Even her Dickensian moniker couldn't be more indicative of her flimsy nature or more prescient of her fate if her name were Darfur Yert or Mississippi Backalley. Paris Hilton is the apotheosis of a glitzy, leisure saturated culture which holds 'round the clock champagne, maid service, mints on the pillow and a paper strip across the toilet seat higher than a college education. A vacant, opulently adorned master suite of a life which makes Marie Antionette's look like Mother Theresa's. The society column has become the front page, the roué and the gadabout our spokesmen. Forget the Peace Corps or backpacking across Europe -- attaining credibility and experience is as simple as being filmed giving a night vision blow job. Where have you gone Joe Dimaggio? is no longer sung but shrieked as though by a wild-eyed parent who's seen its child abducted by a chortling wraith, whose menace isn't apparent by dripping fangs, needlelike claws or rakishly cocked turban but by its glassy eyes, sickly smile and its predilection for wanting to be photographed on red carpets. Hilton's unabashedly shrill cry of "Mommy mommy!" as she was limousined to the hoosegow was not that of a spoiled baby mewling in her own mushy diaper but a desperate call to her extended family of zeitgeist amoebae, the fret-or-flaunt instinct from a cornered celeb-rodent, exhorting the gelatinous mass of bling-encrusted bubble skulls to all use their Sidekicks to text message in unison, creating a massive Andromeda Strain super-culture and launching a digital kamikaze assault upon her captors, bravely sacrificing their minutes in order to free their leader from the binds of civic responsibility. A true-life, virtually unbelievable culture criminal, the embodiment of all that America® and its affiliates (America-Lite, America Xtra Caff, McJesus, HistoryBeGone!, etc.) export to its citizenry and the world, she is like one of those characters at the end of Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 walking around endlessly reciting books they have committed to memory to impart to future bookless generations the ingredients essential to humanity: knowledge, curiosity, imagination, the adhesive substances that bind the bricks of civilization. Only, Paris Hilton walks by herself in an isolated part of the forest, barely able to keep a Bazooka Joe comic in her head, stumbling over the big words and encouraging not mere passing scorn or fringe amusement but outright worship. Surely there are people and events that are more relevant, more crucial to our enlightenment, development or enjoyment than the kitschy spectacle of a boney moneybag traipsing across the substrate of the decent, struggling people who make less than minimum wage and have inadequate health care so that she and Lindsey and W and Dick and all the other Anti-Christs (wake up Creationists! them!!!!) can continue to inspire the youth of this nation to spend the money it doesn't have, forsake sacrifice and introspection and curiosity and not give a flying, sequined shit about anyone or anything... but Paris.
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