thought i'd give this it's on thread 
- as a follow up to the warrior rants thread i wondered what he was up to and ended up on his website
link
anyway came across this crazy piece on his blog
- as a follow up to the warrior rants thread i wondered what he was up to and ended up on his websitelink
anyway came across this crazy piece on his blog
here’s a great quip told that when someone wants to act stupid, get out of their way and let them. This general notion, I submit, needs to be extended to cover other acts. Considering there has been much concern expressed that Paris may be putting her own mortality in jeopardy, I say, if someone wants to kill themselves, let’s do the same thing we’d do when someone comes around wanting to act stupid — get the hell out of their way and let them. In the case of Paris Hilton, or any other slobberish, sleazy, starlet (or star), I, for one, just don’t give a damn. If you ask me what I think — and thousands that I don’t have the time to individually respond to do — I think it’s much better to have the ruinously run lives rotting underground rather than having them run loose ruining the lives of the many above it. I know, I know. You’d never say it — but you knew I would. You’re welcome.
Years ago, long before Paris Hilton, conceived by disinterested sperm and egg donors too regal and haughty to ever be caretaking parents themselves (so raised by nannies), blossomed into the cheap, self-centered scofflaw and squealing tramp she is today, I discovered a great, powerful book in a bedside drawer one night while staying, weirdly enough it seems to me now, in a eponymously named Hilton Hotel, the Hotel empire her Great-Grandfather founded and built. Since Paris is going to have some free, uninterrupted time on her hands over the next couple of weeks (in between ingesting all the psychiatric drugs she needs to sustain her insanity), she might want to read it. I really doubt that she ever has.
No, I don’t mean the ubiquitous Bible you can find in nearly every hotel room. I mean “Be My Guest,” written by Conrad Hilton, her Great-Grandfather.
Years ago, long before Paris Hilton, conceived by disinterested sperm and egg donors too regal and haughty to ever be caretaking parents themselves (so raised by nannies), blossomed into the cheap, self-centered scofflaw and squealing tramp she is today, I discovered a great, powerful book in a bedside drawer one night while staying, weirdly enough it seems to me now, in a eponymously named Hilton Hotel, the Hotel empire her Great-Grandfather founded and built. Since Paris is going to have some free, uninterrupted time on her hands over the next couple of weeks (in between ingesting all the psychiatric drugs she needs to sustain her insanity), she might want to read it. I really doubt that she ever has.
No, I don’t mean the ubiquitous Bible you can find in nearly every hotel room. I mean “Be My Guest,” written by Conrad Hilton, her Great-Grandfather.