Paris is Burning...Me Up

Okay, so I'm on my way to my weekly improv class (about which more anon) and the radio tells me that the freeway is backed up for miles so I leave really early, get on said freeway, find it almost empty (which is often the case when the traffic report says it's jammed), and get to my class a half hour early.

On the drive over, all the news will talk about is the incarceration the night before of celebri-slut Paris Hilton and how ingenious she'd been in avoiding the paparazzi when she turned herself in and how she intends to spend her three whole weeks behind bars trying to find ways to make the world a better place and what she was wearing when she surrendered, and I'm struggling really hard not to toss my proverbial cookies while I'm behind the wheel. I mean, come on. More and more of our brave men and women are dying needlessly every day in the Middle East just so the most self-serving administration in American history (and that's including the Grant and Harding administrations) won't have to admit they made a monumental mistake in going to war in the first place, Global Climate Change threatens not only our generation, but the future of the entire Human Race on this planet, and all the news is talking about is some insipid, talentless media whore. It makes me crazy.

Which brings me back to standing outside the improv theater with a half hour to kill, steaming and seething, and this is what suddenly comes to my mind, virtually full-blown. For those of you who care about such things, it should be sung to the tune of The Loving Spoonful's Summer in the City.

Jail time, Paris in the slammer,
Posing in her cell, causing quite a clamor.
Most cons aren't impressed by glamour.
Others simply want to brain her with a hammer.
Won’t eat, skinny, looking half-dead,
Droning on her cell phone. Jesus, what an airhead.

Still, her sentence was cut in half.
Is that justice? Don’t make me laugh.
Come on, don’t ask me if that’s all right.
You push the point and you’ll start a fight.

And, folks, don’t you know it’s a pity
The rich don’t serve time like the poor
Just like Paris, in the slammer
Unlike Paris, in the slammer.

And now you see why I try to keep my mind occupied all the time. If left to its own devices, it does stuff like this.