[8D]
http://www.sdcitybeat.com/article.php?id=4499
<p align="center">[b]BECAUSE I SAID SO
Paris, kitten, stars don’t have eyes
The eponymous Miss H and other fulfillments of prophecy
by TONY PHILLIPS[/b]</p>
<p align="justify">Sweet suffering Christ, Paris Hilton is releasing an album! Do you hear the rumble in the distance? It’s the thunder of hooves beneath the raging stallions of War, Famine, Pestilence and Death. I knew the reality show Who Wants to Marry a Midget was a sign of the apocalypse. Katie Couric as a nightly news anchor was an even clearer signal. And now this. Make peace y’all. The end of days is upon us.
Sorry. I was raised Southern Baptist. I won’t make a habit of filling my intros with Biblical allusions. But permit me one more plunge into my ancestral fire-and-brimstone pool—Heaven help us!
In choosing this story topic, I have bitten off a tad more than I wish to chew. You see, it takes nearly 1,000 words to fill this column and about Paris Hilton’s nascent recording career I can think of only four that are truly necessary: blah, blah, blah, bollocks. But writers write, so here goes nothing.
Paris Hilton chose to call her oeuvre Paris Hilton after scrapping her original title, Dark Side of the Whore, when Roger Waters and David Gilmour threatened to protest in Trafalgar Square by sacrificing a Chihuahua on an alabaster altar and drinking a quart of bleach. Hilton’s first single, slated for a July 31 release, is called “Stars are Blind.” Although it’s unclear from her video promos just precisely what she is singing about, experts confirm that there are actually two kinds of blind stars. There’s the Stevie Wonder-Ronnie Milsap kind, and there’s the Proxima-Centauri-Alpha-Ursae-Majoris kind. I’m betting that Paris is referring to the latter.
Aw, shucks. There’s no sense pretending I can do another 670 words about that fatuous twat. Let me toss in some other examples of impending Armageddon just to fill space. Try this on for size: Universal Pictures, those geniuses, will be releasing the film Miami Vice on July 28. It stars Colin Farrell and Jamie Foxx as Crockett and Tubbs, respectively, and as they say in the Land of Snide, boy howdy, I just can’t wait. It might be inappropriate to pan a film nearly six weeks before anyone has even seen it. However, about this travesty all you need to know is that Edward James Olmos was offered the opportunity to reprise his role as Castillo and he turned it down. Note to director Michael Mann: if Ed Olmos rejects you, your film’s a dog.
Man oh man, this summer must surely bring the final judgment. If Paris Hilton and Miami Vice haven’t convinced you, check out the local concert scene. It’s not too late to get tickets for Hall & Oates at the Del Mar Fairgrounds on June 25. You sure won’t want to miss Pat Benatar at Viejas on July 11, and since you’re planning ahead, go ahead and book a date for Aug. 23 to see Def Leppard and Journey at Coors Amphitheater. Whoa, Nelly! San Diego gets all the big acts.
Sorry for the tangent. The premise of this piece was supposed to be that Paris Hilton is a disgusting ass gasket, and I don’t know if I can go on living in a world in which young people actually buy her album. I’m telling you the truth; I would rather have Jamie Foxx, Colin Farrell, Daryl Hall, John Oates, Pat Benatar, Neal Schon and that one-armed drummer come by my house and poop on the rug than know that Paris Hilton has a recording contract.
And here’s another truth, an embarrassing one, and one for which, when the Rapture comes, I’m certain to go to Hell. My biggest gripe with Paris Hilton is not that she is a despicable, untalented, ignorant, slatternly bucket of hotel greenbacks. No, my issue with Paris is that no matter how repelled I am by her, she nevertheless appeals to my prurient interest in a way I can’t control. Ladies, don’t stop reading at this point and ask your boyfriend a silly question like, “You don’t find her sexy, do you?” He will lie. I am not your boyfriend. I will tell you the truth. Just like me, your boyfriend, your father and every other man in America got a tickle in their pickles when they first saw that Carl’s Jr. ad.
I hate Paris Hilton for making me face the unavoidable fact that as a man, I can’t stifle my visceral reaction to sultry, bare, nubile, young girl parts. Paris not only has such parts, she ain’t ashamed to bring them right out on parade for all the world to see. For her to get any more revealing, she would have to release her x-rays. A few months back, I bought a copy of Esquire for no reason other than the fact that it included a shot of Paris cleaning her pool in a bikini and six-inch heels. That’s hot, or, as Paris would punctuate it—thats hot.
Being a man is difficult for many reasons, but mostly because it means one must constantly confront the bivalence of reality. I can find a particular woman the most loathsome lump of flesh to ever draw breath and still want to instruct her in an advanced course on cunning linguistics. Women, I know that sounds barbaric. Hell, it is barbaric, but it’s true.
Men, you know what I’m talking about. Your girlfriends will soon be asking you what I told them not to ask you. That’s how they are. And when they do ask something like, “Honey, she’s not even pretty, is she?” I want you to sack up. Don’t leave me twisting in the wind on this one. Look them right straight in their eyes and answer, “Of course she is, and I hate her.”
Tony Phillips blogs at
www.fifthavenuegazette.com. Write to fifthavenuegazette[at]yahoo[dot]com and editor[at]SDcitybeat[dot]com.
6/21/06
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