You’re cruising along in life, enjoying a simple everyday pleasure, say, a good cup of hot coffee from some fast-food place.
Then, out of the blue, you have your intelligence completely insulted by some amazing warning label that makes you wonder
what the hell kind of planet you live on, where people need to be told stunningly obvious things like “not for use with crotch”
or “really, it’s amazingly hot, don’t try to hold this with your crotch” or even “look, it’s just not worth it, your car almost
certainly has a cup holder, or at least you could stuff the cup between the parking brake and the seat, but not, for the love
of God, on your crotch; I mean c’mon, don’t be a hero, it’s too hot to drink now anyway, be reasonable.”
Warning labels. The real yardstick of society. Not soap, not our jails, not that genome thing that ordinary people pretend
to understand but don’t. Warning labels. The real thing anthropologists will judge us by, the way you judge ancient people
who used to toss perfectly good virgins into perfectly upset volcanos rather than just take their virgins with them and go
find a place to live where maybe the volcano is just sort of off in the distance.
Well, I’m here to warn you that you’re reading a humorous, exaggerated sort of diary—written by a dog. It’s a parody, a satire,
a bit of a spoof on what a dog might think and write about. If he could. Though, not yet, since we’re being careful, you’re
actually reading the warning label that leads up to it all.
Anyway, I’m here to tell you once again, in case the cover didn’t do it for you, that you’re reading fiction.
What you’re about to read is not in any way to be construed as a precise factual account. Sure, you’re a little disappointed
since you thought you’d stumbled across a rich vein of gossip, what with a pet keeping a diary about its life with a celebrity.
“Hey, gadzooks, what a find!” you said out loud in the bookstore, startling those around you, but the clubs in this book are
made up, the events described after this point are simply not real, there is no Amenorrhea magazine, and, as far as I know, the Dalai Lama and Paris have never conversed.
Now that you’ve been warned, go ahead and read. And enjoy.
You know me.
I’m very easy to spot these days; I’m that freaky little thing in any recent photo of Paris Hilton, clinging to her side against
the supernova glow of her publicity.
No, you’re picturing younger Hilton sister Nicky . . . I understand your mistake, but that’s not me. I’m on the other side,
the one that looks like a fuzzy rodent-flavored bouillon cube that you might get a reasonably large rat from if you added
enough water to it.
No, no, that’s Nicole Richie you’re thinking of now.
Look, I’m the dog.
Yes, that’s me. Tink Hilton: Fashion Accessory To The Heiress.
Pretty apt term that, accessory, since my owner’s barely there sense of fashion always makes me feel like I’m involved in some sort of decency crime. If
mentally mumbled phrases wore out from use like vinyl records do, by now my personal copy of “man, you’re lucky that you’re
pretty” would have more snaps and pops in it than Barbara Walters’s spine when she farts.
But I digress. I’m not here to mock my owner’s fashion sense. Well, not on every page.
No, I’m here to tell you about My Paris Hilton Year.
I’ve kept a journal, see.
You would, too, if you found yourself in my gaudy pink high-label dog booties (I’m guessing they’re Lo. . .
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