I wish I lived in a time when celebrity heiresses had their shit together. No, I don't mean when they gave to charity or visited sick children in the hospital; I mean when they broke the law and it actually meant something.
For all the ink that has been spilled over Paris Hilton's stay in her one-star hotel, at least half of it is of the "why are we writing about this" variety. Back in the day, that question never had to be asked when a celebrity heiress broke the law, because they screwed up rightly and royally. Man, those were the days.
Oh, if only Paris Hilton were 1/10 the scandal of those in decades past. Her antics have become so one-note. When you look at the photos, you can see she's phoning it in, as burned out on herself as we are. If she's going to keep our interest, she needs to reinvent herself, and prison is the perfect place to do it. She needs to hit the prison library and study the masters of scandal, the people who could break the law in a way that not only got our attention but held it in a kung-fu death grip. I'm talking, of course, about Patty Hearst.
Patty Hearst. Now that's a celebrity heiress scandal. She makes Paris look like a stupid, spoiled brat ... um, wait ... that's actually not an impressive feat at all. Let me try again: she makes Paris look like a trashy ... damn it ... Okay, she mops the floor with Paris like she was the help. That sucks. Last try: Paris Hilton can't even spell half of the words in "Death to the Fascist Insect That Preys on the Lives of the People," let alone tell us what it means, except perhaps to say that she already has an exterminator and a gynecologist working on the problem. I've heard better, but that will have to do until an appropriate metaphor is invented to describe how superior the elegant Patty Hearst is to the decadent Paris Hilton.
But seriously, with all the press Paris gets now, imagine what would happen if she really broke the law. What if she donned a hip beret from a shop on Robertson and joined a radical paramilitary organization and started knocking off banks and sporting goods stores? Imagine if she went underground (oh, God, if only!) and surfaced only via underground communiqués left behind dumpsters outside public radio stations (we'd settle for Sunset Strip restrooms/coke troughs). She'd get on the cover of Us Weekly, In Touch, The National Review, and The Nation, all in the same week! Even Jesus doesn't get that kind of exposure.
And her trial ... oh, God, my knees are wobbling at the thought of it. It'd be an infotainment cage match. You'd have Lewis Lapham body-checking Ryan Seacrest for an interview, Kelly Ripa kneeing Chris Matthews right in his hardballs just for a shot at asking Paris a question during her perp-walk. This is just what journalism needs. So, Paris, if you're looking for something to excel in, something to secure your legacy, this is it. You can go from spoiled brat to radical spoiled brat, and you'd stay there forever.
Paris, make the most of your time in the Crossbar Hilton. Try to find some sort of militant organization, preferably one with a cool name and outrageous philosophies, the more outrageous the better (image is important here). Join the craziest one you can find, but make sure they're political, or else you've lost the east coast media. And don't forget about the cool name (maybe you should write this down): the last thing we want is for you to be fronting for some lame-ass pack of convict philosophers named the Radical Recidivists or Hilton's Heroes.
That's why you're going to need help. Patty Hearst needs to come out of retirement and train you. You're going to have to go old-school, Rocky IV style: cabin in the woods, homemade equipment, raw eggs for breakfast, "Eye of the Tiger," and no bullshit. Patty's gonna have to get Full Metal Jacket on that ass till The Simple Life looks like Green Acres. Because you can't keep working the DUI/Celebrity Feud game forever; eventually, you're going to have to step it up. The time is now. The world awaits, and for once, we believe in you.