While Paris Burns, Britney Churns

From afar, one might think that Paris Hilton and Britney Spears are two peas in the celebrity pod of ho-aciousness. However, upon closer inspection, there are subtle, yet fully distinct differences. The sum total of these differences means one continues to grow more famous as the other sinks more deeply into self-parody.

 As more private information and video footage leaks from the ParisExposed.com site, the fuzzier the line between celeb-reality and public perception becomes. It is plausible that the private Paris and the public Paris have merged to create a separate and unique entity unto itself - an insuperable Super Paris.

 While I stand firm by my assertion of Paris' own complicity in this latest scandal—whether through stunning carelessness or direct involvement (the same thing?)—I do feel a twinge of sympathy for her.

Or maybe it's indigestion.

Surely, even Paris doesn't want her most personal medical information laid bare for the world to paw over and judge. Lots of people may have herpes, but not many go around with a scarlet H on their chests, which, if nothing else, would make for awkward dating situations.

All this tawdry business aside, one thing remains concrete: Paris might be burning, but she isn't going down in flames. In fact, once the smoldering ashes of this latest scandal blow away—and blow away they will—all that shall remain is an ever-heightened awareness of Paris Hilton's existence in this world - an existence that has built itself on the old adage "that which decimates my character, serves to make me more famous."

While we all agree that this is Paris Hilton were discussing and there's simply no danger of her curing cancer, discovering alternative fuel sources or bringing peace to the Middle East, we can thank her (or as I prefer, beat her with a shovel) for helping to define the next generation of youth culture, which I affectionately call The It's-All-About-Me Generation.

Paris is the embodiment of this group of self-absorbed, spoiled gimme, gimme, gimmes.

Only a true narcissist would videotape and retain in her possession hours upon hours of incriminating and irrefutable proof that she engages in illicit drug use, promiscuous sex, the perpetuation of racial stereotypes, and general indolent lazing about.

It's like Paris is the Jacques Cousteau of celebrity culture: documenting the inner machinations of the jet set life for generations to come. And she has single-handedly made activities that would otherwise seem exciting, dangerous, and wild appear vastly boring, mundane and tedious. So much for my coke-fueled dreams of gang-banging in St.Tropez with serial rapists.

Alas, like every other scandal that has thrust Paris into the spotlight, she will survive this one—every stinking, horrifying STD infected moment of it—and rise, stronger like Conan, above it, unlike her peer in depravity, the beat-weaved Britney Spears.

Britney Spears was once a beacon of all things nubile but pure. She was seemingly carved from the very heart of America using her Lolita-like allure, coupled with a sweetness of southern hospitality, to capture our hearts.

Sadly, sometime after the demise of her fairy tale romance with Justin Timberlake, Britney hopped on the boat for Lower Expectations Island and, wandering there blindly, aimlessly, woke up one morning to find herself married to the greatest boobie prize of all: clownish back-up dancer and grimly lame wiggsta, Kevin Ferderline.

It's like she didn't even try. Some might say this was the first sign of what really lay beneath the shiny veneer: a Cheetos-snarfing, menthols-smoking, baby-neglecting, trashy swamp rat.

Article Author: Dawn Olsen

Dawn Olsen is a veteran blogger who proudly supports the guy who publishes this awesome site. When not engaging in neologistical pursuits, she writes about popular culture, Hollywood and those fanciful creatures called "celebrities" at Glosslip.com. …

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