Bitches

I don’t jump into the pop-culture fray often, but I feel compelled today after a recent incident that’s boiled my blood.

My wife and I had the good fortune to attend a celebrity ‘gift suite’ in advance of the Golden Globe Awards. An annual part of Hollywood Culture, gift suites often occur in Beverly Hills mansions where all kinds of retailers give away their overpriced makeup, jewelry, handbags and logo-ed clothing. There was even a ‘sex-toy’ merchant giving away vibrators and dildos at the one we attended. A classy affair all around.

After filling our bags with jewelry and dildos, we left the house through the front door. A narrow landscaped walkway wound to the driveway, where a shiny Escalade waited to bring us down the hill to the valet. At the end of the walkway stood two women. We noticed them tangentially while discussing which of our friends could use a brand new phallus.

As we got closer, it was clear we were facing Paris and Nicky Hilton. Paris and Nicky both had enormous sunglasses that covered half their slack, bored faces. My wife was within five feet of the heiresses when she politely said, ‘Excuse me’ so she could get through to the driveway. At two feet, the sisters still hadn’t moved, so my wife said again, very politely (and respectfully, if I’m being completely honest), “Excuse me.” No one budged. So my wife very carefully squeezed through the tiny opening between Nicky and Paris. It wasn’t a tense moment at all, just a little awkward, but my wife managed to slide through ahead of me without even touching the Hiltons.

Then Nicky snorted.

It was a disgusted snort, as though she couldn’t believe these ‘people’ would dare cross her path. Paris responded with a similar snort almost immediately. The two of them went back and forth with their snorts probably a total of three times. It was their own private snort language – a way of communicating between each other that required no words and a limited amount of energy or thought.

Again, I’m not interested in adding to the endless diarrhea of ‘pop-culture commentary’ – mostly because I don’t have anything original to say about any of it – but permit me to make this comment:

I think it’s admirable that Paris Hilton has been able to cross over from the world of pornography to more mainstream celebrity. But these two women have been taking up too much space for far too long. Our run-in in Beverly Hills is a perfect example: Paris and Nicky Hilton are living fire-hazards. What would they have done if there was an emergency and ‘normal people’ had to get past them in a hurry?

Here’s my suggestion to Paris. Go back to doing what you’re best at: sucking cock.

And to Nicky: Actually, I have nothing to say to Nicky, because she has yet to distinguish herself beyond the living fire-hazard thing.

Oh, and I have an idea of what happened to Paris’s little dog, Tinkerbell. The chihuahua hasn’t been seen in public with Paris since shortly after a book was penned in the dog’s name giving us all a glimpse into Paris’s life.

I think the dog is dead. Because Paris forgot to feed it.

That’s the rumor I’m starting right now, anyway. Please pass it on.

Dirty fucking whores.