Ashlee & Jessica Simpson

Jessica Simpson has been going through a bit of a rough time lately, we imagine. To recap, she lost the post-divorce publicity battle; her lip implants backfired; her career as an actress may well rest in the bawdy frat-boy paws of Dane Cook and the grasping, sweaty, deliriously crazy mitts of Andy Dick; her father is still her father; and her sister has totally stolen the Family Mojo by starring in Chicago on the West End and overhauling her nasal passages.

What's a girl to do? I mean, aside from try to take comfort in the soft, incubatory embrace of a fake romance with a slightly bloated "sensitive" musician who can woo her with syllables and the promise that he might one day write a song and allow the world to assume it was about her? That's the natural first reaction; nothing cures a broken heart like a hollow, shallow publicity stunt, especially one that ends in a cover of Us Weekly on which the word "DUMPED" screams across a photo of you with your lips puckered and slightly parted, as if someone has just offered you a chocolate malt and then yanked it away in a cruel prank against your sweet tooth.

Fortunately for J.Simp, the next step was to normalize her gymorexic physique and Crayola-colored skin.

Oh, but one step forward, two steps back. Because you know what doesn't help in this situation? Thigh-high boots that look like you stapled them together with some felt you bought at Michael's:

The red purse might help her spirits a little. But the boots, Jessica. The boots. You are not so intriguing that you can rebound from your current tragic situation in just any old crazy shoes. You're not becoming the type of person who can pull off over-the-knee faux-suede naughty boots simply because you are Who You Are.

Now, Victoria Beckham, sure. Thigh-high boots? No problem. Kind of fabulous, actually. Not because they make sense, but because we've come to adore her for her half-nutter, half-genius fashion sense. Yes, she can put a foot wrong, and indeed often she puts them both there, but on the whole she's so intriguing that even her missteps come back around to being awesome. (Indeed, we had fervently hoped she would eventually be immortalized as a sort of latter-day Joan Collins, but without the help of the late Aaron Spelling -- rest your beloved soul, you mischievous soapy mastermind, you -- we're having to recalibrate our expectations a trifle.)

But Jessica, we're not there with you. Not yet. You are not Posh Spice, honey. You are not British pseudo-royalty. Perhaps the flickering bulbs in both your heads emit the same low wattage, but where we suspect Posh Spice is quite funny behind the scenes, we don't have quite the same high hopes for you. [Don't take offense; you created the monster with Newlyweds, so you have no one but yourself and your Svengali father to blame for that preconception.] 

Ergo, all the boots make us think of is who you aren't. Now, definitely keep trying -- we love a good phoenix-from-the-ashes story just as much as the next tar-hearted cow -- but you might need to aim a little less ambitiously. Your embers aren't quite cold enough yet for a glorious, Posh-esque, dramatic resurrection in oddball footwear.

INT. Night. The party following Ashlee's Simpson's debut in Chicago:

ASHLEE: Can we finally agree that I'm the cute one now? Can we? Seriously, Jess! I'm totally the cute one now.

JESSICA: I can't believe it's come to this so soon. I felt like I had at least five more years of holding you off. But the divorce hit me like a ton of bricks, Ashlee. And then that disaster with John Mayer.  And I've totally gained weight since I stopped working out nine hours a day. Even my hair is, like, all....

ASHLEE: Lank? Lackluster? Meh?

JESSICA: I was going to say, depressed. Those commericals are true, dude. Depression HURTS. It hurts everyone AROUND ME. Aren't you hurting, now, too?

ASHLEE: I feel great!

JESSICA: Nothing even fits me anymore. I made this top from one of the curtins in my hotel room.

ASHLEE: Well, at least you're crafty now that everything else has fallen apart! You know what they say: when God closes a door, he opens a window, or whatever! Your window turned out to be arts and crafts! That's awesome!

JESSICA: I guess. Where's the cheese table around here?

I would love to have been at the Simpson Family Meeting where it was decided that Jessica ought to wear this little number:

MA SIMPSON: What should Jessica wear to that Yahoo! thing tomorrow?

PA SIMPSON: Pasties!

MA SIMPSON: No.

PA SIMPSON: Hot pants!

MA SIMPSON: Not again.  What about a slinky little cocktail number?

ASHLEE SIMPSON: Um, I totally hate to be a bitch, but am I the only person who's noticed that she looks like she's been living on a steady diet of KFC lately?

MA SIMPSON: Look, Ashlee, for the last time: we are not sending her out there dressed like Buckethead.

ASHLEE SIMPSON: That is not what I meant! She's totally been riding the lard pony, you guys! We were all at the Simpson Family Weigh-In this morning. You saw her charts. She's so gained weight since we booted Lachey!

JESSICA SIMPSON: (silent due to laryngitis, gives Ashlee dirty look, throws a highlighter at her head, gives her the finger.)

