Paris & Nicky Hilton

I like to call this tableaux, "When Bad Shoes Happen To Cute Outfits." Behold!

This photo was, according to our sources, taken the night of the VMAs, when Ms Paris was turned away from Bungalow 8. Hence her downtrodden expression. I suspect that the doorman got a look at her shoes -- and at the shoes of her companions -- and just decided, "This is IT. I can't do it anymore. I can not continue to validate this kind of abuse. WILL NO ONE RESPECT THE SHOES?"

Seriously. Paris, despite your attempts to convince us otherwise, you are not Pat Benatar. And thus, you should not be wearing those ankle boots with anything but pants. Take a cue from your Smoking Friend With the Sour Expression But Very Cute Cocktail Dress there in the middle. You can't see her shoes in this picture -- in fact, her footwear looks quite bedraggled -- but in other shots from this evening, you can tell that she's paired her dress with espadrilles. Yes, Paris! Seasonally appropriate footwear matched with the style of her dress! It CAN be done. She appears to have what we used to call, back when I was young, "a clue." It may behoove you to catch one.

On the other hand, at least you're not wearing Uggs. Here's my question about your Ugg-wearing companion: it's HOT right now. So, if you were going out for the evening, and you wanted to wear comfortable footwear that was inappropriate for the occasion, wouldn't you reach for flip flops, not Uggs?

Kids today. Just when I think I've got you all figured out....

Paris Hilton, in her continuing attempt to become a singer, shows up at the VMAs in an homage to Bjork's infamous Trumpet of the Swan:

I especially enjoy the expression on the man sitting behind her. It's as though he started applauding for her, and then, actually catching a glimpse of her, has stopped mid-clap to think, "Sweet cracker sandwiches, what is she wearing?"

Good question, Perplexed Clapping Man. What IS she wearing? Let's take a closer look:

1. Bangs sculpted into a careful homage to Conan O'Brien
2. Wee little bows tried around her wrists like the world's twee-est handcuffs
3. De riguer giant belt
4. A skirt composed of equal parts duck feathers and the rejected scraps from Madonna's "Like A Virgin" costume. When Madonna and Bjork discover this fact, they will put on matching purple leotards and cartwheel over to Paris's house, where they will beat her severely with a sock full of quarters.
5. Black ankle boots, of course. Because what else do you wear with your fluffy white party dress? She's so ROCK AND ROLL! But what else would you expect from a songstress whose album includes the hardcore lines, "Girls and boys are looking at me/I can't blame them cause I'm sexy," or "I'm hot to death and I'm so, so, so sex-ee." I mean, the girls has CHOPS, am I right?

Is it wrong that I sort of just indulged in a fantasy wherein she walked right off the end of the stage, cracked her head, gave herself amnesia, forgot that she was supposed to be busy destroying the very fabric of our nation, and disappeared forever? That's what we're all hoping for, really, right?

So, we've been a bit bitchola to Nicky Hilton lately. I may have said she was looking worse than Tara Reid. I definitely said she was looking bloated and uncomfortable and cranky. I may also have a retraction on my hands. For two reasons. 

Number one: look how cute she looks at Paris's CD release party:

Cute, right? Cute bag, cute shoes, cute waistl -- hold the phone.

And here we are at Possible Retraction Reason Number Two.  See, I've read some gossip around town that there's a little Spawn of Connolly setting up shop in Nicky Hilton's ladyparts. And, of course, at first I dismissed this as totally unfounded rumor. EVERYONE is accused of being secretly knocked up in Hollywood: Sarah Michelle Gellar, Jennifer Garner (again), Reese Witherspoon. I myself was convinced that Lauren Graham was pregnant for MONTHS, when I really just think the folks on Gilmore Girls were into making her hold shit in front of her belly. But looking at her here...I don't know. Check the close-up:

Proof positive that it's not just us: Even heiresses suddenly find that they hate every single thing in their closets and absolutely can't consent to wearing any of it in public.

