Paris Hilton, 37?, that's hot

Paris Hilton is, according to Wikipedia, an American television personality, socialite, business woman, model, and singer. She is, according to most other people, famous for being famous. This, of course, is what one would call a paradox, because if someone is famous for being famous, that means they are famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous duck for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous for being famous.

Now you can see why this is problematic. So for now, we will stick to the Wikipedia explanation for Paris Hilton's fame, and avoid destroying the universe as we know it through an infinite feedback loop. Instead, we will take a look into the life of the woman herself, who has inexplicably appeared in District One, nearly 5000 years after her birth yet still 37 years young.

Paris was in her mansion that she would describe as "hot" and that this narrator would describe as "quite moderate in temperature, perhaps even a bit cool to be frank," and she was indulging in her favorite pastime: staring at mirrors. While doing this task she had her purse slung over her shoulder, a poodle she had named "Sparkles" trapped in its leathery grasp. The poodle let out a yap, which Paris assumed meant the dog wanted to go outside, but in reality roughly translated to "My name is Isadora, not Sparkles you talentless skank."

Regardless of whether or not this statement was true, Paris most certainly did not possess the talent of communicating with poodles, and so continued on her mission of getting her dog some fresh air on her carefully trimmed lawn. While walking outside, her poodle viciously throwing insults at her and any other dog unfortunate to cross Isadora's path, Paris thought of her life. She thought of her old friend Kim Kardashian, who for reasons this narrator refuses to research, is no longer a friend of her's. She also thought of her other celebrity friends, the names of which have been lost under the weight of time and a lazy author.

While walking her dog, she came across a poor blind girl on the street, her stomach indented at an awkward angle that Paris Hilton would describe as "not hot" and this narrator would describe as "likely a result of poor access to food stemming from a systemic problem of wealth inequality in this post-apocalyptic dystopian world." Nonetheless, while Paris Hilton was not a very intelligent woman, or a very talented one, or at her ripe age of five-thousand, a youthful one, she was not necessarily a mean spirited woman.

So when Paris Hilton came across this poor starving child, she placed a hand over her heart, and in a gesture that one could under a very specific set of circumstances refer to as kind, gave her poodle to this young girl. "Here you go darling," she choked out, wiping a tear from her eye. "make yourself a nice supper."

Now, it must be stated that in Paris Hilton's confused sense of morality, she meant to have this blind girl make her way to a market and somehow sell a quite mean-spirited poodle without having any way to actually know that the animal she had been gifted was a quite valuable pure-bred dog. She would then make her way to another market where she would exchange her money for a meal that she would then enjoy.

However, Paris failed to remember two things, the first of which being that she had thousands of dollars of cash in that same purse she had lifted her poodle from, that the starving child would have been more likely to be grateful of. The second of which was perhaps the more disturbing of the two mistakes, with this one being that the poor blind girl in front of her was extremely hungry, and when handed an animal which she assumed was dead due to both the words that Paris had spoken to her and due to the fearful dog freezing in terror, thought of only one logical reaction. After all, when you hand a starving beggar an apple, it would be quite unsurprising to see the person bite into it, piercing the skin and enjoying the juicy insides that the fruit has to offer.

In order to keep this story firmly within the T rating, I will allow you to imagine what happened next to the poor dog that would have been named more aptly not as Sparkles, nor as Isadora, but perhaps as "Apple." I will also allow you dear readers to imagine the shock that poor Paris Hilton underwent when she saw her beloved dog that she often referred to as "a hot dog" turn into "a hot dog."

Some say that the trauma of this incident is what caused her to be an incomprehensible mess throughout the course of the Games in the coming weeks. These rumors are of course completely false, though Paris Hilton did sport a nasty bruise on the back of her head from when her head hit the pavement after passing out in shock, and the trauma of waking up in the morning to the realization that she had bruised her face (nevermind that the back of the head is most definitely not a part of the face) caused her to weep uncontrollably, and continue to be just as much of an incomprehensible mess as she had been before the incident.

