I make sure my three daughters are responsible, eat balanced meals, respect others, brush their teeth, and are punctual.
Since they were little, I have been their school Room Mom (sometimes juggling the duty for all three at once - yes, that's me schlepping the cupcakes from one hall to the next on party days), Team Manager, helped with costumes for their plays, kicked endless soccer balls in the backyard, attend their rehearsals, practices, ceremonies, learned how to do Power Points so I could help them with their high tech projects (I always get an A), support their fundraisers, and log more miles in my minivan than my pilot friend does in his 757.
But I'm still lacking.
Today I found out that as hands-on as I try to be, there's a mom out there who is taking this carpool thing to a whole nother level.
Allow me to introduce Michelle Wright, 37, of Palmdale, California.
Michelle believes in REALLY being involved in her kids' after school activities.
You see, I may wear out my Goodyears (and sanity) driving my daughters and their friends to soccer, tennis, and play rehearsals, but Michelle spins her rims by driving the carpool for her kids' drive-by shootings.
I'm not kidding.
Michelle is currently in a Los Angeles jail for driving her son's two friends to a rival gang member's house this past Tuesday morning. One of the kids got out, fired at a bedroom window, and then returned to the car and the three drove away.
According to authorites, two small children and a teenager were in the bedroom where the shots were fired, but luckily no one was injured.
Her defense when arrested? She says she decided to drive her son's friends to do the shooting because police were not doing enough to stop gang members from harassing her children.
Look, I'm all about the Mother Bear syndrome. I mean, don't mess with my kids or you will end up walking funny. And I suppose I want my kids and their friends to view me as slightly "with it" and "cool", but this takes it to a whole new level.
Michelle is being held on $250,000 bail, and her son and his two friends, believed by authorities to be members of a street gang, were charged and held in juvenile custody.
As for my daughters, I have informed them all - while I am more than happy to drive the soccermobile till I puke, don't ever ask me to drive the get-a-way car.
Let’s get something straight from the outset of this recap...
Once upon a time, like millions and millions of people around the world, I, too, thought Paula Abdul was pretty cool.
I bought her music. I loved her videos. Admired her dance moves. And her number one songs were the backdrop to that particular place in my 20s when I was barhopping (people didn’t go "clubbing" – we barhopped) and making out with the man who would end up being the father of my children.
So perhaps that is why I find New Millennium Paula to be so disturbing; when you have watched someone at the height of their game, you have a frame of reference for just how far they’ve fallen.
Not that being a judge for six seasons on the most popular television show in the history of technicolor is a bad place to have landed. It just seems that she made the jump and halfway down exclaimed, "Dear God! This isn’t a parachute! It’s a backpack!" and landed firmly on her head.
Hmmm. I would have thought all that polyesthair would have cushioned the fall...
But I digress.
My point is, I went into watching Hey, Paula! with no illusions about what I would find. Like the Paris Hilton interview with Larry King, my expectations were low. In fact they were magma level.
And in setting my expectational bar so low, it allowed me to secretly hope that I might come away surprised, enlightened, with a new appreciation for what makes Paula Abdul tick.
And from what I can tell? Caffeine and a set of people who don’t possibly get paid enough money.
But onto the recap...
Episode One opened with a voiceover of Paula explaining to the world that she "has been entertaining people for over 20 years."
(Yes, you have definitely been ... entertaining...)
She then introduces those folks who join my list of people I feel sorry for on this planet:
Daniel – her hair and make-up man who has about 30 too many teeth in his mouth.
Jeff – her publicist / whipping boy
Kiley – the bleach blonde stylist responsible for outfitting Paula. (OK, perhaps I don’t feel sorry for Kiley – she routinely makes my brain cramp each night of Idol as I struggle to decipher the cleavage, paisley, lace, leopard, organza, stroganoff Paula is wearing.)
Interspersed with the intros are clips of Paula from upcoming episodes as she bemoans her life...
One shows her crying about being "treated like a piece of dog *beep*."
(How do you think poor Marina feels, Paula? She’s actually having to deal with real dog *beep* from your "kids" all day long.)
Another clip previews this golden nugget, "I’m tired of people not treating me like the gift that I am."
