The news today that Paris Hilton was released from jail after serving only 72 hours on lockdown was both startling and depressing. Startling because her “visit” was pretty lame even by Hollywood justice standards. That wasn’t a slap on the wrist; that was a pat on the back. And it’s depressing because now she has every news organization under siege again while she lolls around her Hollywood Hills crib recovering from her “mental” issues.
Sure, her plastic ankle bracelet won’t allow her to go any further than 4,000 feet (which is probably the size of one room in her house) from her home, but she’ll certainly be enjoying all the comforts of a privileged home for the next 40 days. She can wash down her “medications” with a swig of Cristal if she likes; use her cell phone to check on the progress of her on again/off again bud Lindsay Lohan, who’s rehabbing down in Malibu; watch herself partying on “Entertainment Tonight” on a 50-inch plasma screen; or stick one leg in her pool and have catered meals.
It’s gonna be rough.
But you have to wonder how Hilton, who now has to serve the entire 45-day sentence, will spend her days under house arrest. Can’t you just imagine? Let’s explore what could happen on a day in the life of Paris on parole.
12 noon: Wakes up and buzzes housekeeper. We’ll call her Delicious. “Could you have that nice man from Nobu whip me up some yellowtail and spicy tuna? And, oh yeah, no salt on the edamame! It’s bad for my metabolism.
12:35 p.m.: After chatting on her cell for 30 minutes, Hilton gets out of bed and realizes she’s been sleeping on 500-thread count sheets. She screams at the top of her lungs: “Why am I being punished?” She then proceeds to rip them off of her bed and buzzes Delicious again. “No more cheap sheets!” Ironically, across town in Bel-Air Hilton’s mother Kathy has starting penning her memoir on Paris called, “Daughter, Dearest.”
12:45 p.m.: Hilton hops into her multi-jet shower stall, applies some $300 moisturizer to her face, scrubs her torso with an herbal cleanser that costs $250 a tube, washes her hair with a $500 bottle of shampoo that smells just like Head ’n Shoulders and dries herself off with a $195 towel made in some sweat shop in India.
12:50 p.m.: Grimaces because one of her extension tracks has come loose. Blames the prison water. “How can I be a good example to my fans is my hair is all whack?”
12:51 p.m.: Sits on her loo and texts the shrink that got her out. “Hello. Like I don’t really know your name, but I think it’s way hot the way you got me out. I know we had to like give it some time so people wouldn’t like be suspicious, but I don’t think we’ll be hiring you again next time because it did take like three days. Please feel free to recommend one of your colleagues — but not the guy who is treating that b---h Lindsay, because she’s still in there! Again, thanks so much. Daddy says your check is in the mail. XOX Paris.”
12:55 p.m.: Calls BFF Nicole Richie. “We should like really call Lil’ Kim and laugh our asses off on her machine or something! She like got almost a year for just lying! Isn’t that hysterical. And here I am out after like three days! But they were long days. I just fired the shrink. Oh, but wait. You might go to jail, too, so maybe we should wait until after we get you off. Then we’ll call her.”
1 p.m. Hilton looks out the window at all the paparazzi. She wants to wave, but she has been strongly advised to play crazy for another three days.
1:30-2:00 p.m.: Eats lunch, takes more “meds” and has Delicious call Nobu because the edamame had salt on it.
2:00-4:00 p.m.: Naps. All the “meds” have made her a bit drowsy.
4:00 p.m.: Watches the afternoon news and smiles with delight when the story of her release leads the news even though another American solider has died in Iraq. “This is such a great country,” she sighs.
4:30 p.m.: Bored with the news she decides to open up another bottle of Cristal and call her sister Nicky. “Make sure you go out tonight so at least one of us will be in People this week. We can’t afford to miss a week and break the streak.” She then hears that Richie did nothing to defend her on “Letterman” last night when Dave was dogging her. “That’s it. We’re through. Again!”
