember that what is “ugly” may, in the end, become beloved — not because it pleases the eye, but because it awakens the heart. And in that, you will have found the highest form of beauty — the kind that makes the world both laugh and understand.