Wednesday, October 1, 2003
Inside a Hilton's head
By Hampton Stevens Special to Page 2
On Monday night, Paris was in Chicago. That's right, sports fans; Paris Hilton isn't just where American tennis players stay while they lose at the French Open. She is an actual person. Sort of. Along with her sister, Nikki, the emaciated hotel heiress is a pseudo-celebrity -- famous mostly for being blonde, rich, getting drunk in public and sleeping with famous men.
During last week's bye, hunky Bears linebacker Brian Urlacher was reported to have become another notch on the celebutante's belt. Apparently, this walking advertisement for the Death Tax coyly snapped a heel of her Manolo Blahnik, and No. 54 gave her a piggyback ride to safety. Later, the two were seen tongue-wrestling over $12 Appletinis in a back booth at P.F. Changs.
Paris Hilton, hotel heiress and Brian Urlacher's new flame?
Oh, to be young, rich, vapid and in love.
Back in Chicago, Bears' beat writers got giddy over the reports. And why not? At least one Bear was scoring. The national media debated whether Urlacher was using his off-days wisely. Some said he was just getting his tires rotated, and more power to him. Others said the social ramble ain't restful and claimed Paris Hilton is Memo Paris in disguise.
Urlacher, for his part, denied the two were an item. A friend of his (seriously) told the Chicago-Sun Times that Ms. Hilton "was kissing everybody in sight that night." Nice! Hilton's spokeswoman -- and don't you know that has to be a fun job -- also denied rumors of folie à deux.
The publicist claimed Hilton is still "involved" with Sum 41 lead singer Derek Whibley. Somebody better tell Derek, whoever he is, that it's time to find a new floozy. Monday night, Paris showed up in Chitown -- in Urlacher's suite, no less -- to see the Bears get bitch-slapped by the Packers at newly-renovated Soldier Field.
Our spies tell us Paris spent most of her time adjusting her makeup, leafing through magazines and playing with her furry little Tinkerbell. (Tinkerbell is her dog's name, you sick bastards.) Occasionally, however, the dissipated deb did seem to notice the game on the field. We've compiled some her best remarks:
"What city is this again?"
"What do you mean, Madonna never dates football players. What do you call Dennis Rodman?"
"Hey ... how come there aren't any soldiers?"
"If they're from Green Bay, why do they wear yellow?"
"How many quarters are there?"
"You're right, baseball is fun!"
"This is a joke. Blache has them playing a seven-man front in a cover-two, and Green is shoving it down our throats. Brian is getting a faceful of offensive line while Traylor has his thumb up his butt and Azumah is still looking for his jockstrap."
"Which one am I, Paris or Nicky? I can never keep that straight."
"These guys suck worse than Sum 41."
"Did we win?"
"Sure, I'll make out with you ... (Name unintelligible.)"
"No, I don't want to see any pictures of you, the French Maid, and what the butler saw. Security!"
"Six hundred and six million dollars? Call daddy. Tell him I want one."
"Dating a quarterback is a better career move? Hmmm ... I kind of like the sound of Paris Favrah, Paris Hilton-Faverah ... P. Hilty-Farve. Aw, screw it. Whatever his name is. Take me back to New York. All this fresh air is grossing me out."