To Paris Hilton’s Liver

I know what you must be thinking, ‘Why Me?’

Well it’s your lucky week, because now that Paris has been caught downing margarita’s and climbing behind the wheel of her Mercedes-Benz, she probably will take it easy for awhile.

Moreover, the booze is probably the least of your worries. It will be the endless parade of multi-coloured pharmaceuticals that marches into her body that will shrivel you into a piece of tough shoe leather. The daily paxil/percocet breakfast combo coupled with the mid-afternoon coccaine/lorazepam snacks will surely do a number on you in a few years.

I’m afraid that once you give on her, she’ll have no choice but to give up on you. Once you cease filtering the bad stuff out, Paris will be on a first class plane to Indonesia for a little transplant tourism. She’ll find another liver. All it takes is a roofie and a greedy surgeon with quick hands and you’re a distant memory. Them’s the breaks when your living in the Hollywood fastlane. There have been far greater casualties, believe me.

Hey, if you want to go for a drink I’m up for it…oh, sorry.

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

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2 comments on “To Paris Hilton’s Liver

  1. Lily says:

    Haha, I love it when I open up Bloglines and see a new post from you. Your letters crack me up.

  2. kfx says:

    I would just like to say that I am rabidly anti-liver. It’s a constant thorn in my side. I spent good money getting that liquor into my bloodstream, and now you’re going to remove it? It is effectively throwing away perfectly servicable alcohol, which is indirectly like throwing away my money. My paycheques are both an insult and a pittance, but the last straw is when my liver arrogantly presumes to filter liquid gold from my blood.

    My liver is the reason I spend enough time sober to realize what a squalid toilet I live in. I resent it.

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