Psst … His Bulldog’s Ready for an Open Bar … Pass it On! | Who invited HIM?

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Psst … His Bulldog’s Ready for an Open Bar … Pass it On!

paris-hisbulldog.jpgI’ve been trying to reach PH since yesterday and I’m kind of worried. I bet she lost her SideKick again. She left it in my car last time and I was going through it and looking at the pictures and I found that she didn’t keep any of the ones of us that we took while we were out at the clubs!!! She can be such a See You Next Tuesday sometimes, but she’s a fun drunk and I never have to wait in line when I’m with her, so we still hang. Anyway, I thought it would be funny to post all of her private pics online. And we all know how that turned out. She still doesn’t know it was me. Shhh.

But back to the Missing PH: We were having lunch at Fred Segal, talking really loud and dropping names, hoping someone would buy us more champagne, when she gets this page and said she got invited to jet-set to some country “she didn’t know how to pronounce” (god, yeah, that narrows it down, PH), and that they had a bulldog who’s ready for the open bar. “Must be the name of the club or a secret pass phrase.”, says the wise PH with humble certainty – her parents certainly synergized up on the “gene” ladder. An open bar for Paris is like pointing out a lonely, rich Filipino businessman to a hooker – she just can’t say no to a good time! I dropped my napkin and by the time I picked it off the floor and looked back up, she was gone, leaving just a little pink butterfly barrette spinning in mid-air like when the witch in Bugs Bunny would zip way very quickly and leave that black … bent … thing … spinning in the air. She was gone that fast!

I only just recently became concerned this evening, however, because when I went to check out the New York Times to see if they had kept their promise to use my pen name and not my real name in the “What’s Up Slut?” article, (which really is a true article title!!!!) written mostly by my gal-pal Maureen Dowd, who I really really admire, and it made me think of Paris. The next article down I see “Hezbullah: We’re Ready for Open War” and there’s a little voice in the back of the back of my head telling the back of my head something is wrong. “Oh dear.”

Please, if you see Paris, do tell her there’s no open bar, that there’s no bar at all. And frankly there’s nothing funny about war like this, except when you imagine a perpetually drunk, rich, white pampered heiress wandering around the crumbling sidestreets of a little Middle Eastern town, all puffy-faced from the vengeful sun, her little doggie days-dead in her purse from dehydration, asking anyone who will listen if they’ve seen “His Bulldog”, the new, hot club that opened up somewhere near … somewhere, “‘Cuz she’s on the guestlist, she’s on the fucking guest list, slut!

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