Paris & Nicky Hilton

Nicky tried to put on a happy face, but all she could think was, "I look like Little Orphan Annie with a water-retention problem in this thing. That is the LAST time I let Paris approve my wardrobe without giving her a breathalyzer first."

Fortunately for her, some people may have been too busy gawking at how ugly feet look when squished into clear plastic shoes to really care much about her clothes.

There are so many ways to go with this photograph of Paris Hilton.

1) Well, at least it's not the kind of cock you expect Paris to drag around with her...

2) Never before has hunting seemed so appealing. Indeed, somewhere in America, Nicole Richie is suiting up in her best bright orange and borrowing a rifle (and, most likely, hiring someone to help her lift it to shoulder-height).

3) Oh, honey, we've already seen your plumage.

4) How unfair that a peacock had to go naked so that Paris Hilton, of all people, could get dressed.

5) We would suspect this is her attempt at playing off of Jon Stewart's "Dick Cheney/Bjork and the swan dress" joke, if we thought she had any idea who Dick Cheney is. Or, indeed, who Jon Stewart is. (They're not Greek enough to make her radar.)

Regardless of which path is the one you think leads to enlightenment, one thing is certainly universally true: She looks more like an aging drag queen than ever.

From the diary of Paris Hilton:

Deer diary,

So, it was my birthday. I totally made it to 25. Hott. Not everyone thought it would happen or that I would still be like all sexy and adored and stuff, but then there I was at the party dancing on a table and everyone was trying to touch me and shove flashing cameras up my skirt, so obviously I still rock even though I'm really old now. I'm old, diary. I'm, like, halfway to 35, which is so messed up, dude! That guy Paris I was engaged to -- wait, I should use a suedonym, huh? They call it that because you use them so people won't sue you when you talk about what boring dumbasses they were.

Anyway, where was I? Oh right. That ex of mine Paris "Paris" told me after we broke up that I wouldn't live to see 25 because my vagina would rot before then, but it hasn't,  or if it has I didn't notice and it didn't kill me, so SUCK ON THAT, Mr. "My Parents Won't Let Me Use My Greek Shipping Fortune To Buy Another Big Diamond For My Beautiful Fiance Because She's Just Going To Have To Pawn It When She Goes Broke In Three Years." Maybe my vagina is... that word for things that live through anything... what is that word... biopic! I have a biopic vagina!

But you know, diary, what really sucks is that for some reason people are starting to call Nicky the "classy" sister. I'm not really sure what's classy about wearing a dress that comes down to, like, your KNEES, and is WRINKLED and doesn't even have any cutouts on it. Also, and you didn't hear this from me, but she's totally worn those shoes at LEAST once before, which is such, like, a gnarly and Payless thing to do. SHE is the one who looks like she's halfway to 26, or whatever, not ME. I look all young and foxy and hott in spandex and lace! And anyway what's classier than LACE? The Victoria's Secret catalog I made some bellhop read to me while I put my clothes back on told me that lace is refreshingly feminine! And it is, because the dress looks like it's all long and shit, but really, thanks to the lace, you can still see all my business. And I am all about my business. People don't think I am, but I am. Or wait... am I "all business"? No, I'm pretty sure it's the other one. I don't know. I drank a lot tonight, diary, and the Red Bull is starting to wear off.

Maybe if I start to design clothes, instead of just that jewelry that was selling online somewhere and I don't remember where because I was really busy trying to convince everyone that Kimberley Stewart is as cool as that tramp Nicole -- although Nicole is NOT COOL, diary, so forget I just said that. But... I don't know what I was saying. Except that maybe I should design lingerie so that people stop acting like Nicky has a real career and I have a fake one just because I go on TV and drive around in a big customized bus. She draws on cotton and gets invited on that runway show? Whatever dude. I don't know why she'd want to go on a show with "project" in the title anyway. We have way more money than that. But I'm kinda tired of her getting to do stuff, diary. I want to be the one who has stuff! Although right now I mostly need some extra headlines that don't have to do with me being "stupid" (ha -- like they even know what that word MEANS), which is kind of why I wore a dress that totally showed off my bloat and even had an ugly patterened thing that basically frames it. That way, people will start wondering if I'm pregnant, and nothing makes people love you like getting totally knocked out. Or up? I think it's up. It's like Kimberley used to say:

Okay, I just sat here for 15 minutes trying to remember what she used to say and I don't think I ever actually listened to her once unless she was asking to borrow my outfits. She can't have this one. She needs to go get her own pregnancy headlines.

Man, it's only 5 a.m., diary, and I'm already tired. I AM getting old. Time to go to bed!

