This entry marks the long-awaited, years-in-the-making revelation of my least favorite celebrity encounter of all time.
Make that "encounters," actually (read on). So without further ado, allow me to introduce the talentless, personality-deficient, dead-inside, walking-product endorsement known as...
We first met many years ago when I was complementing my restaurant gig with a job at a highfalutin, overpriced "gym" in Beverly Hills, which is like complementing nipple spikes with a rusty rectal thermometer.
My job was simple. Make sure every single member checks in. No matter who they are, what they've won, or whose anatomy they've sniffed coke off of to win it.
In waltzed preciously Proactiv'd Mizz Simpson, sunglasses on, nose in the air, three gym bags on her orange-tanned shoulders, and a dog in a carrier.
She walked right past me.
"Excuse me?" I said. "Hi. Are you a member?"
She looked at me as if I'd just hurled all over her Birkin.
"Uhm...................yeah?" she answered, waiting for the logic in why I would dare ask such a question.
"Soooo," I replied with condescending hand motions, "You need to....check in?"
"Yeah, sure, you can look up my name on your little computer. It's Simpson? Jessica?" And with that, she turned on her bitchy heels and strolled off.
"EXCUSE ME?" I called again. "Dogs aren't allowed in the club."
And clearly I've already bent that rule once today.
"Yeah," she smirked. "The manager said it was cool." She smacked her Splenda-sweetened gum and walked off.
Mizz Simpson returned later that week, this time with a friend in tow. They both walked right past me without checking in.
"Excuse. Me," I said firmly. "You both need to check in."
"Oh, she's not a member," she reassured me.
"Okaaaay," I replied. "So...do you have a guest pass? If not you'll need to purchase one."
She stood there, annoyed and indecisive. Her polite friend said, "Sure, I'll buy a pass, no problem."
"Uhm. No." Jessica retorted. "I pay good money to work out here, and my friend is thinking of joining [BULL SHIT], so why should I have to buy a guest pass?"
I tried to explain the logic to her, but I found this akin to giving verbal clues for a scavenger hunt to a group of deaf children.
With that, she stormed into the manager's office, and I was written up that afternoon for "being difficult."
I hightailed it from my job in Beverly Hills over the canyon with only 20 minutes to spare until my dinner shift at the restaurant.
I walked in to find I'd be taking over a lunch server's table, a table I could hear bellowing drunkenly from the parking lot.
A table that featured Jessica Simpson at its helm.
"....Hi," I announced after glaring at everyone present for a good five seconds.
Everyone acknowledged me, except Jessica. She was too busy texting and smacking her gum to care that a waiter was in her presence.
But once she noticed me? Hisssssss. Though she never addressed our mutual hatred, she expressed it through complaining about her food, sending back her order, and asking to speak to the manager because I "wasn't friendly."
So. I was written up twice in one day, at two different jobs, because of this vocally impaired, tuna-loving trollup.
THE LAST TIME I SAW HER:
And even though I really shouldn't disclose what happened next, as it was a bit of a tabloid scandal...
Jessica Simpson looks onward while friend throws up in restaurant
...it was a banner night. Jessica, her assistant (who in all fairness is lovely, polite and very gracious), and her assistant's boyfriend (who is not) decided to get over John Mayer's choosing more Jen Aniston and less Jess by consuming copious amounts of tequila for four hours straight.
And her poor assistant became quite ill and took to hurling projectile vomit all over the booth.
The boyfriend quickly ran outside to get the car, as someone - perhaps me - had alerted the paparazzi, who were lying in wait with their flashes.
And while the manager and several other servers took to comforting the assistant as she continued to throw up, Jessica sat disinterested two booths down, chatting up Tony Romo on the phone. No holding her friend's hair while she vomited, no offering to help clean up, no assistance whatsoever. Her sole interaction with her poor friend was to glare at her while she flirted with her rebound.
I can't help but think that if Jessica had handled herself with just an ounce of humility, a semblance of gratitude, an iota of genuine kindness, that she wouldn't be so wildly reviled by servers and gym employees the world over. Her fading career, limited talents and increasing waist size are all karma, in my opinion.
I'm not quite done trash-talking celebrities just yet. Stay tuned next week for the final installment of "Off the Record!"