This week, I will delight you all with musings about Paris Hilton.
will write about Paris Hilton because I am not allowed to write about
how my husband fell on some jungle gym equipment at the park, tore 40
percent of his urethra and has been catheterized and bedridden for the
past 32 days.
I would write about how my husband fell on some
jungle gym equipment and tore 40 percent of his urethra, but Hubby says
he can't stand to relive the accident and would prefer that I not tell
the whole world what happened to him. So, in deference to him, here are
a few words about the convicted heiress: She's facing a rough, rough
time. The media are cracking crude jokes at her expense, mocking the
Carl's Jr. spokesmodel for her In-N-Out jail stay. Being downright mean.
But at least she has a perfectly intact urethra.
sorry. I am trying really, really hard to care about Paris Hilton's
jail scandal. I'm told (by the guy who has been convalescing on my
couch for the past month) that such trivial fluff will get my mind off
my husband's injury.
So here goes: I feel for any girl of
privilege who is suddenly jolted awake with a bucket of ice-cold
reality. Mock her all you like, but she didn't choose to be born into a
bubble of wealth and ignorance.
Her problems with the law are
likely going to have some long-term effects on her public image – think
of all the sex videos she's going to have to make just to get people to
stop talking about this! Of course the whole experience would have been
a lot worse for her had she, say, fallen on the red carpet at the MTV
Movie Awards and torn her urethra, and then gone to jail. That would
have been lousy.
It would have been worse, still, if she had
been sentenced to 30 months in prison for obstructing a CIA leak
investigation – and then torn her urethra. Because, even if she got a
presidential pardon for part of that, she'd still have a torn urethra.
As it is, Paris' urethra is in good shape. And, I hear, one of her fellow inmates even made her an origami butterfly.
does not have an origami anything. Not only that, but he so far has
been confined to bed for almost as long as Paris' sentence. So on the
face of things, I'd say Hubby has it much worse. Not that I'm writing
about Hubby's situation. I promised I wouldn't.
So … Paris. Yes. Paris. Paris, I'm guessing, hates her life right now.
stuck in her cell, missing her dog and feeling whatever pain it is she
feels from the "medical condition" that hastened her short-lived
In this way, she's a lot like Hubby. Hubby,
too, is in pain and misses picking up his son. But, unlike Paris, he's
surrounded by his dog and his distractions (mountains of comic books).
to think of it, Hubby is even encouraged to take narcotics, which I'm
pretty sure is currently off-limits for Paris. So, in that way, he's
got it better.
Also, our extraordinary friends have been
amazingly generous with their books, culinary skills, DVDs and visits,
lifting Hubby's spirits higher than Paris Hilton's skirt … which
reminds me: This column is about Paris Hilton.
I pity poor
Paris. Since she's a celebutante, the First Amendment allows people to
flap their gums about her dealings with the penal system all they want.
Same can't be said for Hubby and his penile system.
Oh, who am
I kidding? I can't care about Paris Hilton when there isn't a 400-pound
gorilla sitting on my brain. Heaven knows I can't care about her now.
tossing my Us Weekly, shutting out of TMZ.com and heading back to the
couch to hang out with Hubby. I can't get my mind off of his ailing
state, so I'll leave the Paris parsing to the rest of the pundits.
But, if she happens to tear her urethra, give me a call.