Someday in the future, when you’re sitting in your podchair (like a wheelchair, but it floats and collects your feces), your grandchildren will nuzzle close and ask you, “grandpop, tell me a story from when you were young” And you sill scratch your dry old man skin, and close your eyes, and begin the story of Paris Hilton.

You will say,

Once, my dear, there was a pretty blonde girl, born to a rich family. She kind of had a weird eye thing, but was alright looking in an off-putting lizardy kind of way. She never really had a job or responsibilities, so she instead filled her time with things like designing handbags and making sex tapes and doing blow in Vegas and making terrible f***ing music.

Then one day, the photographers stopped following her. So she decided, “Lo! I shall become a DJ!” And lo, she DJd at the Sao Paulo Pop Music Festival in Brazil, if by “DJ” you mean “stood on stage behind a laptop in lingerie while photos of her streamed on the big screen behind her.” And oh, how the world laughed. We laughed and laughed. But you know who laughed loudest of all? Paris Hilton herself.

At this point your grandchild will recoil in horror at the atrocities you put up with in the early 2000s. Before you let him walk away to play in his anti-bacterialized playground bubble, whisper in his ear, “also, we had to wipe our own asses.” It will scar him for life.