Friday, June 08, 2007

The Last Time I Saw Paris

Ah Come On, Guys, It's Paris Hilton You're Upsetting
I was sober as a judge when I heard the L.A. D.A. had thrown poor little wimpy girl Paris Hilton back in the slammer after the pot-bellied Sheriff of L.A. County let her out with a charm bracelet around her ankle. The uproar was hilarious. People were bitchin' like mad around the streets of L.A.--"Why's that bitch gettin' special treatment? My F-in cousin's doin' 5 years for what that rich bitch did."

Isn't locking poor little Paris up in her mansion with that damn bracelet around her ankle punishment enough? And boy howdy, folks, did you see that mansion Paris lives in? Remember, isn't she only about 26 or so--and already has a house 100 times bigger than your house or my house--and what the hell did she do to deserve it?--why she was born into the Hilton family, same as Georgie Porgie Bush (our phony "president") was born into the Bush family--already private empires by the time these two soppy Pappies came along and fostered all their worthless children on our asses. At least Paris hasn't run for president yet, though don't count her out. These people are born into privilege. Just like Georgie Porgie Bush the Mighty National Guard Aviator decided he didn't wanna do any military time--"Daddy, please...." and Daddy did.

I really don't know which Hilton is Paris's old pappy. Is it the notorious Nicky Hilton? I guess Nicky Hilton is dead by now; maybe it's Nicky's son whose her father. Why here he is, we found him, not Nicky but Ricky--"Hello, honey, I'm home free, white, and twenty-one."

Rick Hilton was born in Los Angeles, California, the sixth of eight children of Barron Hilton (who was born to Hilton Hotel founder Conrad Hilton) and Marilyn June Hawley. His brothers and sisters are William Barron Hilton, Jr. (born 1948); Hawley Anne Hilton (born 1949); Stephen Michael Hilton (born 1950); David Alan Hilton (born 1952); Sharon Constance Hilton (born 1953); Daniel Kevin Hilton (born 1962); and Ronald Jeffrey Hilton (born 1963).[1] The fortune of their father, Barron Hilton, is currently valued at $1.0 billion[2]

Rick Hilton is currently chairman of Hilton and Hyland Real Estate, a successful Beverly Hills real estate firm that he founded with partner Jeff Hyland.[3] Rick Hilton's net worth is estimated to be valued at around $300 million.[4]

He married Kathy Richards in 1978. They have four children: Paris Whitney Hilton (born February 17, 1981); Nicholai Olivia Hilton (born October 5, 1983); Barron Nicholas Hilton (born November 7, 1989); and Conrad Hughes Hilton (born March 3, 1994).

In 2005, Rick, Kathy, and their two sons moved into a 1930s Bel-Air mansion purchased for $10 million. The family also maintains a $6.3 million home in The Hamptons on Long Island, New York.

Nicky (I guess he was Barron's (Rick's father) brother) got to bang still-teenager Liz Taylor back in the early fifties, right after she'd made National Velvet with that little rascally Mickey Rooney--the Mick married 8 or 9 times, all hot babes--even now at 88 or whatever the hell he is he's got a new Mrs. Rooney--a little longer in the tooth than the Mick was used to but, hell, she's takin' care of his now raggedity old ass. Mick swears he never banged sweet little Judy Garland--hell, he was acting with her as hot, bated breath, pimply skinned teenagers--you know they must have sneaked some "lovin'" in the back of the movie sets somewhere--come on, Mickey, admit it. But he swears he didn't. Though I don't remember whether he admits to bangin' sweet little Liz or not.

But Nicky Hilton got her. He was kind of a fop, but then Liz Taylor loved foppish guys--look at Richard Burton, king fop of them all (Richard the Fum) (an "Ask My Arse" type guy), or Jeez that truly foppish Malcolm "Peckers or Pussies Don't Matter to Me" Forbes--who old Liz got so riled up he thought he was a youth again and went out riding on his motorcycle to show off--rich guys love to show off--yet they are so amateurish at it--like James Dean thinking just because he was an actor with plenty of bucks enough to buy him a hot Porsche that also made him a racecar driver--showed his ass, right? He raced his dumb ass right off into the pits of Hollywood Dead Hell--bye-bye, James, you silly peckerhead.

Like Bush falling off his mountain bike!

Like Pappy Bush vomiting all over the Chinese head of state.

By the Bye
I was watching the Bush-Putin clown act at the bigger G8 clown act and Bush was sitting there chowing down like a chimp pulling apart limb-for-limb another monkey and then gobbling down the fresh, hot, bloody, raw meat--I mean the Bush Boy was shoveling in the German chow and Putin was standing right by him while he was eating. I was thinking watching that scene that I don't know if I'd eat anything with Putin standing around me. He might just put a drop or two of plutonium in Bush Boy's vittles--and son of a bitch if today Bush Boy didn't turn up with a bellyache. The vile leftwing press was hinting that maybe the "president" drank too much while partying heartily with some of the richest badass goons in the world. These pig-jowled tycoons have chefs that cook for them--poor pantywaists--they have maids that lay out their clothes, that shine their shoes, that wipe their asses for all I know. Obnoxious to me, spending all that fucking money to reach nonsensical conclusions that never really mean one sort of high pile of f-ing beans--like the G8 last year or so guaranteeing so much money to stop the spread of AIDS in Africa--remember how Bush Boy was tooting about how he was committing 30 million to the cause--come to find out, scratch that amount--only about 11 million ever got to Africa and that never got to the AIDS patients themselves. The other countries also renigged on their help, too. Hey, rich folks ain't giving up any of their money except to run for office or support their teams of economic hitmen going around the world stealing all of the world's wealth.

They may have even gotten to Nelson Mandella in South Africa. Do you all know what I'm talking about?

Passports to Go to Canada and Mexico Now
Hell, why not passports to go to West Orange, New Jersey, on public transit?
Why not passports to go to the grocery store?
Our little billionaire short-man mayor proposed his easing of traffic congestion plan before the New York State legislature today--it's a plan he co-opted from London where they've been using it for several years now, though I have no idea if it's working in London or not. Anyway, our billionaire mayor sees nothing wrong with charging automobiles $8 a pop to come below 86th Street in Manhattan Uptown--trucks $21 a pop. The mayor justifies it by saying, "Well, I mean people who can afford to use parking garages at $30 a day can surely afford 8 bucks a pop--now come on, folks--I know I can afford 100s of $30-a-day tolls--and so can most of my friends."
Our mayor came up with a cross-street plan--every other cross-street you're suppose to only go one way several blocks before you can turn off of them--it's complicated--but anyway, it's caused tremendous tie-ups at intersections throughout the city--way to go, mayor, you're a half-a-motherfucker genius.

Lester Young Is President
The doorman, huckster, hustler, and announcer at the original old Birdland was a little people-type cat named Peewee Marquette. All the musicians couldn't stand the little bastard because he'd always come up to them to cadge a little spondulex out of them to mention their names when he was announcing--you paid him what he wanted or he wouldn't mention your name at all or if he did, he F it up--you know, say, "And now, ladies and gentlemen, the great trumpet player Dials Davis...." So, the first time Lester played at Birdland, sure enough, here came Peewee up to him with his hand out. Lester looked him in the eye and said, "Stay away from me, you little half-a-motherfucker."

for The Daily Growler

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