ASHLEE SIMPSON: You guys NEVER thought this would happen! DID YOU? NO! You NEVER thought I would be the hot one! AT LAST! THE STICKS OF BUTTER I HAVE BEEN WHIPPING INTO HER NUTRA SLIM SHAKES ARE WORKING! I HAVE FINALLY DEFEATED HER MAGIC METABOLISM! SURE, IT'S ONLY LIKE FIVE POUNDS, BUT I WILL TAKE IT! THANK YOU GOD! MY BLOOD SACRIFICE IS IMMINENT!

JESSICA SIMPSON: (holds up sign reading: "It's just three pounds, but even if it were 35, I'd still be hotter than you, you tragic little desperado.")

MA SIMPSON: Don't be ridiculous. She's maybe just a little bloated, and she's still very pretty. Let's just put her in a car hop costume and hope for the best.

ASHLEE SIMPSON: WHY DOESN'T ANYONE LISTEN TO ME? I'M THE PRETTY ONE NOW AND YOU'RE STILL IGNORING ME! SHE CALLED ME TRAGIC! I'M NOT TRAGIC! You don't think I'm tragic, do you, mom?

MA SIMPSON: Huh? Oh, we thought you'd left. Run along and play, I have to brush Jessie's hair 1000 times now.

ASHLEE: I HATE YOU ALL!

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?

HEATHER: I wonder if we should finally do something with that Jessica Simpson dress that everyone's e-mailing us about. It is ugly.

JESSICA: I know. But, ugh. It feels like it's been covered.

HEATHER: Yeah, it's possible everything's already been said about it. Also, I'm still just really sick of her. I can see her beady little eyes through those sunglasses, and I can feel a headache coming on already.

JESSICA: I know. It's like I don't even have the energy to make fun of the dress because she makes me so very tired.

HEATHER: Sweet GOD, though, that this is terrible. It's like if Salvador Dali painted a seascape that he thought existed somewhere in Dante's second ring of hell. It's beyond awful. It's not even flattering.

JESSICA: And the shoes. Usually these people can at least get the shoes right. It hurts me when they don't.

HEATHER: She looks rough. I feel like having no friends and being the big PR loser in her divorce war is kind of turning her into a kooky recluse.

JESSICA: It's about time. I've only been waiting, like, two years for her to retreat into her mansion and draw the shades.

HEATHER: Seriously, where did she get the idea that people in the outside world wanted to be exposed to that pattern? She's the lucky one; she's wearing shades. They protect.

JESSICA: Maybe Ken Paves told her it looked good. And then transferred a bunch of money to a Swiss bank account.

HEATHER: Maybe Adam Levine once told her that he gets horny at surrealist toga parties.

JESSICA: Or maybe Joe told her that if she didn't do something dramatic to get herself back in the public eye, she could be... replaced.

HEATHER: It worked. She is just a step away from Muumuu City in that travesty.

JESSICA: I do wonder if, now that everyone's more interested in  Ashlee's nose and Nick and who he's rebounding with, she'll finally go all Sunset Boulevard on the world.

HEATHER: Haha. "I AM big. It's the tabloids that got small."

JESSICA. Right. With a turban! Oh my God, if she'd worn a turban with that...

HEATHER: Turban's are a washed-up diva's best friend.

I actually think that poor little Assica Simpson -- who, by the way, really does seems to have been gently, professionally anorexified so that when an America that's sick of her philandering sister decides to hug Assica to its collective cushy bosom, we can't secretly giggle about having pinched an inch in the process -- looks very nice with her new nose. I didn't mind her face before, and don't think she needed the rhinoplasty, but she seems happy, so apparently, kiddies, it is true that money will buy you such things. Hooray! Take a mallet to your piggy banks! (Or, a nose, if you want to force that issue instead of politely asking your parents if they have a few thousand dollars in small change.)

However, I'm not sure why Assica is hiding her light under the symbolic bushel of that hat. She's arduously sculpted herself into Jessica's equal -- some might say, as I do, that she out-cutes the depressed and depressing Mrs. Lachey -- and now she's shoving it all under a ridiculous Robin Hood Goes To The Office piece of headgear. There are better ways to kick off summer, Assica. Sigh.

Oompa-loompa doompety-doo
I've got another fugging for you.
Oompa-loompa-dumbety-dee
Tanorexic fame-whores are frightening to me.

What do you do when your affairs are a mess,
And the press has been siding with your cuckolded ex?
Spray yourself gold and fluff up your cleav,
'Cause that's all the tricks you've got up your sleeve.

But hair and skin should never maaaaaaatch....

