As I sit here and gaze into a bottomless cup of ground-laced coffee at a local Waffle House, I am feeling a void.
All of those that should be held in the highest honor are slowly being revealed to be hucksters of the sleaziest type. It turns out that Glenn Beck may not, indeed, be much more than a phony baloney, little more than a rhetoric-laden small appliance faith healer. Lindsay Lohan is laboring under the delusion that she’s a “damn good actress”, not the coked-out life of the party that we’ve all come to admire. Someone who’s rise to fame has involved drinking in New Jersey and chiseled abs will soon be dancing as a “star” on television. My Wife likes the music of Justin Beiber. Surely the apocalypse is on its way.
Oh, society, how you’ve crumbled around me.
And now, the cruelest cut of all?
Paris Hilton may be getting banned from many resorts/clubs/venues in Las Vegas due to some white powder issues. Specifically cocaine that jumps out of her purse during routine traffic stops. Cocaine that she claims isn’t hers. The elaborate plots thicken from here on out.
With wars going on on several fronts in this world, Haitians and New Orleaners still trying to rebuild lives torn apart by disaster and a bunch of Chilean miners getting bored with playing strip poker in a caved-in tunnel three miles down, it is still this news that is most troubling of all.
Just who does Las Vegas think it is?
Vegas IS Paris Hilton. Vegas is illusion and neon and idiotic tourists having unbridled, unprotected sex in fountains. Hilton is all that and more. May I remind you, LAS VEGAS, that it is she who made the night-vision sex tape the de-facto cred that wealthy socialites must have in order to gain fame? It’s not enough to be famous for being famous, Las Vegas. You should know this. And, much like the Strip looks the next morning, when you wake up and realize you’re in THE MIDDLE OF THE DAMN DESERT, the reality of Paris Hilton by day is one of self-loathing and disregard for any sort of intellect.
Her fans (and what constitutes a Paris Hilton fan? One usually must have accomplished something to have a “fan”, or am I totally off the mark?) aren’t taking this lightly. She knows this. She knows this so well, that she Tweeted that it was the love and adoration of her fans that kept her from slipping into a nice, warm bath with cuts on her wrists (or something to that effect). The town of Las Vegas damn well better thank her fans for allowing her to continue to hold her head up high and bestow the much sought after title of “that’s hot!” to various inanimate objects.
I mean, c’mon, Vegas, are you really that shocked that an entitled celebutante with millions to burn who lists as a career “professional partier” may dabble in the nefarious world of cocaine indulgence? Really? It is the acme of hypocritical indignation to turn your back on the human equivalent of everything that Las Vegas stands for. Several years ago, the desert oasis tried to market itself as “family friendly” but that was an infantile ruse, and everyone knew it. They should leave family friendly markets to places that have burned out singers from the fifties and formerly communist comedians (“Welcome To Branson! The Mickey Gilley Breakfast Show Will Begin In 10 Minutes!”) Now Vegas is all about their “what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” marketing blitz, which is, not coincidentally, the mantra of the very middle-aged swingers and hipster slackers that they’re trying to entice. It wouldn’t be surprising in the least if they handed out samples of Viagra, meth and a rolled-up dollar bill upon check in at your swankier establishments.
So listen up Las Vegas. I might stand idly by as our nation slips to 548th in educational capabilities; I may look the other way when oil bum-rushes our beaches. I might even yawn at the concept of the ongoing costs of wars on our young men and women serving, not to mention the crippling financial burden. Hell, I’ll even fall asleep at the switch when we wake up to find ourselves pledging allegiance to The United States Of Wal Mart. But don’t you think for a minute you can turn your back upon the very beacon of all that is vapid, shallow and “hottt” without consequences. She’s been there for you, so I’d recommend you apologize to Paris Hilton, Vegas, and buy her a dime bag as a measure of good will.