(That’s just not true. I view Paula as a big shiny box of "SURPRISE!" every time Idol is on. She personifies "the gift that keeps on giving".)
But our first day in Paula’s shadow finds us in her bedroom as she is preparing for the Grammy Awards, a flight to Philadelphia, and a 1am appearance on QVC to hawk some jewelry.
(As she says, "Welcome to Paula time where the days are 48 hours long.")
Assistants are everywhere, the cell phone is attached to her head, her four dogs frolic on the down comforter and attempt to eat some of Harry Winston’s finest.
Yes, as Paula plays in the jewels she has been sent as possible frosting on her Grammy cake, not only does she drape black diamonds around one dog’s neck, she realizes that another pooch is one swallow away from being worth a quarter million dollars – she manages to fish a ring out of its mouth.
She then shares with us a rack of clothing she has hand designed for the upcoming live action Bratz movie (something we all need as badly as a Spice Girls World Tour). She complains that after having invested her own time and money in the designs, the producers have stopped returning her calls.
Insert shot of epauletted jacket and sound of crickets...
Daniel begins to get pissy because "it takes four hours to get Paula ready for the red carpet" and time is ticking. (Psst, Daniel, how many hours does it take you? That’s an awful lot of eyeliner and mascara, dear boy...)
As she sits still for Daniel, his make up machinations, and his application of piece after piece of fake hair, Jeff is taking a call from those aforementioned, neglectful Bratz folk who are suddenly insistent about seeing the collection the next day.
Paula’s reaction? A full on rantrum (rant + tantrum) about her design skills not being appreciated. "I know this movie. I know these girls." (Um, Paula, they’re plastic with detachable feet and ginormous shoes...)
Enter yet another poor soul trapped in Paulaland – her assistant, Courtney. Butthead to Kiley’s Beavis. Wayne to Kiley’s Garth.
At this point we are treated to a retrospective of Paula at her height via a concert still of Miss Forever Your Girl in black cut out spandex and enough crystals that she resembles a human chandelier.
The memory lane factor is indeed high. Ahh, those heady years when she danced with cartoon cats and Arsenio Hall’s hair was perfectly carved – I always imagined his stylist used the kind of electric knife my Dad used to cut the Thanksgiving turkey.
But back to Paula and Grammy preparations. She decides on a $12,500 cream and black sequined Valentino gown, and I think she looks rather nice. It fits her perfectly and Daniel has tamed all that fake hair into a conservative updo.
Cut to footage from the preshow carpet – anyone else catch the woman with the shrub on her head towards the bottom of the screen? Who invited Camilla Parker Bowles to this thing?
Of course, time being at a premium, we go directly from red carpet to dark night as Paula walks the street (in the non-prostitute sense) searching for her limo, and her assistants watch the clock – all predicting they will miss their red-eye to Philly.
In the limo Paula disses Joan Rivers’ dismissal of her dress with, "What doctor’s your face wearing?" cracking herself up in the process. (I must say – touche’, Paula – that was actually pretty good.)
As she has been Grammying, Kiley and Courtney have been left to pack for the trip, and unfortunately get it all wrong, bringing – horrors! – NO SWEATPANTS!?!?
I swear, I thought for a moment Paula was going to go all Joan Crawford and start beating them with wire hangers.
They have made the egregious error of bringing – GASP – not just jeans, but TIGHT jeans, which as everyone knows, makes it impossible to sleep on a plane.
As they pull up to the airport terminal, with 20 minutes till flight time, Paula, deadly serious, tells Courtney, "Not good. Get something out of the trunk."
Puh – leez. Get it your own damned self.
Which she proceeds to do, opening her suitcases on the sidewalk and tearing through them like a spoiled three year old to find another pair of jeans, high heeled boots, and the world’s ugliest swacket (sweater + jacket) – it looked like something that Tina Turner would have worn on a chilly night in Thunderdome.
One last "Not well thought out," to her assistants and they walk to the plane.
I agree, Paula. Their decision to kiss your ass for a living? Not well thought out at all.
But onward we trudge through this gratuitous piece of celluloid to QVC headquarters where Paula, dressed in new hair extensions and a jacket woven out of colored Reynolds Wrap meets with the jewelry designers.
