At Least We'll Always Have Paris

PARIS HILTON HAS A REALLY BAD HAIR DAY

With all deference to those of you who call Los Angeles home because you actually want to live there, I must say it is one truly weird place. It is for that reason that while I was shocked, just shocked that the L.A. County sheriff had decided by his very own self – judges and jurisprudence be hanged -- to release Paris Hilton from jail after only three days because she had a rash or something, I was not surprised.

That is because I learned while covering the O.J. Simpson criminal trial in the mid-1990s that the Sheriff of La La Land is a power unto himself and beholden to no one other than the poltroons and poobahs who put him there (and most certainly not the LAPD).

If Sheriff Lee Baca thinks that Paris would be better off sliding down the stripper pole in one of the two living rooms of her Hollywood Hills mansionette accessorized with a Gucci police monitoring ankle bracelet instead of serving an already reduced jail sentence, then that’s just fine with me. Mister Sheriff Man obviously knows what’s best for someone so stoopid that she’s in danger of poking her eye out like Lindsay Lohan did while trying to pick cocaine boogers out of her nose.

But Mister Sheriff Man, whose hands (but not handcuffs) were all over the red-carpet treatment that his department gave another inebriated motor vehicle operator by the name of Mister Melvin Gibson, apparently had not anticipated the furious backlash that greeted his decision to street his latest celebrity perp. Let alone having to suck up to the Reverend Al Sharpton to appease the people of color to whom his deputies do not show similar deference. (No word yet if he’ll meet with Project Islamic Hope, which also has a case of the ass over the utterly false allegation that Miss Misanthrope was shown favoritism.)

The upshot of this (possibly) career-ending misjudgment (no more invitations to lecture high-school civics classes for Mister Sheriff Man!) was that Paris was ordered back into court today and thence back to the slammer.

* * * * *

Having cancelled quadruple bypass heart surgery or an appointment to get the cats flea dipped (I can’t remember which), I breathlessly reloaded and reloaded tmz.com (casting my vote in their really cool Jail or Home Poll each time) waiting to find out what happened.

Well, after a kerfuffle over whether Paris would have to cancel an in-home Brazilian wax treatment and have to testify in person rather than by ringie dingie, the judge ordered Mister Sheriff Man to dispatch a van to her mansionette. But Mister Sheriff Man got all pissy and said that only his department had the jurisdiction to monitor the strumpet, let alone drive her places, and refused to pick her up.

Like I said, L.A. is one truly weird place.

Ahem, this deadlock was soon broken and a posse sent by Mister Sheriff Man threw the handcuffed Hotel Heiress With a Really Bad Wig into the back of a black and white (no matter, I hear that she likes it rough) after she kissed her parents, Kathy and Rick, goodbye.

Paris was bawling her pretty eyes out as she was driven to the courthouse (I dunno if it was the same route O.J. took during the infamous low-speed police chase). She arrived through a secret back entrance known to only police, reporters and paparazzi dressed in (you’re not going to believe this) a drab grey sweatshirt and slacks, disheveled hair and no makeup. Somebody call the Fashion Police!

The hearing before Judge Michael Sauer that was over practically before it began.

Hizzoner wondered aloud why Paris’s mystery jailhouse ailment could not have been treated by L.A.'s sterling prison docs, griped that he had been sandbagged by Mister Sheriff Man and said he would never had approved a motion to release her to house arrest had one been filed. (One wasn’t.)

He then ordered Miss Paris Hilton returned to jail to serve out her 45-day sentence.

She was escorted from the courtroom in full primal howl, calling out to her mother and screaming "It's not right!, It's Not Fair!"

Well, after having to deal with all this, I'm gonna get flea dipped. Right after I play Janis Joplin's "Cry Baby" with the volume turned all the way up.