postcards from the pug bus
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The twenty-six-year-old celebutant, who showed up fifteen minutes late for her scheduled court appearance yesterday, has until June 5 to report to the Century Regional Detention Center in Lynwood, California.
After spending two hours in court, and hearing herself called "a helpless, wonky-eyed twit" by her own defense attorney, Ms. Hilton was driven to an undisclosed location where she spoke with Postcards' legal correspondent Biff Scuzzy, who had recently completed a thirty-day stint in a California detox center.
Biff Scuzzy: So, Paris, are you worried about the prospect of wearing nothing but orange for a month and a half?
Paris Hilton: Month and a half? I thought I was sentenced to forty-five days. I'm being prostituted just for being famous, aren't I?
BS: No, darling. A month and a half is the same as forty-five days.
PH: It is? How do you figure that? I never did get that metric stuff.
BS: Trust me. Now about the orange.
PH: What orange?
PH: What jumpsuit?
BS: The one you have to wear all the time in jail.
PH: All the time? I never wear the same thing more than twice. How do they expect me to live like that?
BS: It's jail, darling. Not Club Ivy. You have to wear what they give you, and what they give you is an orange jumpsuit.
PH: You mean I don't get to take my own clothes? I was going to go shopping for some new summer things to take to, you know, wherever it is I'm going. Some nice two-piece outfits and three or four dozen summer dresses.
BS: Save your money, honey. The clothes are on the Hotel California.
PH: Oh. Bummer. I do look hot in orange though. I have a lot of orange in my closets. Bikinis, thongs, blouses.
BS: Are you worried about the way you'll be treated by the other inmates?
PH: What are inmates?
BS: The other people in jail.
PH: Oh no. I'm sure we'll all get along just fine. They can help me decorate my room. We can have sleepovers at night, and during the day we can go shopping online and get high colonics and stuff.
BS: Paris, I don't know how to break this to you, but jail doesn't provide high colonics.
PH: They don't? How do they stay healthy? What if I get a note from my doctor?
BS: No dice, sister. The only high colonic you might get will be from some diesel dyke wielding a bottle of Poland Springs water. I'd forget about having my own room, too, if I were you.
PH: I won't have my own room?
PH: A cell phone? What other woman? My cell phone got hacked once, you know.
BS: A cell is a small enclosure about ten by twelve feet. That's where you live when you're not scrubbing dishes or mopping floors. The other woman is a person who has also been put in jail for breaking the law.
PH: Oh. Ten by twelve isn't very big. My sunglasses closets are bigger than that. Can't I pay for an upgrade or something? Hospitals have private rooms.
BS: Afraid not, sweetpea.
PH: Do I get to pick my roommate at least?
BS: (growing irritated) Nope.
PH: But what if I get somebody, you know, really gross, like that trailer-trash Britney Spears?
BS: You want to be careful about using terms like "trailer trash" in prison.
PH: Why? Are there, like, lots of poor people or something?
BS: More than you can shake a stick at—or that will be shaking sticks at you. There are also lots of people of color.
PH: That's OK. I get along well with all my maids and servants, and most of them are colored people.
BS: (exasperatedly) It's people of color, Paris, not colored people. You want to get that straight. It's important.
PH: Oh damn. That's a lot to have to learn just because nobody told me I couldn't drive with a suspended license. What am I gonna do?
BS: I'd suggest prayer, honey. Lots of prayer. testing text