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Paris Hilton cut-out, next to Paris Hilton picture, in Paris Hilton’s house.

Get the whole scoop.

Tuesday Meditations: The House That Ego Built

Spending the holidays with Paris Hilton is all it’s cracked up to be,  you guys. 

I know I haven’t written for a while,  but it’s mostly because:

a. I’m too drunk on tuesdays

b. Tumblr sucks and my stuff won’t upload to my own personal page

c. I needed to gain some perspective on the holidays, my own loneliness and these two things with the context of Paris Hilton’s place of residence. 

I want to reiterate: TWO lucky things happened to me this year.  The first is my cat not getting killed, and the second is getting an invitation to Paris Hilton’s Holiday party at her home in Bel Air.  Both things were swift, fortuitous and celebrated with a cool Coors light.

Here’s my experience, in photo essay form, and just like my 9th grade Social Studies teacher would have liked it….


Drunk hot model playing drunk hot Santa in Hilton vestibule. 

Here’s my date (and the only one at the party with glasses) by the valet and next to Paris Hilton’s cars. Can’t you tell that she’s rich? There’s a heat lamp.

One of many personal photographs of the lady of the house.  This one’s my favorite because it reminds me of the native alien peoples in Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles.  I told this to another party patron who looked at me in shock, like I was overweight.  Then I asked her, “geez, how many people have Masters’ Degrees at this party, anyway?”


This is “NoHo,” which means “NO HANGOVER.” If it meant “NO WHORES,” nobody would be at this party save myself, my date Meg, Sofia Coppola and the bouncer.

A Paris Hilton standup next to another picture of the lady herself.  And I’m using lady very, very loosely.

Some shit photographer somewhere said “Paris, I think you can be sexy holding ANYTHING. We’re all out of dicks and diamonds, so here’s a box of calico kittens.  Oh yeah, and I found this wind machine.”

Most satisfying fart ever.

This was the food at the party. I ate more in the first five minutes than anyone at Paris’ holiday party had ever eaten, ever, including drunk hot santa. 

The caption says,  “Well Behaved Women Rarely Make History.” What it should say is “Well Behaved women whose parlors don’t smell like Axe, vomit and Chick-Fil-A hot sauce rarely make history.” Because, you know, that’s kinda true. 

This is just a picture of Paris Hilton made up of other pictures of Paris Hilton.

Here’s Paris herself. I thought she was another picture so I went up to touch her with my grubby Chic-Fil-A hands, but one of her handlers Tazered me.  No worries, though: a thick tube of fat coats my body and protects me from such encounters.


A special moment with Drunk Hot Santa. He was game until he got sick of comedy bits he didn’t understand (<13 seconds or so).


Can you imagine Paris hiring a painter to paint her likeness? I got close, and this piece was done by an ACTUAL PAINTER.  If I was hired to paint Paris, I would have imputed some shit photo of her into photoshop and used some “oil paint” filer, than slapped the whole thing in a gigantic golden frame.  She would have been DELIGHTED.

Paris and Nancy Regan in… “The Real World: French Whorehouse.”

No overindulgent proto-French mansion based upon a random and fortuitous birthright is complete without the framed photograph of Verne Troyer. 

And then I made my way to the bathroom, the only place I really feel at home…

First point of interest, besides the bodyguard: ugly 80’s furniture and Jessica Rabbit statuette.  This was the only piece of “art” that didn’t relate back to Hilton herself, aside from a stamp-sized portrait of Marilyn Monroe right outside of the guest bedroom, just beyond the potted plant that had recently been vomited in.

Of course, the Jessica Rabbit statuette couldn’t draw all the focus.  Here’s Paris with another KITTEN!

SHOCKINGLY, the bathroom was FILLED with mirrors.  I also stole 3 bottles of Paris Hilton cologne for my brother and roommate, both of whom promptly threw out. I didn’t take offense until both showered their bodies in disinfectant and put me in a plastic bubble for 48 hours,  Outbreak-style.

the only protection at the party…

…so I felt obligated to utilize it. 

Happy holidays, everyone.  If you want to see videos of my foray into the pit of vapidity, check out my new Youtube channel at  My year was shit but I hope the next one will be rad. Thank you all SO FUCKING MUCH FOR READING!

See you the 3rd, BITCHES!

You’re welcome,


Sorry, Bitches. I’ve been out and about at Paris Hilton’s Holiday Party, so I haven’t had much time to write.  I’ll give you a nice, long, hot entry next time.  For now, gaze upon my delighted face as I sit on Paris Hilton’s shitter in her infinity bathroom.  YES- I stole shit.  YES,  I ate lots of food and NO, there were no Coors lights. But- Taryn Manning was there, and lots of Cakepops.

Also, if you’re dying to read something by me, go here: 

It’s a more serious-er piece I wrote for a rad publication that isn’t SSFB. LOVE YOU.

You’re welcome,


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