The Hazards of Being Jessica Simpson

Dear Jessica Simpson,

We could take it when Newlyweds was on MTV eighteen hours a day.  We even watched a little bit of it--we thought you were insufferable, but Nick seemed like a nice guy.   We figured you would enjoy a brief flash of popularity.

We were wrong.

You began to appear in the tabloids--your husband was chatting up hot brunettes at the Kentucky Derby, Johnny Knoxville was teaching you unspeakable sexual acts, your father was extolling your breasts to anyone who would listen, your sister was screeching at the Orange Bowl.  We read that you bought your father Botox shots.  As a gift.  We thought this was a bit rude as gifts go, but then, our father is aging very well.

And then we saw you on the cover of Elle, and we thought you'd gone too far.  Star and InTouch and even Glamour were one thing, missy--but now here you were on the cover of a serious fashion magazine, looking well-groomed and, dare we say, hot.  (Unlike that picture of you on the cover of Premiere, where you look a bit--how would your publicist put it?--dehydrated.  Exhausted.  Whatever.)

Handling your own press is tricky, we realize.  (We'd advise you to ask Lindsay Lohan, but your sister probably isn't the only Simpson she refuses to speak to.)  Perhaps you're aware that you are rapidly reaching media saturation.   

We were completely prepared to call for an end to the Jessica Simpson juggernaut.  No more magazine covers.  No more defenses of your marriage.  No more movies where you speak in a Southern accent so wretched no one would believe you grew up in Texas.  No more godawful remakes of Nancy Sinatra songs (or Berlin tunes, for that matter).

And then we realized that however overexposed and twisted you are, you're nothing in comparison to the train wreck that Katie Holmes has become.   

Jessica, all is forgiven.

Love ya like a sister,

Glossed Over