Paris Hilton

Chris Weeks/

It’s true. The biz about Paris Hilton whipping up a few cheap cotton T-shirts, probably mass-produced by her mother’s Honduran manicurists, which declare the mucho-monied babe’s run for president (of the United States, not the Los Angeles chapter of the Humane Society, quelle surprise), I’m afraid, does have some merit. See, Paris told me recently when I asked the svelte flirt whom she wanted to be prez of the U.S.: “Me.” I swear, she’d sooner ask me to take that greasy BF of hers off her hands than to tell me it was a joke. Bitch was dead serious. Which is why I love her. Even if I wouldn’t let Margo Casablanca within 50 miles of the woman. But hey, I’d chose Paris over McCain any day! Girl has a much better sense of humor. But, Obama, you’re going to make this whole discussion pointless, right? Promise me, please.

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