Paris Hilton, Turds and Tinkerbell.

There is a God in heaven, afterall. And he is a merciful God. Tinkerbell Hilton has been found at last! Chihuahua, author, blogger, thespian – this talented young canine was nearly torn from our collective grasp earlier this week. Quicker and more brutally than she probably snaps up her own poop after a wee squat. “Does baby need go poopie? Mommy like chokey dicky“.

I, for one, am breathing a sigh of relief that would register on a Fujita Scale. Tinkerbell’s upcoming literary debut, The Tinkerbell Hilton Diaries : My Life Tailing Paris Hilton, has been likened by critics – who’ve been lucky enough to see the work – to The Bell Jar. Had, of course, Sylvia Plath possessed a penchant for licking her own genetalia, I’d be more apt to believe such hype. But who’s to say? She was a strange broad.

Tinkerbell may very well be about to release a tome worthy of the great American literary canon. And probably a turd twice the size of her head in Paris’ $3,000 handbag. Which is OK – because you can be dammned sure there isn’t a copy of The Bell Jar in there.