Of course, the difference between us and Nicky Hilton is that we tend not to solve that problem by saying, "Screw it, I'll just wear my slip to the club." But it's probably a good thing that we're not suddenly beset by "Heiresses: They're Just Like Us!" comparisons that are completely accurate.

Side note: Could somebody please sneak into her closet and steal all the hideous transparent plastic shoes, and donate them to Goodwill -- or even possibly burn them, because they'd be nothing but a blight on the shelves of the altruistic Goodwill organization? We've seen her in them now several different times, occasionally with different colored-piping, confirming that she does indeed own at least three pairs of these cramped monstrosities. They don't fit her snaky toes, and well, they're hideous, transparent plastic shoes.

Anyone? Paris? Kevin Connolly? Weekday Maid? Come on, surely somebody can engage in a little shoespionage -- it's for her own good, we swear.

This is, to put it mildly, either GREAT NEWS for Tara Reid, or like incredibly BAD NEWS for Nicky Hilton.

We've got exhibit A:

And then we've got Exhibit B:

Right?

Memo to Ms Hilton: when it turns out that you bear an as yet unremarked upon resemblance to Tara Reid, it is probably in your best interest to make sure that you don't ever look even mildly Reidified when you leave the house. That means you've GOT to wash and brush the hair, fight the bloat with all the tools at your disposal (if that means sleeping with your head propped up on five pillows so all the fluid runs down to your little feet, so be it), make your you've got a wee bit of lippy on, and, obviously,  control any wayward boobies. I know this seems like a lot of work when you're just out running some errands, but you can NOT AFFORD people mistaking you for La Reid. It's career suicide! (Even if all that career consists of  is sort of sometimes designing bags, walking around town with that cute little Kevin Connelly , and not being as trampy as your sister.)

Memo to Ms Reid: Hey, keep it up.  It's not like anyone is confusing you with Giselle, but any step forward is a step in the right direction.

Dear Diary,

"Well, hello, sailor!"

Hee! I think that is the coolest pickup line EVAH! And I decided that I should dress like a sailor so that somebody would come up and say it to me and I could reply, "Sailor? I hardly know the dude." HAHA! People don't think I'm the smart one but I am, and it's good that I'm writing this diary so that when I die -- or at least when I survive some sort of tragedy, like that time I went into that horrible Goodwill store because that bitch Nicole told me they'd sell me new tires for my car -- I can write my life story and use snatches (hee! I know, Diary, but don't laugh, 'cuz it totally is a real word) of my journals to make people who hate me start crying about how much I was misunderstood.

I'm also really sensitive, though. The Simpsons totally made me sad the other day (I started watching when ManParis and I were dating and he never wanted to leave the house. He got me hooked). Anyway, Dorky Kid's father got dumped by his wife, and so he did what everyone does and recorded an album. And, like, he sang his big song and it was all, "Take my hand with your glooooove of loooooove!" Isn't that totally rad poetry? And the little dude was, like, bumming out. I told my assistant to call him and get his address so I could send him my single, and maybe invite him to a party to make him feel better (but, accidentally leave him off the list, because the invitation is enough and I don't want him there really). But apparently she couldn't find him listed in the book.

So, as a way of reaching out to the dude, I decided to dig out this wicked awesome white glove from my mother's closet -- she uses it to make the maids cry; seriously, some people are so lazy about dusting the inside of the dumpster -- and wear it so that he knows that, like, in his honor I will totally borrow somebody's feeling and squeeze it with my love-glove. And I did, because I always do, but -- don't tell the little blue-haired guy -- the glove was kind of annoying after a while. I had cut it in half, and it kept falling off in people's drinks, and in the toilet, and down a few people's pants. Seriously, that is the last time that I let Nicky convince me I can't wear fingerless gloves because it's Opposite Day. [I think she was lying about that anyway, since it's not on my calendar until August.]

