Get her off the telly, please…

August 13, 2010 § 5 Comments

Is it just me, or does it seem that Paris Hilton is treated like absolute royalty?

Now, usually, I don’t rant about a lot of things. I’m usually quite calm (when the kids aren’t around), and well behaved, but ever since Paris ‘I’m a princess!’ Hilton released her TV show (you know, that one where she has to find a best friend since she can’t get one by herself), she’s everywhere. Daughter records the episodes every week, even though she agrees with me that she’s a spoilt little brat. She claims she only wants to watch it to laugh at all the pathetic losers who take part on the show. Mm.

I had the misfortune to have to watch the last episode with Daughter, since my mum was asleep downstairs, and Couch Potato was snoring too loudly in the next room for me to cope until my aspirin kicked in.

“Do we have to watch this, Daughter? Surely there must be something more appealing on.”

“Yes, we do, Mum. I like to laugh at all the pathetic losers who take part on the show.” Again, mm.

So I relaxed back, crossing my fingers that the satellite would bust up and we’d have to switch to DVDs.

Of course, that didn’t happen.

So instead I had to endure a whole hour of Paris Hilton’s My New BFF (don’t ask me how I know the full title – I don’t even know why myself), where all her little stalkers themselves endured a whole day in prison (I felt a bit like that myself) to see ‘how Paris felt when she was inside’. I felt like screaming: “SHE WAS INSIDE BECAUSE SHE BROKE THE LAW, FOR GOD’S SAKE”, but I didn’t, because it would wake Mum up and she’d wonder what the hell was going on upstairs.

I then saw Paris’ outfit and my jaw almost hit the carpet beneath my feet.

She was wearing an outfit that is completely┬áindescribable. I honestly couldn’t describe it if you gave me two whole days to do so. Take a look for yourself and see if you can do otherwise.

I was beginning to wonder if the outfit was suitable for my daughter to view. She seemed perfectly at ease – even when she forced her stalkers to dress in bikinis (and for the gay dude and the obviously-in-love-with-her-but-pretending-otherwise boy, a pink shirt and shorts) and stilettos and run around the playground outside, leaping over things and climbing ropes of her own hair (I sincerely hope I’d misheard her).

They then revealed a dartboard for them to show their paint-soaked shoes at, with a picture of a random girl called ‘Katie’ on. I wondered who this Katie was, and asked Daughter, who didn’t know either. It was then revealed that she was a girl who’d ‘disrespected Paris, so deserves bad things to happen to her’, by swearing at her as she got voted off the previous show. I felt like vomiting at how sickly these stalkers were.

“Daughter, please, if you really love me you’ll spare me of this,” I begged, on my knees as the stalkers went to get their lunch, which was a single cup of water and a dollop of chilli and tuna on their trays.

Daughter just ignored me, as per, her eyes focused on the television screen.

I don’t even know why I stayed in the room. Maybe I thought if I left, the stalkers would follow me, armed with sharp stilettos.

When the programme had finally finished after losing two stalkers, I felt like my whole world had opened up again, and I was free of this pink and princessy nightmare.

“Did you enjoy that, Mum?” Daughter teased, a grin on her face.

“Yes, I loved it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and PUKE IN THE TOILET. Thank-you.”


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