Paula not happy. Jewelry not quite what she remembers. Paula throw ‘nother rantrum. Smooth? I wanted shiny, and what the hell is this ridge doing on a key?!?
Yet, consummate pro she is, she goes on air with the QVC hostess at 1am, first taking a call from "Martha" who is in tears because "you have lifted me up so, so very much".
Look, Martha – my condolences on the loss of your husband, and any additional sadnesses in your life, but as old as you sound, if Paula Adbul is what you have condensed life’s happiness to be? Find someone to watch your cats. You need to get out more.
Happily, QVC sells out darn near every smooth, ridgy key and necklace. (Someone check Martha's house...)
Back to the airport for a wee hours flight to LA.
And so ends episode 1, with Paula wired, and sleepless in LA, Philly, Seattle, wherever she is.
EPISODE 2
Busy, busy, busy.
This episode opens in New York City where Paula is getting ready to be honored with the Fashion Icon Award from the YMA Fashion Scholarship Fund – a black tie fete, in which Tim Gunn – Project Runway’s fashion Godfather – is to introduce the loverly Ms. Abdul.
Or perhaps Ms. Abdon’t, is more apt.
Running late, there she is in her limo, looking fashionable in her one shouldered, snug, black gown – her hair conservatively pulled back in a ponytail and decorated with a huge Bedazzled dragonfly – and she hasn’t even looked at her speech yet.
Jeff hands it to her and it may as well be written in Sanskrit – she can't focus, she babbles, bumbles, finally tossing all one page of it back at him.
"I can’t concentrate when I’m hungry."
(She must never eat.)
In the ballroom, Tim Gunn is at the podium beginning the introduction – her limo is just pulling up to the hotel.
Tim, obviously aware she is running behind, attempts to "make it work", stretching, filling, ad libbing. Paula couldn’t care less, taking her time greeting everyone along the way, posing for pictures, hugs, etc.
FI. NAL. LY.
She enters the ballroom and goes up to the podium to accept her award – cut to Paula reliving the moment for us by explaining that the woman who handed her the speech, gave it to her upside down, and the PAGES were all messed up. PAGES.
If that speech was half A page long in the limo, I’d be surprised.
But hell – who needs a prepared speech when you’re Paula Abdul and such a great extemporaneous speaker?
(insert sound of me gagging)
Afterwards, she presses the flesh some more, hugging attendees, shaking hands, receiving compliments. Then one woman tells her, "I used to watch all your videos when I was little" and Paula’s face frosted over quicker than NYC in The Day After Tomorrow.
Now it’s 230am, they are all back in the limo, and someone forgot the net, because Paula insists on going to Starbucks. This footage is accompanied by her voiceover talking about having insomnia. Love her asking everyone for money for her coffee.
Yeah. I always find some caffeine at 230am helps that a lot, myself...
Our next foray with PA is to Firminich Perfumer, the company charged with creating a signature scent for Paula to sell. (Hmmm, just what does "whacked out, delusional, insomniactic, trainwreck smell like?)
In the meeting, Paula, who has had about an hour of sleep in the past 36 (I’m not a doctor, but I watch them on TV – and I don’t think that’s enough shuteye), lounges on the couch, her eyes closing, babbling on, and sniffing blotter papers covered with scent like a crackwhore on 47 th Street.
Dammit, Kiley – you forgot the sweatpants AND the net????
Sniffing smells called Sexy Thoughts and Spellbound – they give Paula a labcoat and escort her to the area where the perfumists work their magic. Perhaps, after meeting with her, they were inspired to come up with one called Eau (Or Embarassing and Unprofessional) de Incoherent?
The final scene (and I can only assume that by inclusion of this footage, Paula has absolutely no final cut approval with Bravo) are her infamous satellite interviews for the American Idol press junket.
Remember? She seemed wasted, high, loopy, drunk?
OK, ok – more than usual?
Running on sleep fumes, she sits through roughly 40 satellite interviews – one right after another – growing more and more out of touch with each one.
Look – I get out of it when I’m tired too. It’s something my family likes to make fun of. I laugh at things that aren’t funny, and my mental train completely jumps the tracks. But this set of interviews wasn’t just a trainwreck.
