Thursday, August 24, 2006


If you were seriously bored and submitted a Google search of Paris Hilton, you would find that three out of the ten results, or matches, reference her infamous sex tape. If you were to then perform a Google image search, five of the first forty results would do more than just reference the infamous sex tape, if you know what I mean (and I think you do. Wink, wink).

What sensible parent would want the Hilton heir-head serving as a role model for their pop-obsessed, impressionable child? It turns out, not many. Paris' self-titled debut has only sold 75,000 copies in the first week of its release and in the music industry, this is a massive disappointment like investing money into an American Idol reject. But in retrospect, you have to wonder--how could anyone have taken Hilton seriously? Um, Youtube? Wanna field this one?

What truly astounds me, though, is the back-backlash of music critics stepping up and defending the "merits" of this record. I have never met Stephen Thomas Erlewine but I can no longer trust his opinion or for that matter, my unborn children in his company. It's unfathomable to consider that Erlewine still has his full hearing ability because what I hear is more like heavy breathing than singing.

It's probably wrong of me to wish bad things on this woman even though her existence is probably borderline-offensive, and in the truth, the leaking of her sex video was probably not in the grand marketing strategy (of course, this also teaches you not to date douche bags) but I can't help but feel somewhat pleased with her debut's failure. I know. It's wrong. But hear me out--encouraging Paris' career would be a horrible example for unintelligent anorexics worldwide.

The following is an imaginary conversation between me and my imaginary daughter. This hasn't happened, but could if I had a daughter and she were unintelligent and impressionable which is unlikely considering my genetic fortitude:
Me: How was your day at school?
Imaginary Daughter: We don't have school in August, Dad.
Me: Right.
ID: So I downloaded some Paris Hilton songs off the internet and I've been listening to them.
Me: I don't know who you are.
ID: Anyway, I love it so much and I've decided to be like her. My boyfriend...
Me: You have a boyfriend...?!? You're ten?!?
ID: My boyfriend is coming over in a few minutes and we're going to tape ourselves being intimate. So please don't interrupt us. That's hot.
Me: That's what?
ID: That's hot. I have to say that after every sentence. It's part of the transformation.
Me: Oh.
ID: Now excuse me while I change into black lacey lingerie and cavort around the house.
Me: You're the worst imaginary daughter ever!

This conversation is probably not happening elsewhere in the world (just a hunch) but the exaggerated exchange aside, isn't the ultimate result, i.e., the creation of an army of mini-flooziez, inevitable when you're buy a Paris Hitlon record and condone her career? You may as well ask your child to earn his portion by employing him or herself as a prostitute (sublte. I know)
Pssst. Hey you, kid. Yeah, you. Like that song "Screwed"? Wanna know what that means aside from what Daddy is working on in his toolshed?

Shame on you, 75,000 parents. Shame on you all. Now let's take a pop culture nap and when we wake up, this will all be over. And now for Jessica Simpson...


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