Paris Hilton was sprung from the slammer yesterday after serving about 72 hours of her 45-day sentence. An undisclosed medical condition “played a part in this”, according to Los Angeles County Sheriff’s spokesman Steve Whitmore.
Hmm, what other factors “played a part in this” early release?
Oh, oops, my bad, she wasn’t “released”, the Sheriff’s spokesman stressed; she’s been “reassigned”. By L.A. math, she’s served five days of her sentence, so she’ll have to serve the remaining 40 at her Hollywood mansion.
Well, at least, she didn’t get off easy.
What kind of medical condition does the poor little rich girl have? Citing privacy concerns, the Sheriff’s Office refused to elaborate on what affliction “played a part” in the sex-tape star’s early release, er, reassignment.
According to some reports, she had an “extreme rash”.
Others said that she was refusing to eat jail food.
Still others reported that she “was in peril of having a nervous breakdown”.
Bottom line, the spoiled brat didn’t like jail, and aided by some good lawyers, she convinced the Sheriff to give in to her self-obsessed whining.
Once out of jail, whining yielded to self-congratulation. “I am going to serve the remaining 40 days of my sentence,” she avowed. “I have learned a great deal from this ordeal and hope that others have learned from my mistakes.”
The return to Paris’s I-Land reminds me of my trip to Parris Island, the Marine Corps basic training site I visited earlier this year. I watched sneaker-shod women running early one morning. Most of them were younger than Paris Hilton. On their third training day, they’d been undergoing boot camp for as much time as she spent in jail–if you use real math, that is.
They still sobbed “day and night,” said Captain Brooke Speers. “They’re told to stop.”
“They do it quietly.”
Unlike Ms. Hilton’s private room in the “special needs section” of the L.A. County jail, these girls’ home for 13 weeks would be a “squad bay” that slept a platoon of about 34. Two long rows of about 17 bunk beds line the walls. The Spartan bathroom features a communal shower. Above eight sinks are eight identical pairs of soap and hand sanitizer, placed back-to-back, pumps out, as though they stand at attention. The most colorful “decoration” in the squad bay is a pair of charts indicating how quickly each recruit should drink how much water, based on the shade—from clear to muddy gold–of her urine.
They have 20 minutes to wolf down lunch in a dim mess hall that smells of too many massed-produced meals. One standard offering is labeled pot roast, but any taste of beef has been burnt out of it, leaving it like a slightly bitter, over-salted piece of cheap leather. I didn’t see anybody turning up a surgically perfected nose at the chow.
And while injury can short-circuit a recruit’s military future, I didn’t hear of anybody getting out of boot camp because of a rash.
Oh, and then there’s the 4:00 a.m. wake-up shout, the non-designer cammies, the close-order drill, the gas chamber, and the “Crucible”, a combat simulation exercise that lasts 54 hours–only 18 fewer than Ms. Hilton’s total time in jail.
All this to become Marine privates making less that $30,000 annually and to protect people like Paris Hilton, snug and smug in her multimillion-dollar mansion.
That is, until she’s released from “home confinement” due to the trauma of sporting an ankle bracelet without the Tiffany toggle.