Paris Hilton has released a new song. Or rather, Manufactured Superstars, an electronic music duo out of Denver, made a backing track and they got Paris Hilton to lend her voice and lyrics.
The track is awful, which is why we’re going to play a little game today that I like to call…
The game is simple: I provide a lyric from the song, and then follow it with a short reaction. You then have to decide if I’m reacting to the song, or if I’m reacting to a particularly nasty case of diarrhea.
It’s that easy.
Before we begin, I just want to take this time to apologize to you, the reader. Not only and I making you read Paris’ lyrics, but I’ve added in all the punctuation. I’m certain I will be sued by Paris’ people for mischaracterizing Paris as being a person that knows where a comma goes. To be fair, I didn’t try to hard. These lyrics were probably written in a mad jumble on a cocktail napkin with a tube of lipstick as Paris blew a club bouncer in a bathroom stall, and all while a feisty paparazzo put down his camera to jerk off in the stall beside them. All of that stuff equals bad grammar, as we all know.
The song itself is the kind of music you’d hear in a European dance club where every Tuesday night is Date Rape night, when girls get one free ounce of vodka with their ruffies. This is the same kind of club that has a secret VIP backroom where Russian billionaires can murder a peasant consequence free — and at competitive prices, no less.
I may have misinterpreted some of the lyrics here and there because while listening to the song I found myself experiencing short, non-lethal aneurisms that made some lyrics difficult to understand.
The video is being pulled down from every site that hosted it, including Youtube. I found it here. It’s still up as of publishing time, though it may not be up by the time you get around to reading this. If that’s the case, I apologize. Or rather, you’re welcome. One of those two is the correct thing to say. I’m not sure which. Maybe the latter.
Answers will be provided at the end.
Let’s start the game!
Paris Lyric #1: “I went to the club the other night to, you know, dance with my bitches.”
The Song, or Diarrhea?: Ugh. This is painful.
Paris Lyric #2: “That guy was there again. He’s like, ‘I’m sorry for what I said last weekend.’ I told him I didn’t mind, which was a lie. But I was equally sorry, and I didn’t want to apologize. It was just a drunk text.”
The Song, or Diarrhea?: I’m just going to grit my teeth and get through this.
Paris Lyric #3: “In my head, I was writing a fiction of us. Behind my eyes, I was begging for things my lips could never ask. And my mouth kept pouring desperate clauses of random intent.”
The Song, or Diarrhea?: It burns so much. I just want it to stop.
Paris Lyric #4: “He asked me if he could text me later. After the club, he hands me another shot of vodka, and I say, ‘Sure.’”
The Song, or Diarrhea?: Ugh. There’s just so much of it…
Paris Lyric #5: “I’m on the dance floor, when I get a text from Adam. I’m too lazy to type, so I send a photo I took up a dancer’s skirt and tell him to come and get it, not realizing what I had just said.”
The Song, or Diarrhea?: I…fuckin’…fuck you…like, fuckin’ – ahh, just fuck off.
Paris Lyric #6: “Later on, she comes up to me, holds up her phone, screaming at me, and I say, ‘I’m sorry, it was just a drink text.’”
The Song, or Diarrhea?: It’s amazing – there’s absolutely nothing of substance.
Paris Lyric #7: “I should have known they knew each other. No one is safe in the Twittersphere anymore.”
The Song, or Diarrhea?: No quality solid masses. It’s just little bits of shit flying out, all over everything.
Paris Lyric #8: “You take the word ‘Sex’ and mix it with ‘Texting’ – it’s called ‘Sexting’. When you add drunk sexting, the words just don’t make any sense.”
The Song, or Diarrhea?: Goddamn, this bitch is rank…
Paris Lyric #9: “It’s a hot mess of misspelled obscenities, body parts, and run on questions I’m not sure what it means to ask.”
The Song, or Diarrhea?: It’s a hot mess of nasty gurgles, pulsating orifices, and quasi-verbalization.
Paris Lyric #10: “I get a text from my friend. She’s upstairs getting bottle service. She’s like, ‘This guy wants you to wet your lips with his bottle.’ He wants me to bring more girls up, like I’m some kind of pimp. Are you fucking kidding me? It’s just another moment when one stupid reply could lead to the Walk of Shame. And I’ll be damned if I end up in some lame diner after this with last night’s lingerie in my purse.”
The Song, or Diarrhea?: I now understand the phrase “Bottoming Out.”
Paris Lyric #11: “It was just a drunk text. It was just a drunk text. This is the last time I’ll ever drink and text. It was just a drunk text. It was just a drunk text.”
The Song, or Diarrhea?: There’s human shit in my ear canals.
buos ǝɥʇ ˙11 ‘buos ǝɥʇ ˙01 ‘buos ǝɥʇ ˙6 ‘buos ǝɥʇ ˙8 ‘buos ǝɥʇ ˙7 ‘buos ǝɥʇ ˙9 ‘buos ǝɥʇ ˙5 ‘buos ǝɥʇ ˙4 ‘buos ǝɥʇ ˙3 ‘buos ǝɥʇ ˙2 ‘buos ǝɥʇ ˙1 :ʎǝʞ ɹǝʍsuɐ