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Boring old photos of Paris Hilton climbing out of a ridiculously expensive automobile are no fun, but photos of the paparazzi taking those pictures of the overexposed heiress, well, now we're talking all kinds of meta-fun! A reader documented a recent run-in between the paps and Hilton (above, click it to see a larger version), and after the jump, he himself becomes part of the story, writing a new, useless chapter of the New Celebrity Journalism.

I was out walking my dog and looked across the street (Willoughby) and saw a ton of papparazzzzooos surrounding what I thought at first was a bizarre monument to capitalism, but it was just a Bentley. So I went inside to get my camera, my PlayBall beach chair, and a vodka tonic and sat and waited for the show. My neighbor was out with me and we were wondering:

A: Who was it?
My money was on Ben Affleck, cause I know he has one of those goofy-looking monstrosities. I walked up and asked the camera dudes who they were waiting for. You would've thought I asked them a question involving quantum physics because I got the most confused and cold silence I've ever felt in my life.

B: What the hell were they doing on this the shittiest block in WeHo?
My neighbor let the driver take a piss in his place and got the goods. Apparently, Paris Hilton was signing a contract for something in there. (Read, buying meth or a new tiny dog now that Tinkerbell is out of the picture.)

But I've learned a very important message today. My days of siding with the paparazzi are over. This morning I would've said the famous should shut up and take it cause they make a lot of money. But now I know that the paps are douchebags. Plus, one of them took my picture while I was sitting and drinking and watching them make asses of themselves. I feel so violated. Here's a blurry photo of Paris Hilton's head, and one of paparazzi having the tables turned on them. I'm taking their picture. Ah the irony is delicious.