Remember the scene from War of the Worlds when the train comes screaming across the screen on fire?
THAT’S what this was.
Paula’s Amtrak was ablaze.
And with each set of questions, poor Jeff could only watch helplessly from the control room and predict, "This satellite tour is going to cost us a lot of bad press."
Ya think?.
Here’s a thought, Paula. If a lack of sleep is at the heart of how incoherent you always seem to be – SLOW DOWN.
I hate to break it to you, but no one truly needs your jewelry at 1am, and I don’t care what combination of fruits, berries, and musk are created to capture you-in-a-bottle, I’m not buying.
Get some Rozerum and GO. TO. BED.
Abe Lincoln, the beaver, and that deep sea diver miss you.
And I promise – straight up - the world will still be here when you wake up.
And that’s it for week one of Hey, Paula. Tune in next week as Paula cries some more and, of course, blames the world for not understanding what a "gift" she really is.
But hey - in the meantime - let's remember Paula when we all watched her because she was entertaining - in a good way.
Since I have received so many emails asking - I thought I'd answer here...
Yes.
Yes, I shall take the bullet and start watching Hey, Paula! tonight on Bravo, recapping the contents, so you don't have to abuse your own retinas.
Then again ... if it's anything like American Idol ... you all know that half the fun of reading a recap is having seen it with your own peepers to begin with.
So. come on...who's up for a trainwreck of truly biblical proportions?
I am going to keep this short because the subject just doesn't deserve anymore time than she is currently getting sitting in the spotlight with Larry King.
I have been watching Paris Hilton discuss her incarceration, ADD, claustrophobia (the reason the sheriff let her out), life, her career as a "business woman" and pontificating about young girls like Britney and Lindsay who have "been given too much too soon". (Pot, kettle...black)
My personal opinion of this girl is even more solidified than before:
She is vapid.
She is boring.
She is immature.
And she speaks as if she is in a perpetual fog. She drops the last letter of just about every word, slurs, and has difficulty participating in an intelligent discussion.
I'm sure Larry King considers it a coup to have scored the interview (as does People magazine who has her plastered on the latest issue), but the look of pain on his face as he tries to keep the conversation going is priceless. She has been coached to memorize sound bytes, Larry. 36 hours with high powered spin / image doctors can't perform much more personality surgery than that. And allowing her to participate in a one hour interview just points up how severely lacking she is in depth. We are talking kiddie pool here, not diving well.
Look, I really don't think anyone truly expected any soul shaking epiphanies to have taken place in the span of 23 days. And I will give her this much - I completely believe that being strip searched had to be a humiliating, degrading experience, but if listening to her own words is any indicator - nothing of any substance has changed.
But then again, was there ever truly anything of substance there to begin with?
I have no problem with someone being born into privilege and wealth. That's simply the luck of the genetic lottery. But how they choose to live their lives says a lot about them. And Paris, thus far, has only used hers for the greater glory of ... Paris.
Time will tell if her period of forced introspection will yield any lasting results. She is, after all, only 26, and God knows - most of us who passed that mile marker many years back don't recognize who we were then at all.
(And yes, before anyone starts - I realize this is an exceptionally dim, harsh view of the woman, but she was not, nor do I personally believe her to ever be headed towards being, the second coming of Mother Teresa...or in terms she can understand - Angelina Jolie.)
Postscript: Even Larry King, who was interviewed by Anderson Cooper immediately following the interview, expressed his frustration with the girl, and that it was obvious she had been coached to answer with certain sound bytes - leaving no room for actual free thought or elaboration. He did say she was very nervous, which against my better judgment, illicits a maternal instinct in me. Ugh.
And even if it is, there is no end to the supply of smarmy lawyers who are happy to twist, bend, and spin the truth so that the blame creatively lands on someone else’s doorstep.
And at the heart of all our legal wrangling is, of course, cash.
The precedent was set years ago that if you cry "Foul", especially at a large company, they will throw wads of green to make you and your story go away as quickly as possible.
Oh how I would love, love, LOVE to track down the old lady who started all this litigious crapola when she spilled her hot McDonald’s coffee on her own lap, and smack her upside her clumsy head.
