Episode 1: Conrad Hilton never saw this coming.

I was set on writing a single article about this, but once I discovered the Encyclopedia Britannica and almost lost myself while browsing through its pages, I humbly concluded that Paris Hilton does not deserve a mere 800 word article. She is so much more complex and she has so much going on right now… it would be a shame to waste all this great material.

I’ll start from the beginning. It all started one beautiful Christmas in 1887. That’s when Conrad Hilton was born. A fighter by nature, a man guided by prayer and ambition, Mr. Hilton worked hard and even fought for his country in World War I to consolidate his relentless character. The man has lost many things, but he held on tight, even through the Great Depression, and managed to leave quite a heritage for all those who wish to pamper themselves once in a while: the world’s first international hotel chain – The Hilton. The man started from zero, went through three wives (including Zsa Zsa Gabor), fathered four children (including William Barron Hilton, who went on to give Richard Hilton to the world, who was reckless enough to produce Paris Hilton) and built a corporation that stands tall and proud all over the world.

I’m pretty sure that church-oriented Conrad Hilton didn’t expect to see this happen in his future family.

“Are you saying that THIS … this THING(!!!) will inherit my Hilton, my precious Hilton Hotels? Oh fuck no!”

If he would’ve known, his will would’ve sounded different. A lot different.

Like I said before, Conrad helped produce Mr. Barron Hilton who later went on to produce Richard Hilton. Richard, as any rich businessman deriving from Conrad Hilton and his predisposition to beautiful women, decided to marry Kathy Avanzino – a socialite and actress. And the shit finally decided to hit the fan when Paris was born.

“Congratulations, it’s a girl!”

 

You must understand that Paris had a very difficult life, living under the bloodthirsty oppression of fortune and fame. She grew up in those sleazy neighborhoods known as Manhattan and the Hamptons, surrounded by fellow filthy-rich celebutantes (I can’t believe they actually invented this word for them) Nicole Richie and Kim Kardashian. I can only imagine the horrors she must have gone through – the designer clothes, the jewelry, the cars… oh, the horror.

So Paris came into the world bearing a very heavy last name: Hilton. When you hear this name, you think of this:

“Great-Granpa Conrad’s dream come true. “

But Paris made sure to change that, as an heiress of this incredible empire. Nowadays if you hear the name Hilton, you almost immediately see this image, oozing its way into your ears, through your fragile brain and splattering right before your eyes:

“She’s a master of Yoga, you ignorants. “

She’s quite the entrepreneur, having mingled with modeling, acting, singing, fashion design and whatever the fuck the last one was. I honestly don’t give a shit. Pardon my French. The whole point of this article is the reason why I have nightmares every time I hear about Paris Hilton. I must shamefully admit that she scares the living daylights out of me. She makes me crawl into a corner, close my eyes, cover my ears and scream until I forget why I started screaming in the first place. And how I ended up in that corner anyway… wait, what was I talking about? Oh.

Paris is one of nature’s fiercest animals. High up the food chain, wrapped in Guess clothes and at least one little dog who doesn’t really want to be there, drowning in Cosmopolitans and other brightly colored cocktails… she is the evil twin of the party animal. The sibling they never talk about. Allow me to exemplify.

“Whoops! I dropped my pen.”

The party animal is a majestic creature, pouncing its beers with grace and a positive attitude. The party animal makes you drink and dance like there’s no tomorrow and knows how to make an exit. Its evil twin, however, fails miserably at some of the basic challenges: standing up, getting up, sitting down, keeping clothes on and… worst of all, karaoke.

“What… is that a mic in her hand? Joe, what did I tell you about Paris and microphones?! For fuck’s sake, you’re fired!”

 

“You call this a basic challenge? YOU try getting out of a car with Belvedere replacing your blood cells, see what YOU make of it!”

 

“God, I sound so amazing, I think I’ll record an album. Waiter, another Appletini!”

 

“My endless loooooove… hey Tara, where you at? Let’s do a duet!”

 

“Ok, on the count of three, you lift up your skirt and I do a solo. Daddy’s gonna be so proud!”

 

The party animal’s evil twin has no control, no shame, no self esteem (don’t let those FHM covers fool you) and no interest in achieving something in its life. If that evil twin also happens to be the heiress of a multibillion dollar hotel business, the chances of becoming a successful personality decrease dramatically. But hey, while Gran’pa Conrad is doing backflips in his grave, Paris continues her fluffy ride through drugs, alcohol and jail.

“Jail wasn’t THAT bad.”