June 3rd, 2005


The Metamorparis

As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into Paris Hilton. He was lying on his hard, as if it were a fleshless mass of skin and bone, back. When he lifted his head a little he could see his concave belly and the twin lumps of silicone sitting on top of his ribcage. His two legs, which were pitifully thin compared to those of a human, twitched helplessly before his eyes.

What has happened to me? He thought. It was no dream. His room, a regular human bedroom, wait, this was not his room. He looked around him and found himself to be in a cavernous room of pink. The carpet was pink, as was the bedding on which he lay, the doors, the curtains fluttering over the windows. Even the light bulbs seemed to gleam a dull pink poking out from the pink lampshades atop the pink lamps. Above him was a pink-tinted mirror, revealing a face that was not his own. Next to him lay a pink man, who he identified from the tabloids as Paris Latsis, his blond hair framing the soft pink skin of his face as his eyes fluttered through their dreams.

Gregor attempted to rise from the pink sheets without awakening his bed companion but found that his limbs would not respond as he was used to. When he had gone to bed he had felt both fatigue and perhaps a cold coming on, but this was something different. His arms felt heavy despite how thin they looked, as if they were made of solid lead. His torso was long and lithe, but as he moved he could feel bone rub against skin in a most disturbing way, as if his new skeleton was hoping to burst out into the light of day. Deep inside him his stomach rumbled like distant thunder. He felt as if he hadn't eaten in weeks.

With considerable effort he managed to push the plush pink comforter all the way off him and struggle up to sit on the side of the enormous bed. He was wearing a pink camisole with dyed pink fur trim and some sort of undergarment that rode up what crack there was to his ass in what appeared to be a permanent state of wedgie. As he shoved himself violently to his feet, the pipe cleaner legs almost buckling under their 50 pound load, Paris Latsis stirred on the bed behind him. He turned to see Latsis' eyes flutter open and a slow smile cross his face, taking several seconds to get from one side to the other.

"Hey baby. I think I'm still high from last night. That was a party, over at Brett's. I keep telling myself I'll stop chasing the dragon, but I hate being rude. Think I'm going to sleep in."

Gregor tried to think of something to say, and opened his mouth to make an utterance along the lines of that being fine and that Paris should get as much sleep as he needed, but to his surprise what came out was "That's hot." Latsis seemed satisfied and settled back into his pink pillow.

Gregor looked across the room at the door out of this place. It seemed like a mile away. On these strange tiny legs he found the walk to be almost interminable, the knees wanting to buckle with every step. His belly was screaming now, crying out for nourishment, but there didn't seem to be anything edible in sight. Perhaps there was a kitchen in this strange place. He reached the door and wrenched it open, but what lay before him was not a hallway. Rather it appeared to be a hallway, but on each side of it were rows and rows of shelves laden near the breaking point with shoes. At the end of the hall was what appeared to be another room, this one filled with racks and racks of impractical clothing. The rack of raincoats featured not one long enough to keep the wearer from getting drenched, and what at first seemed to be a rack of empty hangers appeared upon closer examination to be filled with microscopic swimsuits.

Gregor swung the door closed and looked around the original room for an alternative method of egress. One of the windows seemed longer than the others, and a wisp of air was blowing the curtain that covered it. He trundled over and pushed the curtain aside, the soft cloth feeling heavy in his emaciated hand. There was a door.

As he stepped beyond the door out on to a balcony he was hit by a blast of freezing air. Goosebumps formed on his exposed skin and he shuddered involuntarily. It was strange, he had gone to bed in June, and the sun appeared to be shining brightly in a late-morning sky, but he felt absolutely frigid. There was a thermometer out on the balcony with him, tied to a piece of pink string, and he looked at it. 75 degrees Fahrenheit. It felt more like 40 without fat or muscle tissue acting as insulation. He tried to pull the skimpy camisole about him, found that the material provided little protection against the bitter cold California sun. He looked around for a way off the balcony and saw a staircase on the other end of it. He went down and found himself on another balcony, with a door leading back into the house. This one he went through, into a pink hallway with a line of framed magazine covers going down each side, all of them featuring Paris Hilton's sneering face.