I have a confession to make, though, Diary: I'm not really sure about the shoes. They remind me of mustard, which I refuse to eat, because Stabby Nachos told me it comes from squeezing people's mustache clippings and I do NOT think PETA would be very happy about THAT, and they hate me enough already. Truthfully, Nicky made me wear the shoes because she's doing some stupid Tweety Bird collection for one of those stores, and I secretly think that is lame, but I don't have the heart to tell her that -- at least not until there are enough other people around to overhear it, because otherwise, she won't stop and I'll have to put up with her on Project Runway again when they won't even return my CALLS, those bitches.

Anyway, good night, sweet diary! I have to go wash the love-glove before Mom sees the stains on it. I might just plant it in the maid's purse -- is that wrong? She totally looked at me meanly the other day when I told her to separate out the latex in my garbage from all the recyclables (I LOVE the Earth, dude). So she sort of deserves what she gets, I think, right? Right!

High-five with my love-glove,

P

Dear Diary,

I've decided to do some community service so that people will know I love the world, and then love me in return. I'm very excited about it ever since my mother told me that my new sense of purpose totally took five pounds off my hips.

Today, I've decided my community service is: being a metaphor. Isn't that awesome? I got the idea when Brandon was crying to me about how his father called him a filthy leech, and how he wouldn't listen when Brandon sobbed to him that "firecrotch" was really just meant to be some kind of metaphor for Lindsay's inner spirit. Because, HEE, I totally thought he said "megawhore," and once I stopped laughing and agreeing with him (because, Diary, she kissed my ex boyfriend -- I hate it when people touch my castaways), he explained to me that a metaphor is something that, like, means something about something. Do you see?

Well, I see.

So I decided to make a statement. And I chose world peace, all right? Because a lot of really cute boys in uniforms are dying without getting to meet me first and that is the worst. So, look at me: Up top I have this really crazy shirt with all the anchors on it, and on the bottom there are my animal-print shorts, with matching hoodie. And these two things totally don't go together, just like a lot of people in this world who don't understand each other and don't think they go together. But I want to bring these two things together, to show that we totally don't have to be at war, and even if you don't get somebody, you don't have to kill them. Like the time I met somebody from Our Can Saw at a bar. He insisted that's a state, and I didn't believe him because I could swear I saw one of those at a party once and it was a power tool. He said, 'No, it's a place, and I said, 'No, it's not, and I grew up in New York where there are really good schools so I think I'm probably right,' but still, he swore that's an actual state. And did I kill him? Nooooo! I bought him a drink. And let him grab my crotch. (And then slapped him when he tried to kiss me -- like, hello, my mouth is private.) So anyway, even though I sort of ended up slapping him, we were mostly completely fine, and I think the world should be the same way.

And that is what my clothes mean! Sometimes you can wear leopard and anchors and nobody has to get hurt! Can't we all just love each other? Do you think I should offer to wear this to those United Nations of America meetings?

Of course, another reason I wore this is that they're my PJs, and I didn't want to take them off, because I spent all night in them texting Matt Leinart all these awesome "drop anchor" eunuchisms or whatever -- basically, he completely wants to nail me, and I'm going to allow it as soon as his mean bosses stop making him cry by saying shit like,
'What do you want -- football as your job, or foot-jobs for your balls?' and I've seen Flashdance so I know what they're talking about even though I've NEVER done that for him (but, now that they mention it, doesn't it sound fun?). So it was, like, really romantic, and this shirt makes me think of love.

Oh, God, see? I brought it RIGHT BACK around to love. And peace. I am so awesome, Diary. I am full of things to say about things that mean things. I am a walking megawhore! Or whatever that word was.

