That intoxicating aroma wafting through the air is, we at GFY News Service have confirmed, the smell of desperation emanating from Camp Simpson.
But first: Consider for a moment the last time Jessica Simpson appeared on the cover of Maxim. It was in 2004, she was still pretend-happily married, and her father was still gleefully exploiting her as the sort of sexy blonde angel-next-door.
See? They're working the whole virgin/whore, "You want me, but I'm taken," rumpled princess thing. You almost get the impression Maxim wanted her more naked but she and Joe were able to say, "No, that's not her image, and you need us more than we need you, so go along with it."
But now, what with her being a rumpled princess of a different sort, Jessica is in a different situation. She's being painted more often than not as a selfish little sinner who cuckolded her husband with a series of utter man-whores, she's completely boring, and she's being forced to hawk some humiliating wigs that are so mind-bendingly atricious, even Cher, or Dolly Parton, or hell -- Dame Edna -- would sooner strap roadkill to their heads than wear her pseudo-coifs.
So what happens? Maxim comes knocking, and her knockers knock back:
This cover just reeks of C-list "look at me, look at me!" desperation. It's the sort of blow-up-doll approach to publicity that a person would take when she thinks she's on her way up, not when she's been at the top for a few years based on her sweetheart image, raked in millions, dominated the tabloids, and stirred up a national obsession with her marriage. What makes it more pathetic is that she's still stuck with that disastrous, tacky fright-wig of a mop on her head -- unless she is actually wearing one of the titular creatures from the promised "World's Most Horrifying Pets" story, in which case, that's savvy art-directing.
As such, the whole package is less "portrait of an untouchable fantasy" than "chick with the nice rack who works at Dairy Queen and won an online cover-girl contest." How Team Simpson let this happen is beyond me -- it's almost like admitting defeat -- but perhaps there's some truth to the idea that Ashlee gets the royal treatment now and, until she can redeem herself with a movie and/or a respectable romance, Jessica is relegated to clawing her way through any old publication that will tell her she's still got it.
So what's next, Jessie? FHM? Jugs? Wicked-Hot Chicks Monthly?
