|
|
|
|
|
Paris, dear, I’m so sorry to be writing to you under such dire circumstances. Imagine you, Paris Hilton, in a jail cell! Well, it’s unconscionable. I’m so glad, Paris dear, that your fan club has started a petition to request a pardon from Governor Schwarzenegger. Your fans think you made an “honest mistake.” That’s right, Paris. All the drunk drivers careening around public streets and highways are making honest mistakes, aren’t they? They don’t think they’re too drunk to drive. And so what if the cemeteries are full of victims of honest mistakes, too. What's the big deal?
I bet your fan club was in tears when you so eloquently stated, “I feel that I was treated unfairly and that the sentence is both cruel and unwarranted and I don't deserve this.” And why should you go to jail, Paris? I mean, it’s not fair to be punished for all the other times you were driving under the influence and should have been caught, but weren’t, is it?
It choked me up when I learned that your fan club thinks you deserve a pardon because you provide “beauty and excitement to (most of) our otherwise mundane lives.” Most people would think, “What a pathetic fan club,” but I think the sentiment is just beautiful.
I wonder, though, Paris dear (between us girls), how can it be that you didn’t understand you weren’t supposed to be driving, when you got a letter from the DMV that said in big bold letters “YOUR LICENSE TO OPERATE A MOTOR VEHICLE HAS BEEN SUSPENDED.” And those nasty police officers pulled you over not once—but twice—and told you right to your face that you were driving on a suspended license. Is it too much to expect that a 26-year-old English-speaking woman should be able to comprehend what she was being told by various law enforcement agencies? I mean, it wasn’t like the first time, when you were half in the wrapper when they pulled you over, right?
Unfortunately, Paris dear, right now it looks like you’re going to jail for 45 days and I’m sure you’re understandably anxious about this. Well, I’m here to help you. The thing about jail, Paris, is you can’t let any of the other inmates push you around. You can’t let them mess with you. Otherwise, you’re a goner. So you need to prove yourself at the first opportunity. If you’re approached by another inmate, jump up on the nearest table, chair or bunk and scream like a crazy lady, “#*%@#$%!!! GET THE %#(*$ AWAY FROM ME OR I’LL ^&#%?* KILL YOU!” Then hit her over the head with a pipe. Now granted, this will undoubtedly add time to your sentence, and you might end up on trial for yet another crime—like murder or something—but at least the other inmates will leave you alone. And you’ll be guaranteed solitary confinement—or the “hole” in prison lingo—and you won’t have to worry about any pesky cellmate ogling you and looking to make you their…well, never mind all that.
Look on the bright side, Paris! Why, I bet when you get out of jail, everyone will be wearing blue jumpsuits with “L.A. County Jail” stenciled on the back, with canvas sneakers. And carrying little toy dogs!
Now that’s hot.
|
|
|
|
