Confession: the other night, I watched some of Paris Hilton's latest unreality show, My New BFF. In case you happen to be a thinking person who spends her time in more valuable pursuits such as watching PBS or the History Channel or reading a book without pictures or, I don't know, peeling off your toenail polish and are unaware of the premise, this show features a bunch of vapid guys and gals, all vying to be Paris Hilton's best friend. To do this, they have to jump through multiple random hoops, such as attempting to look hot while being photographed on a roller coaster. Or you might be sent to Japan with Paris to give an award on MTV's Japanese music video awards. Or you might be told to engage in a pillow fight. Mostly, all you have to do is kiss Paris' skinny white ass while still looking cute (though not cuter than her). I suppose the show is also meant to illustrate just how difficult Paris celebrity lifestyle is--omigod, at any moment, she might be asked to walk down a runway in a micro mini and say two words into a microphone or she might find herself elbowed by mobs of camera phone wielding fans who just want to touch her and so you must keep your wits about you and not throw up in a trash can while sobbing as one of the contestants, an Asian tranny, did on this particular episode. What is wrong with me that I kept flipping the channel to see what the next humiliation might be? Paris herself isn't interesting, except in that she's a rich, pretty, talentless heiress and so she's somewhat of an anomaly. The contestants aren't compelling, except that you wonder what they really think is going to happen to the rest of their lives as the result of this experience. Congratulations: the best you can hope for is to be invited to pose for Playboy or maybe you can begin a semi-lucrative porn career. That's it. I have no excuse for my own idiocy in watching. I just couldn't seem to stop, in the same way that once I start eating pistachios, I have a hard time not biting into the next shell.