Paris Hilton Seeks Human Bridge

Hi, you may know me from the tabloids as the chinless rich girl made famous for reasons known only to mystics and the ghost of Andy Warhol, who no doubt would have raided my wardrobe on Saturday nights. Or you may recognize me from The Simple Life wherein my good friend, Nicole (a skeleton with a tongue), and I lived in the heartland. One of our jobs during this exile from Park Avenue was to prepare the livestock for “date-night” with rural bachelors. Luckily I have the self-esteem of a serial killer, and so was not too miffed at men in dungaree overalls passing me over for a cow – not, mind you, a fat girl, but rather an actual ruminant. Then again, the producers had arranged for the top Beverley Hills cosmetic surgeon to give the cows, even the bulls, KK-cup-sized breast implants. Some of the heifers even made out with each other just to get in the spirit of the times – and in one instance it was hard to tell the difference between this naughty act and Madonna and Britney going at it on stage. In short, guys, you know me as the girl forever toting around a ridiculous little Chihuahua named Tinkerbell, a girl who will do anything for notoriety.

But what I need is a man to lay his life and limb down for me so to keep my shoes from getting dirty. This will require that my guy lay down in urban puddles swimming with hydrogen ions, over six-foot stretches of hypodermic needles in parking lots behind assorted clubs teeming with Euro-trash, and on the steps of Yankee Stadium all sticky with spilled beer and mustard – and not mind when I plant a stiletto heel into his back. He will also need to accompany me to the annual Amateur Sex Video Awards so that he can lay behind the podium when I accept my Porny for Best Hummer From a Girl Worth Seven Billion Dollars, because, who knows what seeped out from the crotches of previous winners.

This man should also not mind being kicked in the mug now and then when I throw a hissy fit; or having his balls munched on by Tinkerball during my brief prison sentences; or his cranium dented whenever (and it happens more than you think) I use his noggin as a car ramp trying to make my Mercedes flip in the air like The General Lee in the Dukes of Hazzard.

And what do you, man, get out of this deal? You get to be humiliated on a daily and nightly basis by a celebrity – and isn’t that the American Way?