News flash, kids: Paris Hilton is a space cadet. The real kind. That goes into space.
When the first ragingly commercial shuttle craft, the Virgin (HA!) Enterprise, takes off next year, our very own Witless Wonder will be on it. True, she may be $200,000 US poorer for the experience. And true, she may have expressed fears that, “with the whole light years thing,” whole eons will go by while she’s out there, and that all her BFFs will be long dead when she gets back. But if that’s the case, with inflation being what it is, she’ll only have spent, like, eight cents on the trip and she can buy all new ones. And then accessorize them with tirara’d Chihuahuas and pit them all against each other. On TV.
And that’s if she makes it back at all. There’s always the off chance *crossed fingers* that someone will pry open an escape chute and slip the heiress out — which of the other famous passengers will give the final shove? Will it be Madonna, out of blonde envy? Tom Hanks, out of sheer disgust? Moby, for kicks? With nothing but so-bad-it’s-actually-
goodstill-bad reviews coming out for Paris’s latest silver screen attempt — the goth-rock-opera Repo! — it could be anyone down to the space-shuttle chef (you know they’ll have one).
But you know what? No. Maybe she can’t even pull off campy-garbage-films, but I hope La Hilton makes it back to this planet, in this decade. I mean, who else do you want to hear describe the inter-galactic experience? Everyone else is just going to talk about how amazing space is, and how the universe is like a swatch of black velvet covered in diamonds, or some garbage. Paris will tell us about how it’s really hard to paint your nails in zero gravity, but that the sex is awesome. I’ll never make it into space, and these are the things I want to know.
So blast off, little socialite. Tell the aliens “What’s up” for me. Come home sporting something skimpy and made of moon-dust. I wouldn’t have it any other way.