I'm a little slow today. I just switched to Sanka. So...have a heart?

Friday, June 08, 2007

Does my heart good.

Oh! How I wish I was in the LA County Courthouse where Paris Hilton was once again sentenced to serve her 40 day jail period in... jail.

How I wish I was able to watch her sob, and shake, and bite her knuckles, and scream when the sentence was handed down, and be dragged, clapped in irons, from the Courtroom and back to jail.

Am I devouring every morsel of detail in this case with morbid fascination? You bet your sweet ass I am. Are you fucking joking me!? Watching a rich bitch get exactly what she deserves, with no special treatment?! Fucking sweeter than saccharine.

In the beginning, I thought 45 days was a bit on the long side, but I figured, "Hey. Whatever. In California, they probably have mandatory sentences just like they do here." And then, when it got reduced to 23, I was pissed. AND THEN, when it got reduced to 3, I was MEGAPISSED.

Lock ME in my fucking house for 40 days. I can dig it. I have a view of the water, and as long as I can call "the Epicure" for daily grocery and wine and stinky cheese delivery, I think I could get on just fine being locked in my pad for 40. I have weights, I have my Pilates DVDs, hell I could even call Atlantic Broadband and have them install my cable! I'm sure I could get other things delivered as well to pass the time. There's actually not a whole lot I can't imagine being able to do in my place for 40 days.

Jail, however...

Well... As long as the sex is consensual, protected, and hot, I think I could get into that too. And I love airplane food, so I imagine Jail Food isn't that bad.

Bottom line? Thank goodness Judge Sauer issued a resounding, "EXCUSE ME?!" to the "FUCK YOU!" issued by the LA County Sheriff's office. The Court's job is to hand down the orders. The Sheriff's department is to enforce them. When the directives of the Court are circumvented by the body whose job is to enforce the orders... it creates a whole host of problems, not to mention undermining the integrity of the judiciary.

Heck, it's not even like there was any ambiguity in the order. Paris was to serve 45 days, no special treatment, no early dismissial, no home confinement, no nothing. I hope that Sheriff Baca or whatever his name is, is haled into Court on Contempt Charges. He damn well better show cause why he violated a direct order of the Court. If I were him, I'd be shitting the bed right about now, because even after an order to show cause why he did what he did, he didn't.

That's a bad thing. I've been called in once on a Contempt charge. I wasn't found to be in contempt, (because the opposing attorney was CRAZY) but it was still a scary thing. I imagine it's scarier still when you're haled in on Contempt charges, when you're actually in contempt of a lawful directive of the Court.

But I've gone far afield of my original intent in writing this blog.

A lil' letter to Paris:

Dear Paris:

Stop crying. One-ply toiletpaper doesn't make good nose-blowing material, and tears don't endear you to the guards. Shut up, sit up, be a good girl, and act like the rest of us must 365.

Even in jail, you have 3 square meals, a toilet, climate control, four walls and a sound roof over your head, and the opportunity to shower every day. There are places in the world where treatment and amenities like that mean you're royalty (which you are) but the very basic amenities you're taking for granted are luxuries to others... I know you're used to luxuries like MacLaren Mercedes and having a fleet of Bentleys (and enemas!) at your service, drivers, chefs, cocaine delivery... hell, we all wish we had cocaine delivery, but the rest of us have to buy it on shady corners like every one else (NOTE: AUTHOR IS BEING HYPOTHETICAL HERE; THE AUTHOR HAS NEVER BOUGHT COCAINE ON THE STREET.) and we survive the daily drudge, with our dishwater hair and our sickly green office-worker complexions.

Fuck you. Tough it out. We didn't send you to Siberia; we sent you to Compton. Trust me. At least in Compton, you can drink the water. (Probably.) And there aren't Yaks humping your knees. (Probably.)

Be a big girl. Own up to the fact that you flouted the law and learn a lesson; if you actually get caught fucking up, and don't have a publicist to take the breathalyzer for you, you're sort of in hot water. It's taken California a week and a half to figure it out, but the laws of the State actually, sort of apply to Celebutantes as well.

I'm sure you'll learn this lesson a couple more times before you mow over and kill a Mexican maid with three kids and a dog to support, but the most important thing to take away from this, your first jail sentence is this: your heart will continue to beat even if you're not resting on 1600 thread count sheets. And you don't need David Bouley to prepare every meal for you. Somehow, after nights of digestive discomfort, your pampered, mucus lined intestines will figure out how to process Ensure and canned peas.

With that, I bid you adieu. Practice your penmanship on your Prison Stationary. Read a book more complex than Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle. Take a stab at reading statutes the very things you were booked on violating! Use your days for something beyond sleeping off a coke hangover, and ennuitetically pushing through the racks at Ghost.

Fuck you. Enjoy your mixed vegetable medley and Roman Meal Bread.

Maybe in 40 days you'll have a modicum of a clue of how nice your life really is, and that your 40 day vacation to "real life" is daily reality for millions of people.