Suing corporations is so de rigeur that no one even blinks anymore when someone files yet another ridiculous lawsuit.
I personally loved the one where an overweight man sued four fast food giants because the food (which he ate EVERY DAY) made him fat.
And the idiots who sued the creators of Jackass (admittedly a stupid show showcasing even stupider people doing uber stupid stunts) because their son was injured when he tacked raw steaks to his body, doused himself with lighter fluid, and threw himself on a grill.
The ease with which people extract money from large businesses has led to a rash of Look-what-I-found-in-my-? lawsuits. Fingertips. Rat tails. Cockroaches. The majority of which have been proven to be planted by the accusers.
Now, if a product truly does cause someone harm – say, the brakes on your Hummer are defective and you are in a hideous accident? Then by all means, get a lawyer and demand restitution, acknowledgement, and a recall by the car company.
If your feet are sliced off when an amusement park ride goes bad, you'd better believe some litigation is valid.
And if your child is accidentally served a margarita instead of apple juice in a restaurant, as did happen in the past month, yes, you deserve some sort of reasonable compensation.
A free meal and a covered doctor’s visit, yes. The keys to the restaurant? No.
Common sense and rational thought have to enter at some point. Not every perceived slight or misplaced pair of pants is worth $54 million dollars, right?
Well, don’t ask Victoria Arthur of Romeo, Michigan. She is currently suing Mars, Inc – the makers of Starburst Fruit Chews – for injuries she claims she sustained when – are you ready? – she indulged in a couple pieces and she came unhinged.
Rather, her jaw came unhinged.
She claims she was chewing on roughly three at once and her jaw literally locked up and then got pulled completely out of joint.
Since the alleged incident, she has had trouble chewing, talking, and sleeping.
And she wants $25,000 for her pain.
Funny how $25K has amazing medicinal qualities, huh?
Her attorney (of course she has an attorney: 1-800-I-SU4-YOU) Brian Muawad, says McArthur has offered to negotiate a settlement with Starburst's insurer to cover her rehabilitation, but the company has refused.
I don’t blame them.
Look – I have eaten enough Starburst in my time to know that those little waxy squares could probably be used to adhere space shuttle tiles, but at no point have I felt my entire mandibular health in jeopardy.
Then again, I flap my gums a lot, so I probably have a stronger jaw than most...
My point is, people have to accept some responsibility for their own actions.
Dangers and pitfalls are everywhere, but if you take normal precautions, you can avoid many of them.
To paraphrase the late Jim Croce (who did not die from eating fruit chews or turning himself into a human filet), if you don’t tug on Superman’s cape, you don’t spit into the wind, you don’t pull the mask on the old Lone Ranger, and you don’t mess around with lighter fluid, strip steaks, or wads of Starburst Fruit Chews...you should be just fine.
Winston Churchill once famously addressed Parliament with the words, "The mood and temper of the public in regard to the treatment of crime and criminals is one of the most unfailing tests of the civilization of any country."
Essentially, one can draw conclusions about a country based on how it treats its bad guys.
I guess I’m not too civilized.
In fact, I think – on the whole – this country treats its prisoners better than its treats many of its neediest citizens.
Land yourself behind bars and you are immediately provided with healthcare, medication, three meals a day, recreation, and a roof over your head. None of which you have to pay for.
Sure, you may also have to put up with a cellmate who envisions you as some jumpsuit clad June Cleaver to his cueballed, tattooed, horny Ward, but hey – life’s not always fair and balanced.
Shut up and eat your meatloaf surprise.
Personally, I think prisoners are treated too well in this country. And the number of lawsuits brought by inmates who have too much free time and access to law books proves that out.
Prisoners routinely bring lawsuits against their enforcers, the warden, the states in which they are incarcerated, seeking better food, cable TV, newer workout equipment, softer toilet paper – you name it. When you are serving 75 years, you have ample time to get creative.
The problem is that many of these suits end up going in favor of the prisoner.
Look, if you killed three people in a drunken, cracked infused haze, I don’t think you deserve the oxygen you’re breathing, much less two ply TP. If you rape a five year old? Don’t cry about how you can’t get Entourage in the rec room because there’s only basic cable. Quite frankly your eyes should already be gouged out and your genitals eaten by feral Turtles.
