Hermes - 24, Faubourg

So by now, everybody knows that Oprah was denied access to Hermes in Paris, either because she was black or because the store was already closed.

Oprah, I like you. I believe racism is as serious as a heart attack, honestly I do. But: Shut up, Oprah. The store was closed. I've been turned away from closed stores countless times. Many of those times, there wasn't even a store employee to turn me away! It was just dark and locked and I couldn't get anyone's attention. It must be because I'm 1/16th black.

Of course, maybe they turned her away because she was fat.

Trashy tabloids report that Oprah was all "Do you know who I am??" I don't know, Oprah, do they? Do Parisians actually know their American talk show hosts? I kinda hope not. In the Gazette, as quoted from the Sun-Times article above:

"Everyone has endured something like this. Fortunately few of us fly into 'don't you know who I am?' mode. This is Paris, Madame Winfrey, not Chicago. Even if they know who you are, they just don't care."

I instantly hate anyone who pulls the "Do You Know Who I Am" card. Yes, I'm looking in your direction, Mischa Barton. (I honestly wish I didn't know who Mischa Barton was.)

Therefore, I hereby cast the Do You Know Who I Am Curse upon everyone in the entire universe, effective now.

The effects of the DYKWIA Curse are simple: whenever a person says "Do you know who I am?!?" (sarcasm doesn't count), something will happen that will seriously undermine the speaker's fame, clout, reputation, finances, or social status. For example:

Spurned Celebrity: Do you know who I am?
Repo Man: Mish-ka Barton, we're here to repossess your house.
New York Post Reporter: (furiously scribbles on notepad)

Or:

Spurned Celebrity: Do you KNOW who I AM?!
Restaurant Bouncer: Sure do, May-sha. You're the skank from the OC who caught genital stinkpox from a three-toed sloth.
Mischa Barton's Gynecologist and Bronx Zoo Expert: (in unison) It's true!
Paris Hilton: (fron inside restaurant) Gross. (throws her vodka-and-hydrofluoric-acid on Mischa's vintage YSL jacket)
New York Post Reporters: (high-five and scribble furiously)

So y'all better watch out. That's a curse on you, a curse on you, and a curse on you.

But anyway, Oprah's not going to be buying anything from Hermes anytime soon. Which, despite the race card brouhaha, is wise, because their perfumes suck. 24, Faubourg is probably the address where Grand-mere Catlady lives, and dusts her cats with forty-year-old fragranced dusting powder.