The iconic Barbie Doll was first unleashed on an unsuspecting world in 1959 (the same year Fidel Castro came to power in Cuba, which explains a lot). A huge hit for Mattel, apparently the throngs of repressed, Pall Mall-smoking mothers who bought them for their precocious daughters didn’t give much thought to the fact that Barbie’s proportions didn’t reflect reality in the least. If she was a real person, Barbie would be a horrifying 33” hips, 18” waist – same as mine – and a Dolly-challenging 39” bust, all immortalized in shiny, slick and highly-flammable plastic (apologies to my sisters… plastic boobs are Zippo magnets). Barbie’s glossy, seam-busting frame is exactly what came to mind the night I touched Jessica Simpson.
Jessica Simpson was on display at an exclusive hideaway in New York’s West Village (which wasn’t so exclusive as to not allow my alcohol-enhanced entourage to walk through the door). She was perched at a table with scores of frenemies and her surprisingly handsome husband, all apparently having just arrived in Jessica’s Barbie Corvette. As I stumbled into the room, I instantly detected her presence using my Celebrity Location Assistance Powers (the CLAP).
What strikes you immediately, like so many Amanda Bynes-driven vehicles, is that every single thing about Jessica looks a little bit fake – her hair, her face, her clothes, her breathing. It is almost as if she just came off the highly mechanized Barbie assembly line.
As I watched (read: stalked) her, I notice she really didn’t say much. Apparently someone had broken the string in her back from pulling it too many times to make her talk (or more likely, her husband cut the cord). She just sat there with an odd permanently painted smile on her plasticized face, like Ann Romney visiting a public school. Of course, her face was over-shadowed (thanks to dramatic up-lighting) by her massive breasts, which were trying to escape their bindings like so many women’s feet in China.
She simply looked like a giant, weird doll. To be clear, like a Barbie doll (see above), not like a sex doll because I don’t think Jessica’s stretched skin could make that “O” face.
Now, while she didn’t come in her original protective packaging, this Celebrity Touch™ wasn’t going to be easy. Jessica was seated behind a long table, and apparently this doll was not a Betsy Wetsy, because she did not get up once in nearly three hours to tinkle. Why was she making this touch so difficult? I had more sarcastic drinking to do!
So, there I sat, with trusted touching companions Spice Rack, Darling Nicky and Brooke – our meal long since finished – waiting for Jessica to leave, so I could obtain a pretty premium Celebrity Touch. Finally, she showed actual signs of life, standing to make her move to exit the restaurant and return to her Dream House with Ken. Now was my chance!
She would have to walk past me to leave the tiny, trend-right restaurant. As she did, I slid my chair back across the former leather factory (see note above: trend-right) floor and my elbow made contact with Jessica’s bottom. Truthfully, my elbow fully ricocheted off her bottom, because it was Spanxed within an inch of its life, creating kind of a plasticky trampoline which bounced my elbow from her ample derriere, causing my Campari and Soda to splash towards The Rack, who easily dodged it as she has so many of Prince Harry’s billiard balls. Party foul (and Spice Rack’s wrath) averted and Jessica Simpson Celebrity Touch secured!