This began a long trek through a byzantine labyrinth of a home. He passed from room to room, from atrium to ballroom to sitting room to drawing room, without seeing another soul or a morsel of food. At one point he discovered a bathroom, lines of coke already drawn up by the sink, waiting, and he paused to examine himself in the mirror. The gaunt face that stared back at him was barely recognizable as human, if he peered closely under the bright light he could see the scars from where the surgeon's knife had cut into the flesh, reshaping it from its original form into this ghastly parody of beauty. He tried to smile but managed only a lopsided sneer, the muscles in the face not responding to commands as he was used to. He prodded at the flesh on his torso but could find only slender muscles and bone. The lumps of silicone in his chest were starting to feel like lumps of iron, dragging him downward. He was tired and absolutely starving. His feet felt freezing on the cold tile of the bathroom. As he left he resolved that he would not stop again until he saw food.

12 minutes later he passed out on the floor of the fourth guest bedroom he had encountered. They were all the same, pink from floor to ceiling with the same king-sized bed covered in the same hideous throw pillows. He felt as if he were in an Escher painting where all the doors led back to the same horrible room, or even in some kind of private hell from which he would never wake.

When he did wake he found he was in a kitchen. It seemed more modest than the other rooms in the house. He was propped up in a plush chair at a modest sized table. The decor was tasteful, green and white with a pleasant pattern of tile on the ceiling. The appliances were the sort you might see in a normal middle class kitchen. Gregor thought briefly that he might be back in his own home, but when he turned his head he saw a middle-aged Hispanic woman in a pale pink uniform peering at him with a worried look. She was holding a tray, on which were two plates and a champagne flute, filled with what appeared to be champagne.

"Ms. Paris, I found you in the guest room. I was worried Ms. Paris, you know you aren't supposed to wander in the morning before you have your breakfast."

Gregor wanted to thank her for saving him and looked at the food hungrily. He opened his mouth to speak, but again all he could must was "That's Hot..." he tried to figure out what to call her.

"Esmerelda." She did not seem surprised at having to inform him of her name. Esmerelda placed the tray in front of Gregor and stood back, at attention. "I made your favorite breakfast, Ms. Paris. I hope that's alright."

"That's hot" said Gregor, looking at the food. This time he believed it. He reached down with a quaking hand and lifted the silver fork on the side of the plate. Before him was a two egg-white omelette, something odd about it, the champagne, and four green pills. He slid the fork into the omelette and broke off a piece, lifting it to his mouth. As he bit down he realized what the odd thing about the omelette had been. There was some sort of sparkly gritty dust on it. He reached a finger into his mouth and pulled out a little of the dust, looking at it. Gold! The omelette was dusted with gold. He looked up at Esmerelda and sneered. "That's hot." She seemed please.

Gregor found that he could not finish even three bites of omelette before his stomach felt absolutely stuffed. As a salesman he was accustomed to eating room service for breakfast and usually ordered more than he should, pancakes AND bacon and cereal. He never had trouble devouring all that, and a banana or orange, but his new body felt very different. Any more and he was sure it should burst. He started to rise, but Esmerelda looked down at him with worry. "You ate quite a bit. Aren't you going to take your pills?" He looked down at them, and then up at her with confusion. "Don't worry" she said "No sneaky vitamins. Amphetamines." Gregor was taken aback, but the woman pushed the pills toward him on the tray and reluctantly, with shaking hands, he picked them up, placed them in his mouth, and swallowed them with a gulp of champagne. He'd only had Dom Perignon once before in his life, but he could swear that's what this was.

As soon as he drank the pills down his head started to throb with energy, and then he heard a terrible ringing sound, a loud earsplitting noise that vaguely resembled the old 50 Cent hit "In Da Club." After a few moments of panic he realized that the ringing was coming from his camisole. Esmerelda reached down and pulled a cell phone out of a pocket he hadn't noticed before. It was tiny and pink. She opened it and placed it to his ear.