5:00 p.m.: Delicious delivers Hilton’s fan mail. There are only three pieces from some guy on lockdown at San Quentin. He just wants nude photos, a carton of Marlboro Lights and Richie’s cell phone number.
5:30 p.m.: A messenger brings a letter to Hilton’s home. It’s from Robert Blake. “Way to go kid. You are my hero! Isn’t America a great country? Invest wisely. Money is always going to be your ticket out sweetie. Hey, how about dinner sometime? I know this great little Italian spot in Studio City. I’ll send a car for you. Love to Rick and Kathy. Your brother in the struggle, Bob.”
6:00 p.m.: Delicious brings Hilton dinner in bed. Two cubes of cheese, a bottle of Fuji water, a huge slice of imported watermelon from South Carolina and a dirty martini.
7:00 p.m.: Hilton squeals with delight while watching herself on “Entertainment Tonight.” She immediately rings Nicky and conferences in Britney Spears. “This is so f----g great! I’m going to be on here everyday for like the rest of the year! The rest of the century! We have got to celebrate when I get this freakin’ bracelet off my leg. We should see if Ray J has some friends who can get it off. Brit, you slept with him, too, right?
8:00 p.m.: Bored with watching herself, Hilton puts on the Ray J-Kim Kardashian sex tape and has Delicious bring her another Martini.
9:00 p.m.: She rings Richie, whom she’s forgotten she’s mad at. “Are we still friends with Kim? Do you think she’ll give me Ray J’s number?”
9:30 p.m.: Hilton goes into her bathroom and starts preparing for a night out on the town. She gets dressed, grabs her keys and is about to get in her car when her bracelet starts beeping. At first she can’t remember why she has this big, ugly piece of jewelry strapped around her ankle. Fortunately, she has Delicious there to remind her.
10:00 p.m.: Delicious leads a woozy Hilton back to her bedroom, removes the heiress’ clothing and props her up on her bed. She thinks about drawing her a bath, but then remembers she doesn’t get paid enough to care.
11:00 p.m.: Hilton passes out.
2:00 a.m.: Brandon Davis rings her from Hyde, a club he’s banned from for life because he’s a Z-list rich boy who is so 40 minutes ago. He’s begging her to come out and play so he can get in the club. “OK, I’ll be there in like 20,” she says.
2:20 a.m.: Hilton once again attempts to leave the house. When her bracelet starts beeping she tucks her pants leg into it. “This is so hot,” she says. Delicious, who was looking forward to a month without Hilton and had already arranged some dalliances with two of Hilton’s ex-fiancées, hears the ruckus but doesn’t get up. “Hell, I don’t get paid enough. That heifer needs to be in jail.”
2:25 a.m.: Fortunately, Hilton can’t remember her gate code so she rings Davis back and tells him to tell Deebo, the bouncer at Hyde, to let him in.
3:00 a.m.: Now wide awake, Hilton opens up another bottle of Cristal and starts talking to her dogs. “Sometimes I feel like you guys are the only people who understand me. I mean what’s going on in this country when the privileged have to spend one night in jail just because their publicist didn’t tell them that their license was suspended? How am I supposed to function in a city like L.A. without a license? I am expected to be on the scene every night. See what happens when I am not? My friends can’t get into the freakin’ club. Although if I had been there I would have told Deebo not to let Brandon in. He’s such a loser and that is so not hot.
“But you know what guys? (sniff, sniff) I have learned my lesson. You should always pretend like you’re really going over the edge any time they try and put you in prison. Then you get your parents to hire the same shrink that got Michael Jackson off and then once you get out in public again you just start talking about how you read all those books that Oprah recommends, do one of those AIDS in Africa commercials and people will love you again.
“See, this is the lesson I want to teach my young fans. You always need to plan ahead.”
5:00 a.m.: She cries herself to sleep on 750-thread count Egyptian cotton pillowcases from the Martha Stewart Attica Collection.
Miki Turner is a freelance TV producer/writer in Los Angeles. She can be reached at