Lindsay Lohan fills cups like double D’s. She’s the new Ann-Margaret, a flashing-eyed temptress, with the kind of self-awareness to make the housepets sweat. She’s got timing as an actress, as Freaky Friday and Mean Girls attest. But damn it if her transformation from one-to-ten tweener starlet into certified twenty freak machine is askew from discernable talent and parallel to purity. None of this bodes well for Hilary Duff. For a time quite infamously neck and neck with Lohan – cue kooky “E! News Live” fodder of stage mothers egging opposing cars and hating on their girls’ chinchillas – Duff lately has become the white toast foot patrol to her peer’s fiery salsa Rolls. If Lindsay’s the new Ann-Margaret, Hilary’s this year’s Melissa Joan Hart. It’s the sad ducket truth, even amidst the fog of FCC violations and goody-two-shoesness: We want a lady in the street but a freak in the bed.