A Thursday Poem

Was reminded during a conversation last night that Paris Hilton is still in gaol. Actual prison would suit her better I think, except that we'd all have to suffer when the inevitable Paris Does Leavenworth video came out. Well, I wouldn't actually watch it myself, but I would have to suffer through the adverts on Fox Soccer Channel. I'm already sick to death of the one for the Cialis knockoff.

You may know the advertisement I'm referring to. It's the one with the cocktail party and the obnoxiously self-satisfied, obviously middle-aged moron who stands about 5'5". He looks like Chuck Barris on a bad day. Across the room is a tall leggy woman who has what is probably supposed to be a "come-hither" look on her face, but which in actuality is an expression that says, "Hi, big boy. Would you like to inspect my brain damage?"

I believe the most accurate word in the American lexicon of slang for this slightly rancid bit of tail would be "skank." The actress who plays the "skank" might not be "skanky" herself, but she plays the role with a little too much knowingness, if you understand my meaning.

Anyway, the middle-aged git offers up a pathetically insincere smile and a slight nod of the head. A normal woman would most likely respond to this gesture with the finger we in the Fando household refer to as "Mr. Tall Man." However, to the practised skank, this is the universal sign for "Let's go upstairs to the executive lavatory and get well on the job." She slithers across the room and they turn to leave, but just before they do, she turns back to the camera and utters a remark so banal that I can't remember it. However, my best guess is, "Prostitution isn't easy, you know."

I hate that advert.

Where was I? Ah, yes...Paris Hilton. Paris could play the female role in that bit with busom tied behind her back. Anyway, the discussion of her incarceration reminded me of a poem that Max Speebek* recently wrote about it. It is that poem I would like to share with you today:

Paris In the Afternoon, (In the Yard, by the Weights)

I remember the sweet scent of
Canned cafeteria corn on her breath
The lingering single flake of
Instant mashed potatoes on her pouted lip
The smokes she bartered to keep
Big Erma from smashing her face in with a plate
The horizontal stripes that made her look like she
Actually had some meat on her
Brittle, arrogant, bones.
(I read she paid a stand-in to actually eat the
Burger in the Hardee's commercial.)
I remember the basketball bouncing
Off of her head as she
Stared at the open skies,
Through the barbed wire and fence grill
"Ow!" she muttered almost absentmindedly
Before fixing her gaze again
On the open and free firmament.
I remember it all like it was yesterday,
Probably because
It was.
"Britney and Lindsay said to say hello," I shouted
As I drove past in my sleek, ebony convertible,
Not bothering to respond as she
Waved a friendly, single, solitary finger back at me.


*You don't remember Max Speebek? Poet, Philosopher, Composer, Physicist, and Celebrity Party Crasher Max Speebek? Inventor of the 3-bladed knife? Designer of the world's first ferret-powered submarine? To think you call yourself informed.