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The Paris Hilton Chronicles—Enough Already…
If I am witness to one more ludicrous little nugget of something pretending to be newsworthy regarding the Paris Hilton circus, I am going to hurl. Yes, hurl. It’s no secret that I have officially reached the bounds of tolerance on this particular media event and wish to be force-fed no more. Why was it ever considered news anyway? That’s what I’d like to know. Personally, I couldn’t give a hoot in hell about anything related to She-Who-Is-Famous-But-No-One-Knows-Why.
Not so much as a hoot.
Her draw is nothing more than the glorified swirl of wonder and fascination brought on by the Bearded Lady, parading around in a booth outside a big, striped tent full of bears on tricycles. A freak show. A taste of the bizarre. Only Hilton is less intriguing. Waaaaaay less intriguing. I’d yank on the bearded one’s whiskered chin long before I’d crowd around to see Paris pluck so much as a single nose hair—let alone be led to the clink in shackles and shame. And yet the media explosion surrounding said glamour gal would suggest otherwise. It completely defies logic. Then again, so did Borat’s popularity. Even I succumbed, adding his ridiculous flick to those I consider woefully stupid, yet outrageously funny.
Quite frankly, I was appalled to learn that something as insignificant as a celebrity’s error in judgment and subsequent punishment would be considered important enough to be plastered everywhere—as if there’s nothing else on this planet to discuss or report. Furthermore, I was more than just a little annoyed about all the hoo-ha associated with her early release back at the beginning of her sentence. Without question, the recounting of such foolish tripe was infused with massive quantities of hype and it sent the wrong message to society as a whole—one that resoundingly stated, “Good things come to those who whine!”
My kids know better. And they’re only six. They fully understand the ramifications of errant behavior and they’ve got the time-out thing down cold. If we say, “Sit in the red chair for X number of minutes because we said so,” they don’t stand on their heads in the middle of the blue chair and gripe about the mental anguish they’re suffering as a result of being unduly incarcerated. And they would never ever dream of requesting a lesser sentence—or a cushier chair. That’s because they’re not stupid. They’ve seen this act before and they know how the system works.
They simply face the music, plunk themselves in the designated spot for the duration and go about their business once released—attitudes adjusted appropriately for the good of all.
If only things on Planet Paris worked so well….
Copyright 2007 Melinda L. Wentzel
