Paris Hilton’s My New BFF

My cock’s endless quest to find a warm and moist canal in which to blindly plunge itself has reached, I believe, a nadir of sorts. Though shame for the sake of sex is not foreign to me – in fact, it is almost a staple of my pre-coital repertoire. I’ve lied, in the course of meeting and bedding a girl, countless times and in such numerous ways; age (I will forever remain 21), bail status (“no, baby girl, that man you saw on Cops was my twin, Woodrow) and general literacy (“that Barely Legal magazine, surrounded by a blizzard of tissues, was purchased solely because it contained an interview with Noam Chomsky) that most girls don’t know where to find me once their 8th and 8th lab results come back less than spotless. This time, however, I believe I may have gone too far. I made the torturous mistake of watching a full episode of Paris Hilton‘s new joke of a show, in hopes I could, at the end of the horror, have sex with some brainless vixen I’d met at a bar.



In retrospect, as soon as this girl stopped channel surfing on this abomination, I should have ran for the door and done something sensible like order a prostitute.

Kill me

Kill me

Watching Paris Hilton’s New BFF was akin to torture of the highest order, comparable to spending an hour in a Lyndie Egland pyramid. Despite vague promises of decent head if one were to encounter her anorexic frame in a darkened nightclub, I will never understand society’s fascination with Paris. She has no discernible talent (aside from the aforementioned penchant for cheap fellatio) no real looks to speak of and the personality of a wax figurine. I suppose that this show made it to the airwaves is just one more sign the apocalypse draws near.


How bad is it? This pile of steaming viscera and excrement is so bad, so soul-killingly awful, it has managed to elbow its way into My 25 Most Regrettable Moments, somewhere between the time I pissed myself in 3rd grade because I couldn’t figure out hpw to work the button fly on my new pants and the time I mixed drinks in an outhouse during an Enmax Stampede party.


Review of the show is impossible, as I don’t understand what the fucking point was. From what I could tell, the show was born after Paris’ former BFFs, Lionel Ritchie’s emaciated, embarrassment of a daughter and the cock-hardening Bukake Queen Kim Kardashian, spiraled so wildly out of control that not even Paris could justify remaining friends with them. So like every other well functioning human being, she hires a production team to scour society’s gutters, sewers and back alleys for a new pal to take side-by-side blasts of semen to the face. Enter a dozen or so supplicating half-wits who elbow and scratch on the floor like immigrants at the local Superstore’s dented can bin, all looking for a chancetp bask in Paris’ tepid glow. Every so often Paris herself shows up, eyes vacant and glassy, the product of an Ativan/moonshine cocktail. She mumbles shit I’ve already forgotten and thankfully disappears for the majority of the episode. Contestants are dismissed back to the rubble pile from whence they came based on no discernable criteria. In the one episode I suffered through, contestants were judged upon how hard they could party without throwing up. Doubtless, reams of drama unfurled at every turn (some used someone else’s toothbrush, someone gave someone else a dirty look, etc.) but I’d retreated into a self-preservatory coma before the first commercial break and, as such, missed much of the horror.


Truly Ridiculous Moment: Paris looked on one of her subjects with barely contained disgust as the contestant writhed pathetically, in a night club, with one of the local high school dropouts. Why this would offend Paris of all people is beyond my understanding. I guess sucking dick on film is, like, way classier than kissing a cross-eyed frat boy. Or something.


Crimes Against Television: Minimal. The entire medium has plunged to such spectacular depths, this abomination will live, and subsequently, die unnoticed. This is, after all, the same medium that seems hell bent on scraping the filth from bathroom floors and giving it its own prime time slot. Don’t believe me? Look no further than Deal or No Deal. Paris’s New BFF is like committing a rape in the midst of a Fallujah air raid. The rapist should, for all purposes, be dragged into an alley and savagely beaten with any instrument of blunt trauma found amidst the rubble. Yet the tragedy will go unnoticed, as most attention everyone is a little preoccupied with all the bombs raining down upon unsuspecting Iraqi women and children. Oops, sorry I mean terrorists.



Crimes Against My Sanity: Too fucking many to mention. From the hermaphroditic Asian, to the “blonde bombshell” balanced on the precipice of trannydom, (if she hasn’t crossed already) to Paris herself, pathetically clinging to the escaping vapours of her underserved fame. I’m sure, at one point, a black contestant blew everyone’s mind away with her oh so original sassy ways but, clinging to the reality show stereotype, she was probably sent home at the first oppourtunity – but, you know, late enough so Paris doesn’t look racist. Seriously, the show’s done some lasting, albeit minimal, damage to my entire psychological well-being.


Paris chilling with a drunk Jack Black

Paris chilling with a drunk Jack Black

Crimes Against Humanity: Too numerous to count.


MTV serves as a harrowing reminder of this world’s deliberate, headlong careen to certain doom. It is the same subterranean, acne-laden boys clamouring for a quick glimpse of Paris’s bony ass with a masturbatory fervor the likes of which we’ve never seen, and the rail thin tarts running phallic gauntlets behind the school’s portable during recess, who will be running this country in a decade’s time. Allow that marinate a minute. The same teens who’ve created a world where Paris is not only allowed to exist, but yearned for, will be charged with the task of suturing your wounds after your husband pounds back one too many with the boys and, upon seeing the inadequate dinner you’ve prepared, lets his fists fly. The same morons, who demanded the washed up 50 Cent receive a show, will be arguing for your child’s freedom after he and his friends crash your BMW through a storefront window during one of many meth-induced joyrides. If this doesn’t fill you with dread and terror, I don’t know what will.


Yet, as awful as this show is, it left no lasting impression on me. Despite the fact I believe Paris and her cock-sucking ilk are piloting society toward a fiery apocalypse, most my rage is directed inward. Under no circumstance should I watch such tripe, regardless of the prize that awaits at the finish line.


Saving Grace from hanging myself: Noting really. Divine intervention, if I had to pick. Once it came time to claim my prize, that sweet mound of flesh between the girl’s legs, I was as virile as a senior citizen. I became haunted with images of the transvestite chumming around with Paris on Sunset Boulevard, spending more money on handbags and lip gloss than millions of Africans will see in a generation combined. My dick, it appears, has standards after all. Thankfully, I uncovered a half drunk bottle of Tequila and, after several shots, all was, once again, set right.


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