Mary-Sue, 12, favorite color is rainbow

Mary Sue is a name you hear quite often if fan fiction is a hobby of yours. The term "Mary Sue" comes from the name of a character created by Paula Smith in 1973 for her parody story "A Trekkie's Tale" published in her fanzine Menagerie #2. The story starred Lieutenant Mary Sue ("the youngest Lieutenant in the fleet — only fifteen and a half years old"), and satirized unrealistic characters in Star Trek fan fiction. Mary Sue has since taken on the meaning of a character (usually in fan fiction) who is unrealistically perfect, with no flaws, or only having flaws which are not really flaws at all.

Mary Sue, however, is not to be mistaken with Mary-Sue, who is a character in a fan fiction whom could be aptly summarized as a Mary Sue. But while Mary-Sue is most certainly a Mary Sue, she is not Mary Sue, because Mary Sue is not a person but a character archetype, and while Mary-Sue is a Mary Sue and a character, Mary-Sue is not Mary Sue.

Mary-Sue was only 12 years old, yet she was quite remarkable. She was skinny yet curvy, dainty yet strong, and could lift 200 pounds yet had as much muscle as a dorky kid from Nine living in an orphanage who passed his time performing unimpressive magic tricks. She was so stunning that people who stared at Mary-Sue for longer than one minute were known to pass out in a way eerily similar to the way that Paris Hilton did just three paragraphs ago.

In fact, Mary-Sue only had one weakness, and this weakness was that one of her eyes was blue and the other was green. She was, for reasons this narrator nor anybody else with eyes can answer, relentlessly bullied for both this fact and for her hair, which was platinum blonde, shone in the sunlight, and hung down to her ankles, miraculously never tripping her and seeming to have a protective shield that blocked any dirt from getting into it. This shield was so powerful in fact, that it will be the second most powerful shield we will see in this story, only plot armor being more unbreakable.

Mary-Sue, despite being flawless in every reasonable manor, also had a tragic past. Her parents were both murdered fighting for freedom in revolution, the American Revolution of 1776 to be specific. At five years old she was taken in by her evil step-mother, and a year later ran off to live in an abandoned mansion, the same mansion that she is in when we peer into her life now.

While one would be tempted to pinpoint Mary-Sue's main weakness as her mismatched eyes, or her comically long hair, in reality her most glaring weakness was just how bland her life was. Mary-Sue was sitting at her kitchen table, sipping from the most delicious cup of hot chocolate ever created as she thought about her dead parents, wishing that she was not an orphan. You may be wondering why I've brought you into such a dull moment of this girl's life, and the answer is that quite frankly, this action is one of the only things that Mary-Sue ever did. So in order to not bore my dear readers with such sad and dully repetitive thoughts, we will fast forward, to the day that Mary-Sue finally had something of note happen to her.

The reaping of this years Hunger Games, the year of which this narrator has quite honestly forgotten, was a spectacle to behold. There was no budget space available to hire an escort, nor was there even enough spare change to obtain paper slips with the names of the district's children. Instead, all people who Peacekeepers thought looked vaguely like they were aged twelve through eighteen were shuffled into a packed square, where a Gamemaker oddly obsessed with kittens and boy bands awkwardly scratched the back of her neck.

After a few minutes of awkwardly standing, unable to afford a chair to sit in, she decided they had enough potential tributes, and without a mic to speak into, yelled out into the crowd in a painfully quiet voice.

"Greetings District One! I am Gamemaker Angel Markianas, and I am happy to be here today to announce the tributes for the. . . uh, Annual Hunger Games of an indeterminate but incredibly high year!"

Gamemaker Angel suddenly became aware of the lack of slips that their budget could afford, and while she tried to figure out what to do, a rabid, blind, 12 year old girl who was suffering from some combination of food poisoning, PTSD, and mad poodle disease, aimlessly wandered onto the stage, blood staining her teeth and mouth and a soulless gaze in her eyes.

