I made one more sweep of the apartment to make sure everything was as it should be. The ice cube trays in the freezer were full. There was beer and rosé chilling in the fridge. On the candle-lit table, I’d laid out a bowl of mixed nuts, and a wooden cutting board spread with a selection of cheeses, sliced fruit, and charcuterie. I’d made a playlist for my iPod, which was playing in the background. Just easy going background music, nothing too dance-y or aggressive. The tone I was hoping to set was one of animated discussion and lively repartee, a warm cocoon for great friends to share their ideas. I knew that once Paris Hilton arrived, we’d be able to sit at the table for hours, talking about all the important issues of the day.
There was a knock at the door and I swept a final glance over everything before realizing that it didn’t matter. Paris Hilton and I were such great friends that I could serve her dirty laundry on a plate of garbage and she wouldn’t bat an eye. Because of our awesome friendship, not her brain. Although someone else could serve her dirty laundry on a plate of garbage and she wouldn’t bat an eye because of her brain. But with us it’s just really getting along and being totally on the same wave-length and not her stupidity at all. I opened the door. “Paris,” I said. “It’s great to see you.” Paris looked at me blankly and a bodyguard in a suit pushed her into the room.
“We’re picking her up in two hours,” the man said, before squeezing himself back down the stairwell.
Paris walked dimly to the table and sat down. I poured a glass of rosé for her and held it out. She pushed a few buttons on her BlackBerry without looking up. The screen was blank, I think it was turned off. I put the glass of wine in front of her and went back to the fridge for a beer.
“I saw the video you made,” I said. “The campaign ad in which you proposed a solution to the oil crisis? I thought it was hilarious.”
“Huh?” she said.
“I saw the video you made. The campaign ad in which you made fun of John McCain’s ad in which he compared Barack Obama to you and Britney. You know, the Funny or Die video, where you surprised everyone with a really solid understanding of our nation’s dependence on foreign oil and the environmental and geo-political ramifications of dragging our feet towards a solution.”
“Huh?” she said.
Paris Hilton picked up a slice of spicy sopresatta and pressed it on her mouth, which was closed. After a few seconds she got bored and returned to her non-functioning BlackBerry. The meat hung from her cheek for a moment longer before falling into her lap, where she ignored it.
“So, Paris,” I said, “what DO you think of this year’s presidential election? I feel like no matter what party you belong to there is a real sense of opportunity in the country, not only to move out from under the dark legacy of our current President, but to present a new vision of America’s future. Barack Obama is an extraordinarily charismatic candidate who invigorates his supporters in ways that haven’t been seen since JFK or the first Bill Clinton nomination battle, while John McCain represents an alternative spokesman for the Republican Party who has often marched to the beat of his own drummer in opposition to his party, representing an independent thinker. If both of these expert politicians limit their base-pandering inclinations and run their campaigns on the promise of political rejuvination, it seems to me that it’s impossible not to be excited and enthusiastic about the prospects of this historic election.”
“Huh?” Paris Hilton said. Then Paris Hilton queefed.
I finished my beer and went to the fridge for another. “I love having these talks!” I shouted to the living room. “It’s just such a relief to have someone to bounce ideas around without having to make mindless small talk,” I added.
Back in the living room, Paris Hilton was staring at her fingernails. She put a few of her fingers into her mouth and then tried to fit the whole hand in. She couldn’t quite squeeze the thumb in there. Her eyes got pouty. “Hmmph,” she said. “Hmmmph, hmmmph.”
“But tell me,” I said, “and be honest. Don’t you think there’s something kind of played out in taking someone who’s publicly considered stupid and giving them some scripted lines to ‘surprise’ everyone with a depiction of them as being smart? Like, I know that you came up with those ideas about environmentally protected offshore drilling as a temporary hold over until Detroit can develop new hybrid technologies on your own, but you have to admit that the presentation of the ad, the joke of it if you will, was that you’re a fucking idiot and everyone knows it and so it’s weird to hear complete sentences come out of your mouth. You know? And I just think that comedic trope is kind of played out, not that it was ever that funny to begin with. Granted, it’s probably not any more played out or unfunny than jokes about you being as stupid as people assume that you are, or having AIDS or whatever, but still. Thoughts?”
“Paris Hilton!” she shouted with glee. “My vagina is hungry!” Paris Hilton shit her pants.
There was a knock at the door and her security guard was waiting to carry her to the car. I couldn’t believe our time was already up. I watched as the security guard demanded that Paris get ready to leave and then blew a dog whistle at her. Finally, he crossed the room in three massive strides and threw her over his shoulder. “Bye Paris!” I said, following them to the door. “Air kisses! You’re the best!” The door closed behind her, and I was once again alone, but her words of wisdom would never leave me.
The goat cheese I’d put out was delicious, and Paris hadn’t touched it so it was AIDS-free. I double wrapped it so it would keep.