One of the many qualities that lifts Paris Hilton out of Tara Reid territory and into the skank pantheon is that she never, ever lets up. The woman is to sleaze what Wayne Newton is to Vegas glitz, or that Wendy’s monstrosity that she smeared over her mostly-naked body in a never-aired TV commercial is to food: a quantitative excess so grotesque that it has a quality all its own.

To see what I mean, check out this account by a guest at one Paris’s recent parties. Maybe other starlets would have Courtney Love on the guest list, but Paris knows—that’s not enough. Other people of negligible accomplishment might put a portrait of themselves in every single room of the house, but Paris won’t stop there. And I guess it’s conceivable that somebody might use a stripper pole to cavort with their boyfriend for the edification of the guests, but ripping the pole out of the ceiling and collapsing on top of the guy in a spastic tangle of limbs—that’s the Paris Hilton touch.,

At her next party, I expect Paris to serve devilled eggs to the guests by firing them out of her hoo-hah in the course of a drunken, high-kicking can-can routine. I’m telling you, the woman is unstoppable.