Predator Press
[LOBO]
“When Paris Hilton was handed a jail sentence,” I says, “my first impulse was pity. And really not for any other reason than
I wouldn't want to go to jail, and I'm probably
ten times as equipped to survive a jail sentence than she.” I flick my cigarette out of the Cadillac. “Pull over here,” I says.
“Really?” says Gilmore.
“Yeah.”
Gilmore’s eyebrows furrow. “That isn’t even a parking place.”
“There’s plenty of room for the car. That's a parking place if I ever saw one.”
Gilmore stopped the car in a rude diagonal, right in front of the
Dennys entrance.
“For me," I says removing my seat belt, "the pity eroded quickly as I listened to her various and vapid post-trial defenses. ‘But I told the truth’ was the really odd one: there was no acknowledgment of personal responsibility anywhere at all; the fact that she was caught red-handed and decided to cooperate should've made everything
fine.”
We simultaneously exit the car and walk in.
“Ten bucks,” I challenge behind the crowded
Please Wait To Be Seated sign. “Ten bucks says I can get food before Paris Converts to Islam.”
“This isn't really about Paris,” argues Gilmore. “Trust me, ‘Paris Hilton’ is the last thing to worry about. In fact, she's
inconsequential to the real issues here. As I've pointed out with Mike Tyson, blaming Paris Hilton is like blaming The Monster instead of Doctor Frankenstein. Paris, with few discernable talents, commands $250,000 for an
appearance. Who writes those checks?
We do. We
made these people. We love them with our wallets and our cameras. We feed and house them.”
Watching a waitress come out of the kitchen balancing a large serving tray of food, I nudge him.
“That one?” I says.
“Nah,” replies Gilmore. “It’s all rabbit food.”
“As a repeat offender,” I offer, “she got a shorter sentence than
I would have. And her parents mocked the judge, something that would have not only increased my sentence, but would have got my parents locked up too.”
One of the many families of four in front of us get a table, and we advance a little.
“Look,” says Gilmore. “We encourage this. Because at some innate level they are fun to watch. The brief spectacle of one ‘self destructing’ in an environment we provided them is just fantastic television.
Fuck Paris. She doesn't deserve anymore credit than a pet goldfish; she’s merely a symptom of sadistic masses as a whole."
"See, why go and down goldfish?" I says.
"LOBO," Gilmore says emphatically. "We were watching Paris and just
salivating for something like this to happen. That's a pretty barbaric form of entertainment."
Another waitress comes out of the kitchen.
“How ‘bout that?” I ask.
“Not bad,” says Gilmore.
We step out of line and into the restaurant, intercepting the waitress with the large tray of food. Gilmore slips her a $100 bill as I grab the entire tray, and we walk by the crowd still 'waiting to be seated' nodding politely, and climb into the car.
Excruciatingly, Gilmore continues as we fasten our seat belts. “I can't believe after all that, her sentence gets reduced."
"Heck, they gave her a private suite." I reply. "And she complained about
that. It was making the time go slower 'cuz she was bored."
"Yeah. Can you imagine explaining to a Parole Board that you deserve to get out based on the simple virtue that incarceration isn't
amusing enough? Or that 'the cells are filthy'? I would have slapped a few months on just for that! Why should we respect ‘The Law’," he drones, "when it doesn't even try for an
appearance of integrity? It's bad enough that hard-working decent people have to work under the oppressive nature of a 'Free Nation' that employs a different set of laws upon the rich and the poor. But must their noses be shoved in it too? Paris complained that the cop initially pulled her over to hit on her. You know, that might even be
true and I don't care. Celebrity, fame, popularity ... oh it's such a drag. This carefully and cultivated image was planned and
thrust upon poor Paris, wasn't it?"
“Gilmore, I don’t think you understand,” I says, winging the empty serving tray out the window of the car like a discus before putting on my seat belt. “Paris Hilton is
exactly that. She's America's own manifestation of Princess Di. She was
born into this. Do you
want to see our Princess sticking a shiv in some crazy tattooed naked chick’s kidney while showering? My god man, her own
parents would probably kill you for that.”
“I understand that rich people have problems too," he rudely continues. "But it's really not the same is it? There's a
huge leap between worrying about your family's mere survival and well-being, and worrying about ... well, whatever it is the rich are worrying about. I'm sure it's not easy. I imagine that had Paris injured or killed someone, her grief would have been completely insufferable; it would have tarnished her public 'socialite' image, and probably caused the cancellation of various endorsements. She probably would have had to cough up a few million to the family before she could bear to face her next latte.”
“Dude,” I says. “These potato skins are
awesome.”
“Dibs on the mozzarella sticks.” replies Gilmore, peeling out.
"And you owe me 10
bucks," I remind.