XOXO,

P

Dear Dairy Divey DiarrheaHAHAHA Diary (phew),

That Girls Gone Wild dude had a birthday, so I decided to go, because I am a girl, and I'm totally wild, and, like, every guy who's ever seen me naked has totally looked at me that night and said, "Paris you're COMPLETELY gone," so I guess I am ALSO that. And, Nicky said she wasn't going to go, so that made my decision for me, since I'm sick of us posing together because even though we look kind of alike and I wonder sometimes if we are secretly sisternal twins or whatever, we are NOT identical twins, so we don't need to act like Mary-Kate and Ashley and stand next to each other all the time. I mean, God. Sometimes I just want to be all, "Nicky, do YOU have a fragrance?" and then, like, brush past her on the red carpet and go to a party that ONLY I am invited to and NOBODY ELSE except for a bunch of dudes and maybe Rachel Zoe or something because even though she's nice and likes to party, no one will want her instead of me because she is totally way too old to be having sex -- I think she's like 40 even though she says she isn't, and that's the age when I told Nicky I want to be put to sleep, and come to think of it, that is TOTALLY something only OLD people do, so why is it called youthinasia? Did it start in, like, the Asia party circuit? That sounds pretty rad actually.

Ahem. Anyway, so I figured Joe's party would be a good time to hit the circuit and troll for dudes with my new cleavage everyone is talking about -- I got bored with that Stabby Nachos dude and all that dumb relationship stuff, so I decided to go outside with my shirt hanging open to get everyone talking about whether I had implants. I am so smrt! To make sure everyone stares at it and not at my gold sneakers, I totally wore a cropped vest over my shirt -- it was Nicky's idea. She said something about how if I wore a short vest with a really long black tunic thingy pulled down over my hips, everyone would stare at me in disbelief, and that's awesome, because my cleavage is unbelievable... unbelivably hott!

Did I actually get implants? Ha! Silly Diary! I'll never tell, Diary, not even you! Because I don't trust that you won't go talking to Lindsay Hohan (hee) or Nicole Bitchie (hahahahahahahaha) or The Wimpsons (I am AWESOME today!!!!) or Icky Hilton (HAA, oh wait, that's Nicky -- I shouldn't say that about her because she totally holds back my hair still when I'm detoxifying).

So you'll just have to guess if my boobs are real any more... although if that dude with the big teeth plays his cards right he will totally know if they're real, if you know what I mean, and I think you do! (I'm going to nail him, is what I mean.) He kept staring at me with these huge eyes and at first it was scary because he didn't blink but after a while it turned super hott, because he obviously is in love with me and I am a really sweet and giving person and so I walked up to him and wrote my number on his year and told him that I love gnawing on carrots, and that I knew of a cool rabbit hole he could explore. Isn't that hott? I used that exact same line on Man Paris, although I don't want anyone to know that -- especially the dude with the big teeth. I want him to think he's my first. He's totally going to call, Diary. They all call.

Dangling some carrots (heee, I'm so naughty),

P

Dear Paris Hilton,

Put them away.

Love,

The 6 Billion Residents of the Planet Earth. We've ALL seen them already.

PS:  Despite the fact that you're desperately wearing it open to the waist, that dress is cute, and your hair looks sweet. WHY DID YOU HAVE TO GO AND EFF IT UP?

Doesn't this look like a wax figurine of Nicky Hilton?

The shiny face and the stiff way she's holding her upper body are so Madame Tussaud's, and the scarf just adds to the notion that they didn't really finish the statue on time and so they're holding her head on by tying that thing reeeeally tightly.

None of which is really fug, per se, it's just weird. But luckily, the presence of formal shorts, on which we have put a pox and a fashion jihad, makes this a completely legitimate posting. That, and the fact that if you're out on the town wearing a sleeveless top and shorts so short that a Nair commercial could break out at any moment, you might not need the scarf. Just a theory.

Those poor shoes. Like so many pairs before them, they are victims of what's going on upstairs. Or perhaps more aptly, what's not going on upstairs, if you catch my drift, which you should, because it's really more like a hurricane wind.