Forget Paris....

In this post, I’m just gonna tell it like it T-I is. I HATE the fact that egregiously empty-headed ‘ho Paris Hilton is named after one of the most beautiful, historically-important cities in the world. I mean, it’s bad enough that she’s managed to diminish her family’s legendary name so much that the word Hilton is now and forever associated with sleaze.

But Paris, France is majestic. Paris Hilton is an empty-headed ‘ho. Paris, France is regal. Paris Hilton is an empty-headed ‘ho. Paris, France is mesmerizing…..you get where I’m going with this. For starters, she’s probably a walking petri dish of sexually-transmitted organisms. Never mind the fact that you could down-hill ski on the mountain of snow that girl has snorted. It’s just that I’m sitting here in a poverty-stricken war zone trying to figure out why the hell her face is plastered on the cover of the latest PEOPLE magazine. Did I miss something….did Ms. Hilton discover the cure for cancer??? Did she throw her hat into the 2008 race? Did she even pledge to start sending a dollar a day to UNICEF, for Christ’s sake?

Before we go any further, PLEASE don’t think I’m just jealous of a 25 year old’s looks and fame. Remember, the last blonde celebrity I idolized was Doris Day. If I could look like her, circa 1960, I’d be down with that. Otherwise, I hear Ms. Hilton has huge-assed man-hands and feet, and about three strands of real hair left on her pointy-little head.

Now, some of you who know me might be surprised by this rabid attack on the aforementioned empty-headed Hilton ‘ho. You might find it uncharacteristically vicious, or you might protest my use of the pejorative “’ho.” After all, I’m a card carrying feminist, and at the very least, I should be non-judgmental when a woman wants to use her body and looks as her major form of currency. If being a repulsive slut pays off, go for it.

Okay, now even I think I’m being too harsh. It’s just that I’m sitting here in Gulu, Uganda, in a country with 1.7 million refugees…forget about the millions of its OWN impoverished people. Forget about the fact that most of the children here are permanently psychologically-scarred by the ravages of war. Forget the lack of upscale spas and four-star restaurants (ooops, sorry, that just slipped out). I mean, this whole danged CONTINENT is suffering. And yet any time I try to check up on news back home through American online media, the first thing that pops up is a picture of Paris Hilton.

Every damned media organization in the United States of America ought to have its license revoked for paying for that creature’s cocaine and other assorted debaucheries. That’s all the heck they’re doing, because they sure aren’t informing or enlightening anybody by recording her every twitch. There are more black men in jail than in college in the U.S., and yet Paris makes headlines for a 22-day stretch. Unemployment, home foreclosures and homelessness are rising exponentially in America, and yet I gotta look at her vapid little face on every news website I open.

By coming to Gulu, I thought I’d won a reprieve from the ongoing psychosis that seems to have American popular culture in a headlock. But it makes me sad to conclude that the only way to avoid hearing or reading anything about said abhorrent hotel heifer would be to hitch a ride on the International Space Station. And even up THERE one of the astronauts probably has a picture of the played-out little skank taped to a wall.

But back to my original point. Her name should be “Guttersnipe Hilton” or “Reprehensible Trollop Hilton.” There’s nothing beautiful, regal, majestic, or sustaining about her, or the media companies who helped create her. When I think of Paris—AND of American Journalism—I don’t want to have to automatically envision a pile of steaming garbage.

EDITOR’S NOTE : This column was brought to you by the letters P, M, and S.