It’s a happy birthday… sigh… to Jessica Simpson, who turns 27 today, probably celebrating by making some comically misguided and dunderheaded malapropism. I’m going to endeavor to avoid saying anything needlessly cruel and misanthropic, but Simpson’s appeal escapes me, always has. Sure, she’s got a huge rack, but she’s an awful screen performer, and endearing only insomuch as one appreciates those who aren’t in on the fact that everyone’s laughing at them instead of with them.



How to be as delicate as possible, here? Umm… some women are not meant to speak, really. (Before anyone gets up in arms, I’d certainly say the same thing as well about an equal percentage of men, many of whom I believe appear in Abercrombie & Fitch ads.) Simpson’s allure, as it were, dates back to another era — she’s a Betty Grable pin-up queen, tantalizing only as an unknowable commodity. The second she opens her mouth, the illusion is shattered. Both on screen — with her forcedly, faux-sexy twang — and off, Simpson is play-acting what she’s been told is sexy, and the dimness and swallowed panic come through in equal measure.

There, that wasn’t mean, was it?