Karl Klockars

Oh, Paris. You were so close to going away.

I wish I could write about Paris the same way I wrote about Anna Nicole Smith last September. I wish I could create a mythology around you based on decades old country music stereotypes and hold you up above the befouled shoulders of your detractors. I wish you were worth it. But you’re not.

The majority holds that it’s a fantastic thing that Miss Paris Whitney Hilton is going up the river for 45 days. Most of America can’t wait to know that somehow, somewhere, you are behind bars and for once, their lives are better than yours. We as a people and a nation cannot wait to gloat over your bony, incarcerated ass.

The Paris Perp-walk.

I am not one of those people.

People don’t seem to realize that Paris was right on the borderline that Britney Spears crossed when she walked out of that restroom barefooted. That was her personal Waterloo, that was where the tides receded and we all stopped oohing and aahing over how smokin’ hot she was and started poking fun at her Cheeto-eating redneck core.

America was just on the verge of forgetting her. Hadn’t she done everything that there was to be done for a worthless, vapid whore to do? She’d run the gamut from simple socialite to media-savvy celebritute to porn star to…um, I’m not terribly sure what to classify her as after that. Post-Nightvision Trauma Survivor? The second coming of the raccoon people?

As a nation, we were tired of her stomping your new designer shoes in our groin, and she was starting to peter out. No one really cared about her Simple Life horseshit, did they? Paris’ “Me vs. Nicole ‘I Need A Bag Of Oreos – Stat’ Richie” dramas were relegated to the middle of the tabloids, and her album…well, what album? Paris, dearheart, you were always a joke, but no one seemed willing to tell you to be in on it. And if someone did…well, you wouldn’t have gotten it anyways.

It was down to few options, none good. Rehab, pregnancy, anything to get her back into the rags was on the table. And then from left field, the stupidity kicked into high gear and you tripped into this new “jail” thing. Someone should probably tell Paris that jail is like, the bad place where people go when they haven’t been on TMZ lately. That she’d understand.

Let me see if I’ve got this straight -some judge goes parental, thinks Paris needs a kick in the tail and sends her packing off to the slammer. In the short term, sure, it’s worth a chuckle or two. Paris in jail. Hah! Next she can make “Paris Goes to Camp,” “Paris Vs. the Martians,” and “Paris Saves the World.” Know what I mean, Vern?

As entertaining as it may be to envision a webcast live from the LA County Jail Showerroom, keep in mind that someday soon she’s going to get out. As George Jung said in “Blow,” “I went in with a Bachelors in weed. I came out with a Doctorate in cocaine.” You think Paris is going to come out of this and be better? Imagine how bad off we’ll be if she’s found dangling by a bedsheet in her cell because she runs out of eyeliner.

No, we’ve just ensured ourselves at least another two years of Parisness. She’s going to come out just as bad and dumb as ever – but now she’s done hard time, man. She’s a stone-cold convict. No more hairpulling in Beverly Hills bathrooms when someone spills her coke – it’s all shivs and 5th St. Diciples beatdowns from here on out.

We’re all going to be thrilled the quickly-approaching afternoon when the jail doors slam and she’s incarcerado for a month or so. Neener neener, little rich girl. You’re probably losing teeth right now. Ha ha. We’re all so glad you’re getting what you finally deserve. Look at us with our average lives and our direct-deposit paychecks and our car insurance – you may get millions to party, but you’re in jail.

This is not the appropriate punishment for Ms. Hilton. What people don’t seem to understand is that for Paris, the only true hell is the one outlined by Mr. Paul Anka on that halloween episode of the Simpsons: “Just don’t look. Just don’t look.” She may be the one behind the bars, but we’re the ones who have been sentenced to another 24 months of Hard Paris.

What’s worse? Doing 45 days (if she even does see the insides of those walls) and coming out knowing people will want you more than ever? Or would it be worse to stay on the track she was on, wallowing deeper into yesterdays news, relegated to VH1 “I Love the 2000s” specials in a few short years?

It’s understandable that we all want to slap her around a bit. Well, not literally of course – but goddamn if she’s not the kind of girl that you want another girl to punch right in that surgically perfect chin. But this is not the kind of schadenfreude we need. The worst prison sentence for Paris is “Paris Hilton? I remember her. Whatever happened to her? Ah, who cares.”