"Oh, uh, hello little girl," Gamemaker Angel awkwardly greeted, scratching the back of her neck. "Do, uh, you wanna be a tribute?"

The girl gave no response except to twitch her head violently to the side.

"Great! That works-"

"Wait!" A voice suddenly called out from the crowd, and a shining angelic light seemed to shine down on a familiar young girl as she stepped away through the crowd, the children around her parting in much the same way as the red sea most likely did when it was parted by Moses- extremely slowly. When Mary-Sue did make her way out of the crowd, however, she ran up to the poor blind girl, hugging her so tightly that the girl fractured her entire rib cage.

Mary-Sue did not realize this though, and with a single brave tear, let go of the blind girl, who crumpled to the ground in a state of pain so intense it can only be accurately described in one word: painful.

"A volunteer! Great! Anybody else feeling brave?" This was an odd question to ask, because indeed many people in that crowd did feel brave, but none of those brave people decided that volunteering to go into a game with a girl capable of accidentally snapping rib cages was a smart choice to make for the health of their own rib cages.

"My name is Mary-Sue, and I promise that I will come home to you District One!" Mary-Sue suddenly exclaimed, a speech which inspired little confidence and even littler enthusiasm in the hearts of her district.

"Lovely dear, so, uh. . ." Angel scanned the crowd for a minute before suddenly spotting a woman comically older than the other 12 year old girls surrounding her. "You! You get to be our other tribute! How does that sound?"

"That's hot."

"It. . . sure is!" Angel laughed, glad to see the reapings were going better than she expected. She did not, in this moment of relief, notice that she had somehow ended up with two female tributes, though she did suddenly remember another pressing issue that she faced. "Oh, and as, uh, part of the challenge for these quells there will be no train ride to the Capitol, and you're going to have to hike there instead!"

"That wasn't the quell twist!" Someone from the crowd yelled out, though nobody else seemed to very much care.

"I'll make my district proud!" Mary-Sue proclaimed, running off into the distance while Paris Hilton just picked at her fingernails.

"Uh, hikes are totally not hot." This statement, as anyone who has ever been on a hike before could tell you, is quite false. Hikes, particularly those done in the sweltering heat of summer, are extremely hot. Angel also disagreed with this statement, though for different reasons.

"Well, that's uh, the twist, so, you know, can't really-"

"I'm gonna drive my Bentley," Paris Hilton said, pulling out a pair of keys.

"That's. . . reasonable, actually. Could, uh. . . could you actually give me a ride to District Two? I could only really afford a one-way ticket here and I wasn't actually sure how I was going to get there."

"Sure! It'll be like, a road trip!"

"Rad."

And indeed it was a road trip. A road trip that we will be covering extensively over the next 10 chapters which will undoubtedly begin to get old before the halfway mark. A road trip in which Angel would on multiple occasions offer chocolate milk to Paris Hilton's dog who looked deceptively similar to a cat. It would be a road trip filled with little laughter, few tears, and next to nothing of notable occasion. It would be a road trip in which even more shockingly un-creative characters would be written with shockingly poor writing, culminating in a not so shockingly terrible story.

In the unlikely case that neither my previous warning nor this horrific, terrifying, absurdly boring chapter were able to convince you to better spend your time elsewhere, I will attempt to persuade you once again. In the next 10 chapters we will see enchantimals, washed up actors, a slice of bread, fictional characters from fandoms much more popular than Hunger Games, an odd amount of tributes born in the 1700s, and even entire bands get entire chapters devoted to their unfortunate existence. While it is my solemn duty to report the events that will follow over the course of this story, you dear readers have no such obligation, and so I must plead with you once more to please leave this story, and spend your time doing more useful things, such as imagining yourself playing in a semi-competitive squash tournament against the fourteenth best player in Bangladesh.

With great regret and infinite apologies,

~The Narrator