Paris Hilton preternaturally assumes the persona of the men she bangs. I’d call her a succubus but those underworld beings actually have to work a bit at their vile craft. Paris just squats atop and suddenly possesses all the skills, talents and viruses of her latest conquest. She banged a race car driver, next thing you know, she’s running a race car team in Spain. She rode a coke dealer, next thing you know she’s getting her dad to pay her high school to give her a diploma. A couple years ago she was boinking DJ AfroJack, and, blammo, Paris took on all the acumen of a world class DJ. This would include pushing buttons, fist pumping, and being able to stay up late. Now Paris Hilton claims she’s one of the five highest paid DJs in the world. It’d be easy to say this is just another empty assertion from a mildly-retarded girl whose mom consumed too much valium during fermentation. But it’s probably true. She’s raking in millions playing pre-programmed electronic dance music to hordes of young people who’ve ripped off their department store name tags to let loose one memorable evening at some club where they have a bubble machine. Men who wear silk shirts need a place to let it all hang out, and Paris is right there to gobble up their hangings. You could bitch and moan. But fuck you, stop hating democracy.
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