DREGULATOR, 2006 VOL. V #3

Being famous means that you don’t need to use public restrooms anymore….because the world is your public restroom. I bet you didn’t know that incontinence was fashion-forward. That’s probably because you’re not rich enough.
Paris Hilton has apparently been leaving her territorial mark anywhere she feels like it – just because she feels like it, and she can do anything she wants to — so there. The New York Post reported in October, that Paris had “an accident” in the corridor of a Las Vegas hotel. Mike Walker of the Enquirer wrote that a couple of weeks ago, Maui cab driver Harden Jamison picked Miss Pis up late one night with Greek man-o-kopeta Stavros Niarchos. While he drove, Jamison claims, the heiress hiked up her blue satin dress and relieved herself in his back seat. Jamison had the good fortune to serendipitously run into Paris the next night, and he confronted her. She whined outraged denials. Jamison reportedly screamed, “I kept the towel….I’VE GOT THE DNA!” One of her entourage tried to buy him off for $200.
Fiends, I heard from a friend of mine who knows these things that Paris pulls them down and goes wherever she likes regularly….like, in restaurant booths…because she’s that awesomely contemptuous of silly little rules laid down for boring, ordinary people. “I’m peeing now,” she allegedly says, with a bored expression, making a golden puddle magically appear under your table. I think it’s fabulous, like when rich people used to ride their horses through medieval villages and bash peasants in the head with polo mallets, for fun. Come on, when you’re that rich and that drunk, it’s just fun to regard everyone else as your personal whipping-underclass. I can’t wait to see what Paris does next. I’m thinking of sending her biographies of Caligula and Idi Amin just to see if their whimsical despotism can inspire her to genocide or something. I at least hope that she and Prince Harry go out in Nazi uniforms together some night and wet themselves all over town, then make a nice porn film in St. Paul’s Cathedral with Harry playing the Archbishop of Canterbury.
And the moral of the story is, never let a celebrity heiress sit on your good couch, unless you lay down newspaper first.
The WEEK reported that Sir Bob Geldof’s daughter, Peaches Honeyblossom Geldof – “sister to Fifi Trixibelle, Pixie, and Heavenly Hiraani Tiger Lilly” issued a public plea to celebrity parents not to give their children heartbreakingly stupid, teacup Shi-Tzu names like hers, and those belonging to her siblings. Her unusually dimwitted name, said Peaches Honeyblossom, “has haunted me all my life.” Moon Unit Zappa had it easy, particularly when you consider that Apple Coldplay’s little brother is supposedly being named Capone…Britney’s baby Sean Preston got off scott free, name-wise, but recent pictures in the Enquirer reveal a different kind of tragic celebrity baby handicap: the youngest Federline, sadly, is…quite unattractive. He’s one of those bulldog-faced infants that looks like he was born under an anvil. He looks like an undercooked version of Paul Sorvino with a Hitler haircut. A scowling little bruiser who probably has a birthmark in the shape of the Coors logo. That would at least guarantee that his father paid some attention to him, at least until Kevin got frustrated trying to pop his top off with a house key.
And speaking of celebrities and their problems with names, Michael Jackson is changing his, according to the Enquirer….to Muhammad. Yes, I said Muhammad.
“Michael feels Islam is the answer to all of his problems,” revealed an insider, when speaking of Michael’s recent conversion and trip to Mecca.
Michael ought to be careful. In Mecca, if he wears those particle masks like he wears sometimes, he could be mistaken for a cross-dresser.
Does this mean that his two children, Prince Michael Jackson I and Prince Michael Jackson II are going to have to change their names to Muhammed II and Muhammed III?
The good news is, at least Michael’s daughter Paris is already trained to live under a veil. We can only pray that she is also housebroken, unlike some other famous people named after French cities we know.
But I am frightened by this turn of events. I’m sure it’s just a matter of time until Michael straps on a bunch of C4 and drives his tricycle into the American Embassy in Bahrain. After all, we done him wrong. That’s one terrorist America could never claim it didn’t breed.
And that’s the trash, Mein Fiends. Oy!