Sample lawsuits include one brought by California inmate Lee Barnett who was disgruntled that his outgoing mail was stamped to indicate it was sent from a state prison.
A Texas prisoner filed a suit because he had been made to walk across a cold floor in his bare feet.
A murderer in New York custody sued for $25,000, claiming a "defective" haircut resulted in lost sleep, headaches, and chest pains
I’m not making these up.
Anyway, my point is simple: If you have committed a crime which lands your caboose behind bars? Too damned bad. Don’t expect cushy accommodations, special privileges, name brand tissue products, or a visit from Jose Eber – this is prison, not Club Med. We don’t owe you a vacation, free pay-per-view, or an Extreme Makeover.
Which brings me to the Poop du Jour.
For the past year, in a Boston courtroom, a lawsuit with gigantic implications should the ruling be in favor of the inmate, has been playing out.
Meet prisoner Robert "Michelle" Kosilek, currently serving time for murdering his wife, who is suing the state for a taxpayer footed sex change operation.
Yeah.
It seems Robert, incarcerated since 1990, legally changed his name to Michelle back in 1993, and who has already been sucking the tax teat for years as he has received continual hormone treatments, laser hair removal and psychotherapy, believes that the state’s refusal to grant a sex-change operation violates the Eighth Amendment protection against cruel and unusual punishment.
And he may well win.
Tell me, where is the protection against the cruel and unusual punishment of the hardworking, honest taxpayers?
Fine. He/she has been diagnosed with gender identity disorder. And Robert/Michelle testifies that even with the allowances made on his/her behalf he/she still suffers from anxiety and depression.
"I would not want to continue existing like this," Kosilek stated.
And a sex change will cure all that ails him/her?
You know what? If Robert lived out in the real world, and was facing down these personal demons (as many folks do), it would be up to him to find the treatment, argue with his insurance company, and foot the bill.
Yes, he has twice attempted suicide in a temper tantrum bid to prove how desperately he needs this surgery, but histrionics and living behind bars shouldn’t buy him a $20,000 operation. Murder should not come with perks like that.
But $20K is turning into small potatoes compared with the bills being run up by legal eagles for the Massachusetts Correction Department who are vigorously fighting his bid for gender reassignment.
Experts have been paid for hundreds of hours of testimony – heck, even the judge in the case hired one to help him make sense of the issue before him. And of course, the arguments vary depending on who is paying the expert. Those on Kosilek’s side (a legal outfit in Boston is covering his lawsuit) of course swear he must have the operation – it is imperative. While those being paid by the state argue that it is neither medically or psychologically necessary.
Look, I am not completely heartless. If an inmate is diabetic and needs insulin, give it to him/her. If their appendix bursts, operate. If they accidentally shit the bed after Mexican Night in the chow line, let them have some new sheets.
But don’t ask John and Jane Doe taxpayer to foot the bill for a vagina and pair of tits for someone who committed murder and is now caught in a hormone limbo of their own making.
Prison needs to be viewed as a bad place to be. Prisons are supposed to be crime deterrents, not free rides and Rodeo Drive plastic surgery clinics.
My advice to Robert Kosilek is to find his balls (yes, he/she still has them) and stand the remainder of his life sentence like a man.
After all, Robchelle, if being a woman is truly your desire, I’m sure there are plenty of fellow inmates who would be happy to make you their bitch.
(One last thought...
Winston Churchill also said, "An appeaser is one who feeds a crocodile hoping it will eat him last."
Appeasing inmates like Kosilek will only result in an entire swamp of criminal crocodiles crawling forth to eat we taxpayers whole.)
With the news full of murderering police officers, skinhead killers, and roid rage wrestlers found hanging from their own workout equipment, I thought it might be time for a reminder that some people in this world love their families, and truly cherish their children.
The look of wonder, tenderness, and unconditional love seen in this picture of Tiger Woods and his new daughter Sam is heartwarming indeed.
And in addition to congratulations to Tiger and Elin on the arrival of their first child, kudos to them both for releasing photos like these and avoiding the dangers involved in being relentlessly tracked by paparazzi trying to snag the first pics of the new cub.
