Warning: If you're after some hard-hitting, life-changing, mind-altering insight, wisdom, and enlightenment from yours truly today… then check out one of your other favourite writers.
This is certainly no personal development piece; social commentary perhaps. A little tongue-in-cheek satire maybe. Or just an excuse for me to comment on something I find entertaining, amusing, incredible, sad, and silly.
So little Paris has just headed off (today) to the slammer for her twenty-three day sabbatical. Busting up rocks for a few weeks with her new gal pals. Making number plates. Developing new skills. A craft class or two perhaps. Learning to love jumpsuits.
If there's ever a time when she doesn't want to be gorgeous, it's the next three weeks. Poor baby. How dare that nasty judge make her be responsible for her actions? She didn't mean it; it was all a silly misunderstanding.
Besides, probation and loss of license are such ambiguous terms anyway. "Oh, you meant no driving… at all?"
What was he thinking, that silly old judge? Did he not know who she is? Did he not know the Paris rules? Did he not get how obscenely rich and influential she is? Not to mention, stunningly thin? Surely someone that attractive couldn't be a criminal?
"Can't we just make this go away, Mr Judgeywudgey? What if I cry a bit?"
Apparently not. Clearly he missed the Paris memo. Maybe she didn't pout enough in court.
Of course there are rules for us normal folk (you and me). And then, there are the rules for the spoiled, self-centered, obnoxious, pretentious, precocious, immature, irresponsible, stupidly-wealthy, surgically-enhanced, dysfunctional "famous" people that all our kids (seemingly) aspire to be. (Heavy sigh).
I wonder how our famous-for-nothing-in-particular star will cope wearing her new orange outfit? Hopefully it's fitted and not too baggy. (Imagine — uggh!) She never wears orange. So doesn't go with blond hair. So totally-not-her-colour.
Seriously though(!), I'm kinda worried about her. I don't reckon she's experienced a whole lotta (physical) discomfort over her twenty-six years. I hope that green vinyl mattress doesn't give her a rash. And I hope the guards don't wake her too early; you know she likes to sleep in.
I wonder what the skin and hair-care products are like in there? And more importantly, I wonder if they have a 'lite' meals option. Hope so.
I really hope Paris can find an angle on how to make some substantial cash from this whole unnecessary experience; there's gotta be an upside to all that suffering. A few highly-paid interviews maybe. Or a mini-series. Possibly a book about her journey to hell and back (My Time in the Joint by Paris Hilton) out soon in paperback. Hopefully her agent's on it as I write.
After all, we wouldn't want her to actually learn a lesson. Speaking of that (a lesson) — how much fun would it be if we (you and me) could pick her cell mate? A lot.
We don't want any harm to come to her or anything, but perhaps a few weeks with some nice, large, scary lady with a bunch of tattoos, six yellow teeth, a pet snake, and a not-too-friendly disposition would be a valuable life-lesson for our little princess.
But seriously, if only that silly judge hadn't misunderstood her, the nasty press hadn't driven her to drink and the ill-informed public hadn't victimized her, she could be out clubbing with Nicole, Lindsay, and Britney right now.
If Lindsay wasn't in rehab of course.
So not fair.Powered by Sidelines