The Paris Hilton Hack

There is something in equal parts creepy and yet so gloriously evil in the hacking Paris Hilton's Sidekick Files. The Corsair would hate for something like that to happen to us. In the spirit of journalistic inquiry -- ahem -- we viewed the book. Repeatedly. But we didn't act, nor will we post any linkage as we don't approve of that sort of thing, which, we believe, stems from a lack of benevolent parental authority in the hackers' formative years. But we will laugh about the contents, without spilling any personal info, which is a tricky game. But all games are tricky, and The Corsair snacks on danger and dines on death! Besides, we don't want to have a lengthy conversation with the "Sidekick Files secret service."



Above: Whoopsie!

Some of the entries are oddly spelled, erratically repeated, and just plain voodoo -- like the quixotic "Mr. Chows." Of course, spelling cannot come easy to a "special person," like Paris, who has learning as well as racial difficulties, but does she mean "Mr.Chow"? Is that the name she stumbles clumsily in the dark after? A quick confirmation of the telephone number proves that, yes, indeed, thus, we conclude, that Paris is either playing a very unkind one sided parlor game at the expense of my Asian brethren, or, more likely, that she is really as slow as we all believe her to be. You go, girl! Or, to put it in a way that only a dingbat Paris could understand: Yu-Gi-Oh! ("Is that, like, French?")

"Donught," similarly threw us for a loop. Our formidable powers of deduction failed us as to whether Paris was referring to the round doughy treat, or, more likely than not, some random, swarthy denizen of the night who, like the many nameless legions who came before him/her/it, serviced Ms. Hilton's near limitless libido, forfeiting their immortal souls in the moist process, thus, finally simply evaporating into their own skanky ethers. Let's hope her -- WTF?! -- "birth control kill pill" (Averted Gaze) was in "high gear" -- cough, cough -- for that one, huh?

And dear old "Connor Fux." But, well, does he swallow? (Drumbeat) And, what is Stephen King doing in her notebook? For shame! And that little fucking Frankie Muniz?! Malcolm's in the middle of a shitstorm with a broken umbrella, is what we say.

Evidently, Paris does not think highly of one Joey Lionetti, to whom she refers as "jerk magnet." But still, his name sticks, as does someone named, "Troy," from "Simple Life." Uhm, we think, although we cannot be sure, that she means "Trey (Lindley)." Poor ass; a hilbilly's love thwarted. Usher's email, cannot fail to note, inexplicably is ensconced at "crusher@xxxx.com" Ush, embrace your inner essential Earl Gray mildness;Ush, please, desist ... if you could "crush" any organic substance with a consistency more solid than the odd pistaccio nut, well, then The Corsair would be quite surprised indeed.

But the strangest entry by far was for "egplant dyke ass," which, uhm, sounds really, really dodgy and KKK-ish. (Ed Note: Thanks to a keen-eyed anonymous commenter who corrects me, "Egplant is the Latin America MTV DJ that Paris is making out with in the pics from her sidekick.")

"Feed the Children" also knocked us off our game. Paris doesn't seem the Sally Struthers type humanitarian, like y'know. We can almost imagine the late night prank calls shared by her friends. Brutal crank calls.

"Do business with andre harell somehow," turns up, as well as "Carsondaily said to document everything guy said next truth or dare have cams at all times making if the club get carson number." Guy Oseary?! And something about calling Gary Shandling.

Fucking bizarre.