Look, how much more convincing is really needed here: Paris is dying culturally and soon she will be a regular diluted person. Just a pile of hair and some moisturizer and lip gloss. On the ground. Paris Hilton is on the outs and the thing that’s actually great about it is that when the desperation sets in, we’ll finally get to see something of real substance from her and she may very well end up being fascinating.
The New York Post reports that until that desperation really concretes itself in Paris she is shopping herself and her sister around to clubs in Las Vegas, offering their presence at a party for around a half a million bucks. That’s 400,000 more than this time last year. What happened? Did she get a new paint job or carpeting put in?
So basically, the deal is, she shows up, smiles, looks vacant, walks, stops, walks, looks the other way, smiles. Stops, walks, looks vacant, approves of someone, stops, walks, rolls her eye at someone (her weird half eye closed thing, sometimes referred to as her “wonk eye” has seen better days when it comes to rolling precisely because when she was younger, I mean – I’m guessing here but I think we can all agree it’s a fairly reasonable guess, she rolled it so much that now it’s sort of broken) and then that’s it. Nicky Hilton does sort of the same thing but she fusses a lot backstage with her gay fashionista friends who ADORE her and she has brown hair now and that means she’s concentrating on book smarts. After that, BANG, half a million bucks.
Of course, the part that they don’t show or tell you about ever is the part where in between some of the stopping and walking and looking and approving, Paris (I’m estimating) has to run to the bathroom to let out some of her inner rage and hate and so she quickly glides into a stall and screams while projectile vomiting up black oil for three minutes. When she’s done, she sits down and cries, cries so desperately and longingly for anything to take away the crippling emptiness. The next part of the procedure involves shaking in pure unadulterated white hot, sweat inducing rage as she looks at her own face with veins popping out of her forehead in the reflective surface on the back of the cubicle door and then she quickly ropes it all back in, steps out of the cubicle, touches up her lipstick, dabs away an unsightly black oil stain on her cleverly chosen black dress (she knew she was about due for a little toilet outburst so she wore black), smiles threateningly at her own reflection and wanders vacantly out of the bathroom.
If you actually had a half a million bucks to spend on something that inane and you were trying to promote your club wouldn’t it make more sense to you know, install a water slide or some crap? Yeah, get a waterslide and put vodka in it instead of water. Plus, it costs a lot to clean up all the vomited out hate in the bathroom the next day when you hire Paris – you’re really looking at a lot of expenses here. It’s not just the base level half million. Plus, you have to tip the cleaners, so that’s another twenty. Forget Paris, let a vodka waterslide on the dance floor be the new American zeitgeist. Or, failing that, a rusty, diseased hypodermic needle. There’s bound to be more for America to cling to in that than Ms Hilton. Let's explore that. [source]