I have not written about the tragic murder of Jessie Davis and her unborn daughter because the entire case is just beyond sad.
And anything I could have said would have just been inadequate. Sometimes there really are no words for something so senseless.
The country has watched as search parties combed the city and pastures searching for any sign of Jesse who had been missing since last week when her 2 year old child was found wandering their home and saying, "Mommy's crying. Mommy's in the blanket."
And we all watched as the father of the 2 year old and soon to be born daughter, Bobby Cutts, Jr., professed his innocence, denied any involvement, and made sure relatives were communicating to the media that he was not eating or sleeping.
Yeah. Fear of getting caught will do that to a person.
I'm sure I wasn't alone in not being surprised when, lo and behold, he offered up the details as to where her body could be found, and he was arrested for murdering both her and the nearly full term baby.
Then again, his reputation as a human bag of fertilizer - kids born to many different women, hither and yon - did not exactly make him appear to be a bastion of chivalry or stability.
Whatever his reasons are revealed to be, the bottom line is this: He killed an innocent pregnant woman in front of their 2 year old son, in turn killing the unborn child as well.
He deserves what's coming to him.
But no. According to his step mother, Barbara Cutts, he is a fabulous guy, so great with kids that he even coaches youth sports.
"It's very hard to accept," she said. "A lot of people are looking at him like a bad person, but he's not, he really isn't."
Sorry Barb. All mounting evidence is to the contrary. People are looking at him because he is a murderer.
And last time I checked - that is more than synonymous with "bad person".
For those of you who don't make TMZ.com a stop on your daily internet travels, here's the latest Paris offering. This hand drawn cartoonish self portrait (note how she even visualizes herself with hair extensions) and love note to her lawyer (who supplied it to TMZ - what a guy) seems just a tad ... sad.
The handwriting is like a third grade little girl, loopy and complete with hearts instead of dots above the i's, and the message so clearly written with the intent of it being shuttled directly to TMZ, it's just ... well ... not to beat a word to death, but ... SAD.
"Accurately reporting the facts", huh? Yes, I'll give TMZ that, Paris. They get the scoops, warts and all, constantly updating the world on the comings and goings, DUIs, jail sentences (good luck Tom Sizemore), and random beach booty cellulite of the rich and infamous.
But they are also the ones, Paris darling, who relished and shared every tear stained, snot laden photo of you as you were taken back to prison, along with some not so kind accompanying verbiage.
But back to that precious handwriting of yours. Top this...now That's Hot!
(And NO - just in case you're wondering - that's NOT my real signature, so don't expect me to lay one like that down at a book signing. Unless, of course, you're willing to immediately share it with TMZ.com)
If this isn't a perfect example of self loathing, I don't know what is.
The individual pictured is self described skinhead, Curtis Allgier, who briefly escaped custody yesterday while at the University of Utah for an orthopedic exam - his current home is the Utah State Prison in Salt Lake City.
Allgier managed to wrestle a gun away from corrections officer Stephen Anderson, who was guarding him, and shot the law enforcement officer dead before escaping.
He carjacked a Ford Explorer outside the medical complex and led police on a chase for several miles (even with tire spikes having been employed) until he bailed outside an Arby's. Police surrounded the building, firing shots, but it was a brave customer who actually wrestled the gun from Allgier.
He is now back in custody, which I imagine is cold comfort for the slain officer's family.
But back to the photo.
The whole skinhead-Aryan-I-worship-Hitler-so-much-he-is-tatooed-on-my-worthless-chest idealology is laughable. The belief that he is so much better because of his white skin?
Newsflash Curtis. If I look at you really quick, you look black. Somehow I don't think that was the object you had in mind now, was it?
(Oh, you also look incredibly stupid. And completely pathetic.)
You don't look big and badass with all those tats - you look like a little boy who played with Mommy's Sharpie marker while she wasn't watching.
As for your hero, Hitler, and his whole we-don't need-certain-people crusade? I'll give Mr. Goosestep this much - we certainly didn't need him. And we absolutely don't need you and your likeminded, murderous brethren.
Let's hope that the next needle you encounter leaves a lasting mark too - the lethal kind.
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