Kiss kiss, spit spit,

P

If I were the Us Weekly body-language expert, and I were being consulted to do something as gravely important as making up subtext to a celebrity photograph, I would probably suggest that Nicky Hilton is thinking, "Try to smile, be cool, stay on your side of the line -- if you don't touch it, you can't catch anything from it."

Nicky Hilton's appearance on last week's episode of the delicious and delightful Project Runway proved that she was way less annoying than I thought she was, and also that she's kind of low energy, which I guess isn't that surprising since sharing a family with Paris Hilton would probably make a girl retreat deeply into herself, to a place of great silence and psychic pain.

This outfit, though, causes me psychic pain:

Leggings. Are never. Okay. But especially not when your shirt is short enough to show the whole world your girl-package.  There is such a thing as too much sharply-defined crotch.

In her defense, however, Hilton The Lesser does look as though it just occured to her that she forgot to put on some other pants.

Am I the only one who finds it suspicious that NICKY Hilton is dressed like a Vegas call girl and PARIS Hilton is wearing something classy, demure, flattering and actually pretty?

Is this some kind of Sweet Valley High Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield Trade Places For the Day Because Jessica Really Needs Elizabeth to Pretend to Be Her To Get Out of a Scrape And Elizabeth Is Too Much of a Pushover to Say No type of thing? Like, is Nicky attempting to pass as Paris so she can later, say, break up with Stavros without accidentally sleeping with him on videotape first? She better watch out, because playing the Elizabeth to a Jessica Wakefield is dangerous. Next thing you know, Nicky Hilton is gonna get in a motorcycle accident and awake from a coma thinking she IS Paris and she'll start doing things like running around town with a monkey and then the only thing that will get her out of it, as avid readers of Sweet Valley High 7: Dear Sister know, will be if she happens to drunkenly roll off a coffee table and conk her head. Save yourself, Nicky! Everyone secretly hated Elizabeth Wakefield for being such an mealy-mouthed easy mark. Don't let Paris talk you into going out looking like the trashy one.

Interesting that only Nicky chose to wear a costume on Halloween.

Well, folks, it's been a difficult week here at Go Fug Yourself HQ, for obvious reasons. Frankly, we feel as if a couple as truly commited to each other, as clearly deeply in love and as obviously devoted to honest and upfront communication as Man Paris and Paris Paris can't make it, what hope do any of the rest of us have for forging a true and lasting relationship?

Thank god Paris Paris is holding it together okay.

Or so it seems.

Look deeper. Can't you see that's it's just a facade? She's all going out in last summer's flirty cotton ruffled skirt and her sister's ugly tank top, pretending that it's 2004 and she hasn't even MET Man Paris yet and the only problem in her sunny, shiny life is how she keeps losing Tinkerbell and the way people keep falling into her vagina. On camera. 

But can't you smell the heartbreak? Don't you just know that the sunglasses are hiding tear-stained eyes? Isn't it obvious that after the event, she and Nicky are going to climb in their car and she's going to sob and sob all over Nicky's twee seersucker evening shorts, and eventually, she won't be able to hold it in anymore -- she'll unleash her barbaric, heartbroken yawp to the Southern Californian night air: "NICOLE'S GETTING MARRIED AND I'M NOOOOOOOOT!"

A peek inside Paris Hilton's Day Planner:

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb]

4:3opm: wake up

5:oopm: go back to sleep in tanning bed

6:15pm: make help wash hair

6:30pm: consider texting Man Paris. Crank call Nicole instead.

6:40pm: threeway with man who drives me places and lady who paints my toes.

6:47pm: put on velvet dirndl-y sack-dress thingie.  Shapeless throwbacks to already-unflattering retro styles are hott.

7:00pm: but it's missing something. Something...macrame. Like a vest!

7:20pm:  party!

Oh, Girl Paris, welcome back to the blog:

And what better triumphant return to the fug than this chartreuse shiny bandeau dress, complete with billowing bodice, slits, and a tennis skirt? It's all so very white-trash St. Tropez, seen at all the yachting parties of peasants whose boats are only a pathetic fifty-feet long.

However, I am vexed by the continued absence of Man Paris. Are they fighting? Has he been brainwashed by his Hilton-horrified parents, who keep insisting their children are getting hitched on the tenth of Never, and not a day sooner, even though Kathy Hilton has already pretty much planned the wedding and monogrammed some towels? Or are her slits accidental -- left over from the knife fight she got into with Mr. Man Paris's hired goons, who want to scare some jilting into her?

I love the idea that they're a billionaire sandbox version of Romeo and Juliet, but without the innocence. Or the vocabulary. It's going to be so tragic when Girl Paris drinks Red Bull laced with arsenic and passes out, only to wake up and find out that Man Paris drank a lethal dose in his grief, which will force her to impale herself upon a cocktail toothpick she ganked from the Tropicana Bar the other night.

Hopefully she'll change first.