A star-studded golden shower

Isn’t it ironic that I’m stunned, blinded-in-the-headlights by a woman who makes her living deriding the famous and wealthy, who has written at length on the soul-raping effects of fame?

Well, maybe not ironic. I’m enamored of Cintra Wilson because of her writing, not her fame, since after all she’s not particularly famous. Hell, Maureen Dowd probably has much greater name recognition, but I’d take dinner with Wilson over Dowd any day of the week. Sorry, Maureen.

In the February 8-21 issue of The Wave Magazine, in her column The Dregulator, Cintra writes:

Paris Hilton has apparently been leaving her territorial mark anywhere she feels like it — just because she feels like it — and she can do anything she wants — so there. The New York Post reported in October that Paris had an “accident” in the corridor of a Las Vegas hotel. And a couple of weeks ago, Mike Walker of The Enquirer wrote, Maui cab driver Harden Jamison picked up Miss Piss late one night with Greek man-o-kopeta Stavros Niarchos. While he drove, Jamison claims, the heiress hiked up her blue satin dress and relieved herself on his back seat. Jamison had the good fortune to serendipitously run into Paris the next night, and he confronted her. She whined outraged denials. Jamison reportedly screamed, “I kept the towel . . . I’VE GOT THE DNA!” One of her entourage allegedly tried to buy him off for $200.

And to think, just the other day I was criticizing one of my old dormies for releaving himself off the balcony. And in the hall. And probably in the co-ed bathroom sinks (also a popular place for drunk dumbshits).

I didn’t realize he was actually showing signs of Greatness.

Cintra, please please come visit my blog. Bring the whip and the stiletto heels.

Here, look, she’s not done with Paris yet:

Fiends, I heard from a friend of mine who knows these things that Paris pulls them down and goes wherever she likes regularly . . . like, in restaurant booths . . . because she’s that awesomely contemptuous of silly little rules laid down for boring, ordinary people. “I’m peeing now,” she allegedly says, with a bored expression, making a golden puddle magically appear under your table. I think it’s fabulous, like when rich people used to ride their horses through medieval villages and bash peasants in the head with polo mallets for fun. Come on, when you’re rich and that drunk, it’s just fun to regard everyone else as your personal whipping-underclass. I can’t wait to see what Paris does next. I’m thinking of sending her biographies of Caligula and Idi Amin, just to see if their whimsical despotism can inspire her to genocide or something.

We own Cintra’s books, Colors Insulting to Nature (a novel) and A Massive Swelling: Celebrity Re-Examined as a Grotesque, Crippling Disease and Other Cultural Revelations. In her novel, her style is reminiscent of Andrei Codrescu, in that you never quite forget she’s an essayist and journalist, rather than an author of fiction. Still, Colors is entertaining. A Massive Swelling is a delight, though. If you like that snippet above, you’ll love A Massive Swelling.

D.

Walnut, February 24, 2006. Category: Books 'n' Authors, Humor, Stardust.

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