In a compassionate effort to encourage widespread support for this poor child, who is being so cruelly crushed by the law, I offer the following hymn of praise:
BOB'S ODE TO PARIS HILTON (with apologies to William Blake's Tiger):
Paris, Paris. burning bright In the vacuum of the night - What commercial hand or eye Framed thy mindless symmetry?
What the PR, what the hype In what flack's mind was born thy type? What greedy agent filled with hope Dares thy empty words promote?
When thinking folks throw down their spears, And water heaven with their tears, Does He smile His work to see? Did He who made a brain make thee?
Still, putting my intellect aside, I humbly admit, she lights my fires-she awakens my interest in femininity, she send messages of playtime, all the time.
Ah, at my age the thoughts of such tender sheness, minus the pangs of IQ and with such endearing, seductiveness, so naively offered, so sweet of face and hair and figure, so gentle an honest innocence, is such a lovely package, that when she asked I could not refuse.
We merely sat and talked, she with champaign, I with Dr. Pepper (which the restaurant bar sent a fellow out to get for me) and we talked away the hours-she full of adolscent questions, I full of wonder at her energy level which glowed beneath her languid posture-the flirting, the long and batting of lashes were a throwback to decades past.
I thought of adopting her to straighten out her path, but alas my wife threw a pitcher of cold water on the idea of putting her up in the guest suite, here, although she did take a liking to the young mare.
Well, she will learn, (the blond mare, not my wife) hopefully, for her age and beauty is given as a for joy for all. However, don't despiar, for she too may yet become-as gloomy as the rest, and as she ages her wonderfully short story will grow into a burden in which for men to find disinterest. But I hope not, I hope she maintains her youthful vigor and joie de vivre. Perhaps turning it to greater purpose.
I recall another, ages ago, much like her, a rich young man, who flitted about with his rich young friends, not bad boys, just a bit senseless, all entranced in love and the life of the happy Troubadore, singing songs of love, drinking away the nights. However, the Crusades intervined and once, in full custom made armoured array, he trooped off to do battle, until he was stricken from his horse, and lay ill and when he awakened, he was another man. he gave away his splended armour, sword and riding gear, threw off his all of his clothes in the town square and standing there naked, he declared his profession, and that very day he went abegging for his food. He rebuilt an old chapel and lived in the open air or in caves and he died at 33 years of age, having that short time dedicated himself to the poor.
I stood on the spot where he was wounded with the Stigmata and the place where he performed another miracle. His Name Was Francis and he lived in Assisi, Italy, not far from my ancestral home.
You guys can mock her all you want, But she is being singled out and harrassed. It's the new censorship that wants to strangle free expression and exhuberence by making the famous some kind of role model.
Make us all kowtow and obey the corporate-authoritrian line. Which now intrudes into personal lives.
Aggrandizes privilege to be for the few only.
That's not freedom. That's slavery.
Conformity is the evil here. Straight jackets of fear
by
"Hoss" David P. (51 articles, 5 quicklinks, 14 diaries, 339 comments)
on Friday, May 11, 2007 at 4:27:43 PM
The law, in it's majestic equality, forbids the rich, and the poor from stealing bread or living under bridges. Jeeeeezzzz !!! If you're going to get stupid, get a cab! Or call your chauffeur!
by
mattzcat (0 articles, 0 quicklinks, 1 diaries, 51 comments)
on Saturday, May 12, 2007 at 11:36:46 PM
