Don't You Know Who I Am?

I read a lovely story some time ago about Skankis Hilton throwing a fit because her chihuahua wasn't allowed to sit on the table while she ate at a fancy restaurant in Los Angeles. I don't think celebrities like Skankis, and I use the term "celebrity" as loosely as her morals, have figured out how to truly have fun with their status. If I were a filthy, disgusting, selfish little trust fund kid with a reality show and some amateur porn under my belt, I wouldn't walk into Chez Skank with a chihuahua in tow. I would walk in with a scabby old Rottweiler in a snuggly on my chest. Then I would demand that all the help not look me, or Ol' Roy, in the eye while we were eating, and then I would ask for separate checks at the end of the meal and let my giant dirty dog whip his very own American Express Platinum Card out of his Hulk Hogan neckerchief so people could write stories about how I'm so spoiled that even my big, scabby dog has his own credit card. Then I would make out with the dog, just to throw some more fuel on the figgity-fire.

Chihuahua on the table. Puh-leeze. You're BORING me, Skankis. BO-RING.

Maggie