Why Can't Paris Be More Like Paris?
I consider myself a good man...loving husband, a caring father of two teenage girls. Most teenage girls love Paris Hilton, and let me tell ya, Violet and Marie, my daughters are no exception. Hell, I love Paris Hilton! So like any good-natured father, I decided that for our summer vacation we would visit Paris, herself. I thought it would be an unforgettable family experience, and Paris sure could use the support after all she has been through. So I bought four round-trip tickets to Paris. I was so excited! I mean, what man wouldn't want to spend a night in Paris, if ya catch my drift!? My wife, Joyce, was very keen on the idea as well. Our marriage could really benefit from some of Paris' vast sexual expertise.Well there we were, on our plane. We had to literally cross an ocean to get to Paris! Who would have thought? The Plutarski gang eagerly peered out the window, expecting to see lots of pink designer clothes and fast expensive cars everywhere. We strained our eyes looking at the buildings expecting to find all sorts of exclusive clubs. We were a little worried after seeing nothing but drab bistros and old looking landmarks and monuments. The moment we stepped off the plane, it was a disaster! There we were in our "That's Hot" t-shirts, looking for our idol. We asked a rather rude gentleman where we could find Paris. He proceeded to laugh right in my face and mutter some words I could not understand. It was like he was speaking another language. I threatened to tell Paris about how poorly he was representing her, but he just walked away smoking his cigarette.
We thought that Paris really wasn't a day person anyways, so we checked into our hotel and prepared our cameras and withdrew some money for what we thought would be our first meeting with Paris that night. We skipped dinner because I'm sure Paris doesn't like fat or even normal-sized people. I even made my two girls go to the bathroom and purge. I sure as hell wasn't going to let them embarrass us in front of Paris.
We went out to hit the "club" scene, stopping in every place we could find that served alcohol or played music. And believe you me, it was no success. Each and every place was the same. Scattered, smoking bar customers were wearing dark clothing and a few wore berets, and almost everyone was hairy and smelly. Absolutely no celebrities, debutantes, or celebutantes in sight. And we even checked the jukeboxes just to be sure, and not one establishment had any music from Paris's one album, just boring jazz and such. My frustration level was through the roof!
"Where is Paris?!" I cried. "Enough of this cruel game! Paris, please, come out!" Why did it seem that nobody cared about Paris, I wondered. Where were the paparazzi, and all the young studs with their night-vision camcorders ready for their night in Paris? Where were the miniature dogs wearing apparel that is worth more than I make in a year? How come nobody was pronouncing Paris name right? "Paeh-Ree" they kept saying. Someone finally sat me down and gave me some difficult answers. Jacques LeBeau, a bartender who spoke English in a strange accent told me that we were not going to find Paris Hilton, or any other heiress for that matter. He told me that we were in a country called "France" and that we could still have a spectacular vacation. But by that time, I was too irate to comprehend what he was saying.
"You should be SUED!" I shouted to everyone. "How dare you use Paris's name like this! You have all ruined the Plutarski's vacation."
With tears in my eyes I dragged my family back out into the street, and glared menacingly up at the terrible eyesore called the "Eiffel Tower". While hatred was still pumping violently through my veins, I shouted back to the crowd of onlookers, "That tower is a disgrace! If the real Paris were here, you wouldn't be able to see it! Do you know why?"