Paris is the poor little rich girl we all love to hate

By Debra LoGuercio

©Copyright 2007, Debra LoGuercio, all rights reserved

I will not write about Paris Hilton, will not write about Paris, will… not… write…

Can’t… fight… the urge… fingers won’t obey… stop them before they type again!!!

Aww, flip it. Let’s just get it out of our system…

So. Did Paris deserve what she had coming to her? Probably not. Apparently most people under the same conditions are released within days. Was Paris treated unfairly? Yeah. Do we care? No. She’s like Barbi. She has everything. So she had to eat bologna instead of pâté. Oh, boo hoo.

But seriously, it wasn’t fair.


The horrible – horrible! – trauma of doing time has transformed the consummate party girl into a humanitarian. So she says. Hmmph. For what she spends on a pair of shoes, she could feed a family of four. Humanitarianism won’t require any more effort on her part than signing a check. Join the Peace Corps, Paris. That’ll impress me.

Then there was the feeding frenzy over Paris’ bouncy little catwalk out of prison, and all that gushing over her fabulous (so help me, I’m not making this up) “release ensemble.” Eh. I could’ve pulled that together in one trip to Marshall’s. Ho (insert evil snicker) hum.

Hey, Paris always looks like she’s humming. Rarely shows her teeth when she smiles, sort of a Cheshire Cat meets Mona Lisa. Hmmm. Paris and Mona Lisa — people can’t seem to stop looking at either one, but they don’t really know why.

Yes, yes, Paris is pretty, but she’s no Katherine Zeta Jones. Or Angelina Jolie. Or Beyoncé. Or, or, or. Hundreds of women are definitely more beautiful and sexy, and infinitely more talented. Particularly more talented. Heck, a comatose hamster is more talented.

So why is Paris freakin’ everywhere??? You can’t turn on the TV or read a magazine without seeing her slinking and smirking, one eye always half-closed like she’s in the early stages of Bells Palsy. The media insists we just can’t get enough of Paris, but it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. If that’s all the media gives us, we’re stuck with it, like dinner at your aunt’s house – you don’t have any choice but to eat what she cooks.

Do you actually know anyone who’s crazy about Paris? I don’t. I suspect it’s the media, not us, that’s so obsessed with her. We just watch her because that’s all that’s there, just like we ate Aunt Edna’s meatloaf. Urp. Anybody got a Tums?

Common knowledge suggests that we aren’t as fond of Paris as the media claims. But just as she doesn’t legitimately deserve all this attention, does she deserve all the ire either? Think about it. Is it Paris’ fault that the paparazzi slobbers all over her every move? And yes, she’s thin, rich, beautiful and spoiled, but that’s also not her fault. She was born that way. If we’re jealous of her, this also is not her fault, it’s ours.

Dumb as a doorknob? Assuredly, unless she’s the most gifted actress since Katherine Hepburn. Skanky ho? Sure. However, a male participating in the exact same sexcapades would be congratulated and admired, so I can’t fault her there either.

Look at Paris with a fresh eye. An amusing bubble-headed clown, not unlike poor Anna Nicole Smith, minus all the pathos. I had a soft spot for Anna too. Paris and Anna are baubles. Trinkets. Sparkly and essentially useless, but if they brighten up a room, is that so bad? Flowers don’t do much but sit around looking pretty either, and we don’t hate them for it.

Besides, Paris has never really hurt anyone. She isn’t mean. And she gets her jollies rattling the cages of the uptight and self-righteous. This pot sure can’t call that kettle black. You go, girlfriend.

Yes, I changed my mind about Paris, after a piece on her was followed by one on that vile harpy Ann Coulter viciously attacking Elizabeth Edwards after making light of the Edwards’ deceased child. Now, there’s someone who deserves to be hated. As I found myself once again fantasizing about grabbing Coulter by her stringy hair and beating the living tar out of her, I realized that Paris, by comparison, isn’t that bad. Like tasting cotton candy after biting into a dog turd.

I’d certainly rather hang with Paris than Coulter. We could party. I could probably teach her a thing or two. Maybe, just for a hoot, we could visit the Coultergeist herself. I’ll hold her down while Paris kicks her with her $700 Manolo Blahniks.