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Saturday, June 9, 2007 12:00 AM

Paris isn't free -- and neither are we

Paris Hilton's strange celebrity hits a new nadir after Friday's chaotic perp walk. Will we ever be free from her now?

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  • Saturday, June 9, 2007 06:51 AM

    Kumbaya my lord, kumbaya, someone's weeping lord, kumbaya

    "I also realised [sic] that my own outrage about Paris's antics has been fuelled [sic] by that part of me that is also attention-seeking, frivolous, lacking responsibility, lacking a sense of self."

    And lacking spell-check too.

    (Paraphrase) "For the first time, seeing Paris in that police cruiser, I felt compassion for her."

    That's funny, because when I saw Paris in the cop car with that hideous, contorted face, I felt just the opposite.

    I only wish that the press had also set their unblinking eye on Paris' idiot mother too. The two of them, puking and mewling like drowning kittens in a hail storm just because for once, just one time, in their whole pampered lives, they had to come down and deal with life just like the rest of us.

    For once they couldn't curl up their noses at the prospect of suffering some inconvenience and then have a servant, or lawyer, or fixer of some kind, come to their rescue.

    That's the way it is baby. It is true, the old saying, "Life is a shit sandwich and the more bread you got, the less shit you have to eat."

    But no matter who you think you are, you still gotta eat some, sometime. Hubris is like that. You can only go so far before fate sends you the bill.

    Come on all you Paris weepers and apologists, this isn't going to kill the kitten. She just got a little wet. She had to eat a little poop. By July no matter what, she'll be back in our faces again, bigger and more creepy than ever, with endless possibilities offered by her publicists on how she can make even more millions by doing absolutely nothing.

    She'll laugh this off in less than eight weeks and be back in Vegas tooting some of the finest Peruvian flake and drinking $50 martinis and you can go on worshiping her and cheering on her demise until she gets behind the wheel of her Mercedes and kills somebody. I would rather she drove the damned thing off a cliff on the 101 and joined the pantheon of spoiled reckless idiots America craves. I might even buy a black velvet portrait of her from a roadside vendor near the scene to put next to the kitty litter box.

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