"Hey Paris, it's Brett, Brett Ratner. I think you left something at my party, you know, your dog. Tinkerbell? The one that was stolen. You should come over and get it today, I'm actually shooting for my next film and I have a part that'd be great for you. This movie's going to be big, bigger than big, it's about a loudmouthed black cop and an Asian cop who work together to stop crime. It's called Rush Hour 3, and it'll be like nothing you've ever seen. I want you to play the police captain."

"That's hot" said Gregor into the phone, not even trying to communicate anymore.

"See ya later, babe." The phone shut off. Gregor thought about what he should do next. Perhaps he could call his parents, tell them he was alright, but how could he communicate with them? He should also tell someone at his salesman job why he would not be in today, but he could not figure out how that might be done. He thought about sending them an email or letter, but realized to his horror that he could not remember how to write. He was about to lurch to his feet again, perhaps he could take a car and drive away from this place, clear his thoughts, figure something out, when Paris Latsis walked into the room. He was shirtless, wearing puffy white pants, and smiling slyly.

"Hey Paris. You had breakfast, good. Someone told me you were down here in the maid's quarters, I didn't believe it. First waking up so early, 11:00, and now this, what's up with you? Anyway, let's go to the pool, we can shoot up and spend the day making love."

Gregor did not want to do this. "That's hot" he said.

"Remember, she has an appointment at 4 with Dr. Lipschtein for more lipo. He thinks he can get that fat behind her ears this time." Latsis shrugged, walked over to Gregor, and gently pulled him to his feet, dragging him towards the door. Gregor looked back at Esmerelda and tried to call for help. He desperately wanted to call his family, he wanted to get out of this place, he wanted to be anywhere but here.

"That's hot." he said. "That's hot."


As Paris Hilton awoke one morning from uneasy dreams she found herself transformed in her bed into a giant cockroach. "I'm Fat" she thought "But at least I'm tan. That's hot." Then someone stepped on her and she said "Squish."
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Stuff that's been going on with me

Well, I've been sick for the last few days. Nothing serious, but a stomach ailment and a migraine today. I don't think this is psychosomatic brought about by my new search for work, just a happy coincidence. I'm getting some rest and trying to get some work done and things aren't so bad. By the way for those who signed my Pledge of Criticism, the Metamorparis piece is a good place to start. There's a new startup website with a call for humor submissions and I'm thinking of sending that in. My last experience with a startup was not good, but I need a platform of some sort and if it worked out it would at LEAST be potential resume bait. You gotta start somewhere. If there are other pieces of mine that you think could be shined up like a prize pig feel free to let me know.

I talked to my ex-boss and will be seeing him on Wednesday to sever all connections with that job. Can't say I won't miss it at all, but I won't miss the UTTER LACK OF COMMUNICATION. How could I? You can't miss a lack of something, unless that something is like foot-pain or crabs.

I have stopped drinking alcohol altogether. I was doing it for health reasons, but those studies are on shakier scientific ground than I first thought, and I just don't like drinking. Maybe I wanted to see if I'd become an alcoholic too. I didn't. The fact is that the thing I liked about alcohol the most was finding drinks that tasted good. I didn't like how it made me feel and I didn't like the calories. I know what my addiction is, and it ain't booze. If you offered me the choice between a birch beer or a real beer I wouldn't have to think twice about which one I wanted and I wouldn't regret gulping down the birchy goodness.

The Sun is the WORST NEWSPAPER OF ALL TIME. LOOK at the first picture caption. They're not even TRYING to be objective or live in reality. Newsflash people, with the MILLIONS of random shapes and patterns that occur in the world some are BOUND to look a little bit like your impression of Jesus or Mary or Vishnu or whoever. What does this mean? NOTHING. It's the human tendency to see patterns in things that aren't there, which is a maladaptive feature of our tendency to see real patterns. If you think this is meaningful then you are an idiot. Period. Full stop. The story's over.

I'm considering writing a few more Paris Hilton horror-comedy stories. If this is offensive to you I apologize. If you merely find it boring because you think I have no talent then I POOP ON YOU!

I've lot some weight and I'm optimistic that I may be able to get down a ways without seriously dieting. After that it's TREADMILL TO THE XTREME!
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