Oompa-loompa talentless hack
Before you buy those orphans, at least dye yourself back.
But even Foreign Baby Love can't redeem you --
Sorry, but that's what overpublicized marriage, a horrible show, calculated stupidity, genuine stupidity, a horrible movie performance, a year of fake public appearances before a bitter divorce rife with rumors of your infidelities, a brilliant PR campaign by your husband, that hideous "Angels" cover, and having no friends in the world besides your hairdresser (although, look at yourself -- is he REALLY your friend?) because even your father is more interested in Ashlee now will DOOMPETY-DO.

Oh, yeah. This is a great look:

This outfit reminds me of a moment in my youth. Picture it: Southern California.  Late spring, 1993.  My senior English class sits in a warm classroom, all of us staring out the window and not down at our copies of Heart of Darkness. We have all been accepted to college. We are done with high school. My English teacher, Mr. Moran, asks a question about the book. None of us can answer. Not a single one of us has read even a word of it. We are all slacking off. Instead of berating us for this, however, Mr Moran just looked at us all for a long beat, sighed, and said, "Fine. I'll just TELL YOU what happened."

The look of resignation on his face, the look that said, "I could fight this, but why bother?," the total expression of having simply given up, but not really caring that he'd given up anymore, that's what we're seeing here on Ms Simpson. Her sister's cuter than she is now, her dad doesn't love her anymore, no one wants to see her movies or eat her Pizza Bites,  her best friend is cannoodling with her ex-husband, that skinny twerp from Maroon 5 dumped her via text...why bother? Why even wash your hair? Just toss on a schmatta and last season's LV and go out and eat some chicken wings with your accountant.

Okay, either Joe Simpson really hates Ashlee and wants to pretend she's Jessica, or he thinks Jessica is so early 2000s and is all set to replace her. Either way, his youngest child is inching ever closer to being able to assume the duties of Jessica Simpson should it be deemed that Jessica Simpson is unable to or incapable of performing them. [I personally feel that day has long passed us by, but Joe Simpson did not ask my opinion, so we're still stuck with her for now.]

At any rate, check out Assica at an appearance in Australia:

Long blond and wavy extensions, orange skin, signature pose, shrinking body that leads to a more dominant, prominent chin... all the hallmarks of Jessica are there. Assica has even chucked her punk clothes for something that looks ripped off from her sister's wardrobe. Now, all Joe needs to do is successfully marry her off to Ryan Cabrera, like he's been trying to do all along, so we can see if Newlyweds: When Pop Singers Collide II can FINALLY produce some little bundles of money to carry on the family name and pay for Joe's retirement castle.

Although if we go down that path, then it's only a matter of time before Assica gets linked some alpha-male star of an MTV show and then rumored details of the tryst will make the "ass" in her name all too literal, and then she'll have to put on a happy face for a year before getting a divorce and having a fling with, like, James Blunt, or something.

Joe! This path doesn't work! Stop her!

People. I thought we had an AGREEMENT. I thought we were going to pretend that Jessica Simpson DIDN'T EXIST.  I feel like we TALKED about this, and I CRIED, and you all AGREED that she was OVER and I wasn't going to have to LOOK AT THIS ANYMORE:

OH MY GOD STOP TAKING PICTURES OF HER! Please, for the love of GOD STOP IT. I do not want to look at her big fake huge fake stupid fake lips -- which look ABSURD in this photo, which was taken SEVERAL FEET AWAY, can you IMAGINE what they look like if you were trying to KISS HER?  -- and her stupid 2001-era newsboy cap and her dumb 2002-era Uggs and her lazy, albeit timeless sweatpants. That whole outfit is, head-to-toe, a trip through Clothing Fad Memory Line of the last five minutes of all of our lifes. And, girl, while I get that you just want to run to the market to pick up a 40, how hard is it to throw on a pair of jeans? For real. THE REST OF US HUMANS MANAGE TO DO IT. WHY DO YOU THINK YOU'RE NOBoy u3 HB609ut noegn;Gn;lg;NGng;'Heoi9yo4hyunyne;w25i8585kskjwrttjjwjwflkg3w59i85qwqa..f74

[Editor's note:  We apologize for the above. Jessica will be back posting regularly when she recovers from what the doctors are calling "a mild case of rage-induced psychosis." They seem to think that as soon as she stops clawing at her face in anger and smashing her skull against her keyboard, she will be able to type again. They would like us to warn you all, however, that this kind of Ragaholism is highly contagious, and that if you have any of the following symptoms, you should put down your US Weekly and consult a physician immediately:  bursting into hives and/or tears at the sight of Joe Simpson, Dina Lohan or Kathy Hilton;  uncontrollable shaking when Jessica Simpson's "Pizza Bites" commercial comes on the television; gutteral, primal screaming when faced with yet another article about that random girl Nick Lachey may or may not be sleeping with; gutteral, primal screaming when no one listens to your theory that Nick Lachey is probably sleeping with Matt Leinart; and/or falling into a comatose state when you realize that you recognize Jessica Simpson's fucking hairdresser and, what's worse, also know -- off the top of your head -- his full name.]