Just shoot me in the sinus with a Prozac-laced blow dart already, because I've had enough.The Hilton sisters absolutely destroy me. I'd rather eat a trough full of Wasabe marinated in Gary Busey's jock sweat than see another picture of either one of the eternally hammered sisters nuzzling a Chihuahua. Why are they celebrities? Furthermore, how can I sufficiently bury my head deep enough in the sand of the Mojave dessert to escape them? Paris and Nicki Hilton are two trollop steps away from being a question on "Jeopardy," and I want to know how Alex Trebek sleeps at night.
First, before I sleuth myself a solution regarding the Hiltons' B-list celebrity, perhaps I should E!-up some pertinent background info on the sisters for those of you who are having my column signed into your Helen Keller hands -- as in you have no ears or eyes -- because they are everywhere, dude. If you haven't heard of them by now then go ahead and move into a cave because you aren't participating in society. MENSA's seriously amending their genius constitution and defining the fifth element "ether" by pasting the new "Seventeen" cover of Paris and her friggin' dog next to it. She's synonymous with air.
The Hiltons somehow can be at every premier and after party from Hollywood to Ghana in tandem. Holy cow, these girls have some magical media powers -- no doubt derived from Satan -- that allow them to maintain a blood alcohol level of 89 percent while open-mouth kissing ugly, bug-eyed dogs in multiple locations at the same time. I feel like the paparazzi have been commandeered by the Spielbergs who do those "Girls Gone Wild" videos, and they keep trailing the boozed-out, Botox-patients-in-waiting in hopes of catching a little booby. I can't think of any other reason why the girls get as much press as they do.
The Hilton sisters are filthy rich, sure, but you don't see the Howard Johnson heiresses, Mildred and Beatrice, getting trailed by rabid MTV VeeJays when they sup on cous cous on an umbrella-ed boardwalk. Just because a girl can stuff her bra with $500 bills instead of Puffs Kleenex doesn't mean she should be able to prance down a runway on stilts.
All that Hilton press might come from the fact that the sisters are "animal activists," who have to rescue every purebred dog they have had expressly birthed for them from the streets of Beverly Hills. They then whisk them away to a specially constructed habitat within their purses where the dogs sleep next to MAC lip-gloss.
Still, my great aunt Trudy keeps her continuously frothing Yorkshire terrier in her oversized beach bag and brings him wherever she goes, and the only person who's ever photographed her is my dead great uncle.
So, I don't know why they're celebrities. Nicki is a flaming retard. "ET on MTV" once hooked her up with a "fashion correspondent" job at a random runway show, but the only clips they aired of her actually speaking -- excuse me, trying to speak -- were those of her introducing herself to the celebrities she cornered.
"Hi, I'm Nicki Hilton ..." (awkward pause in which Nicki laughs like a donkey, looks at the camera man for help, then turns back to pseudo-celeb) "And I'm an MTV reporter" (perplexed reaction shot from pseudo-celeb who begins to motion for aid).
And that was it.
That was the extent of Nicki Hilton's interviews -- or all MTV would air anyway. Paris Hilton seems moderately more evolved, but she wears a tiara, stuffs her horrible Chihuahua between her make-believe-cleavage and acts like she sprinkles Ecstasy on her breakfast cereal. Yet the two of them have managed to stage a coup d'tat on the E! channel and have hours of tele-time devoted to recording their trek from after party to after party. Bah.
So, I've decided I have to get out of here. "Here" being the latter part of 2003. I'm going to build a time machine and portal back to 2002 when I had no clue who the Hilton sisters were. I've been wired to E-bay for the past week praying like a Falwell on amphetamines that some far-out soul would advertise a VHS-ed assortment of choice "Macgyver" episodes. See, I have my great uncle's old pacemaker and a spork, and I need to know how many rubber-bands and paperclips I'll need to mash the two together to make my time machine.
Fortunately, on the off chance someone outbids me on E-bay, I've got a Plan B. Alex Trebek is out in the Mojave now, digging us both holes.