Paris Hilton's Furniture Conspires to Kill Her

As soon as the deadbolt slid into place, and they were sure she was out for the night, the Henrik Mussman leather sofa spoke up. “Listen up, all of you, I can’t stand it anymore, and I know some of you feel the same way. It’s been going on for far too long, and I say it’s time we put an end to it.”
“I’m pretty disgusted, too,” said the $12,000, Machenspeil sideboard, “but what do you suggest we do?”
Several other pieces including the Rococo hall table, the Tienda floor lamp, and an 18th-century Gruble side chair chimed in, “Yeah, the situation is deplorable, but what can we do about it, we’re only furniture?”
“Well,” said the sofa, “I cost $35,000, and she treats me like a cum towel. I’m tired of her leaking on me.”
“Me, too,” said a voice from the bedroom, which everyone knew was the oversized Van Allen bed. “She dresses me in these atrocious flowered sheets, and lets that little dog crap on me. Something must be done.”
“Wait a minute, just wait a minute,” said the Diane Von Furstenburg dining table, “I don’t really have any problem with her. Sure there was that one time she had sex on me with that Greek kid and didn’t bother to wipe up, but that was it. I don’t think we should do anything drastic. And, I definitely think we should leave the little dog out of it. Poor thing, the way she treats it, dressing it up in those stupid clothes and all; no wonder the dog has mental problems. It’s not his fault, so let’s be fair.”
The sofa coughed and said, “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. We’ll let the dog go but not her; she’s going to pay, and pay dearly.”
Some of the knick-knacks disagreed, and they were joined by the chandelier in the foyer, but the sofa said they’re opinions didn’t counts because they were simply decorations and couldn’t really be considered furniture.
Finally, the old, hand-woven, $70,000, Oriental rug spoke up, “Look, I’ve been here the longest, and I seen a lot. I don’t mind that she walks all over me, and I don’t mind that she has sex on me, but I absolutely draw the line at the leaking thing. It’s just rude and disrespectful. I say we should kill her.”
A hush fell over the room. Some of the furniture had been thinking the same thing, but had been reluctant to voice their opinions. Now, since the idea had been brought up, a murmur of approval arose. “Yeah, let’s whack her,” said the coffee table. “It’s not as though she has an important job or something. Does she even have a job?”
“She’s a celebrity,” offered the ottoman, “a leaking celebrity. It’s time for her to go.”
A vote was taken, and Paris Hilton’s furniture decided to murder her. “But how do we do it?” asked the rug.
“I’ll do it,” said the sofa. “The next time she sits on me, I’ll clasp my arms around her and smother her to death.”
“But she’ll leak all over you,” warned the armchair.
“That’s Ok, It’ll be the last time.”
The floor lamp sounded a note of caution, “What if you get caught?”
“Hey,” said the sofa, “I’m not worried about that. If I get caught, what are they going to do, reupholster me?”