Joe Francis creator of Girls Gone Wild is mighty nervous about a new tell-all book that makes a plethora of outrageous claims about the (censored) bosses lifestyle. One such story was released in the form of an excerpt from the book, FLASH! Bars, Boobs, and Busted: 5 Years on the Road with Girls Gone Wild. The books writer, Ryan Simkin, worked for Francis.
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In this timely release, Paris Hilton, Francis’ Ex girlfriend is mentioned in a way that adds a whole new dimension to drug smuggling…
[BEGIN EXCERPT] When it comes to Joe, once you’ve worked for him, you always kinda work for him—and he expects favors. So I was sitting on the couch watching TV in my living room, when I got a call from what appeared to be an international number. I don’t get those very often, but the caller ID displayed about sixteen numbers—and that was unusual. Typically I wouldn’t answer that kind of call, but whatever, I did. It was Joe.
He explained that he was in France and needed a big favor from me, something he couldn’t trust anyone else with. I was flattered and he knew it, so I was listening. At that time, he was in a real, grown up relationship with Paris Hilton. He said she was flying out to meet him in a few days and needed me to get something to her. In short, he needed me to go to my drug dealer and get him twenty hits of ecstasy and four 8-Balls of coke. For the uninitiated, an 8-Ball of coke is three and a half grams, or something that would fit in a small marble bag. Well, first he needed me to go to the office and get a check from Michael, the controller, for the money; then I needed to go buy the shit and get it to Paris before her flight. I asked how the hell she was going to get all of that out of the country on a plane, and he said not to worry about it, that she would handle it. For my trouble, he said he would buy me an 8-Ball of my own with the money. He gave me Paris’s number and said he would call in a few days to check in. He thanked me profusely and then we hung up. Looking back, I have no idea what kind of life I was leading where that type of phone call was normal. It didn’t even seem odd to agree to this type of favor with legal troubles still hanging over my head. Maybe it’s just really hard to get drugs in Western Europe. Or maybe this was a test—a test of my loyalty. Maybe he wasn’t even in France. Shit, I’m more paranoid now than I was then.
Anyway, I made plans to go see Michael about the money. Now here’s the great irony: Michael was not only the controller of the company, but he was also, wait for it, my drug dealer. Talk about cutting out the middle man. Actually, he wasn’t technically a drug dealer, he was my go-between to his guy, which was the only place I could think of to get ecstasy. Ironically, he was also the very same controller who, just months after this incident, wrote letters to the IRS trying to turn Joe in for tax evasion, which triggered the entire investigation that later sent Joe to jail for eleven months in Reno. But more of that later.
I checked in with Michael and made arrangements to grab everything from him later that week so I could meet Paris over the weekend before her flight on Monday. It was strange going back into the office after several weeks on my own, but it was kind of nice and familiar. I sat with Michael and we talked about this and that, the legal situation, and how Joe had no idea that Michael was my contact for drugs. The total cost, including my take, was $1200, and it all fit neatly into a Camel cigarette box. Crazy. He asked me where it was all going, and I told him I needed to get it to Paris; after that, I had no idea. When I brought it home, I unpacked the Camel box to check the contents. Man, that’s a lot of blow. So much blow that I didn’t think he would mind if I skimmed a little bit off of each 8-ball and added it to my bag. I figured if Joe noticed they were light he would just blame Paris, and I’d be nice and safe back in LA.
Paris and I exchanged phone calls on Friday and decided it was better to conduct our business Saturday. I told her we were having a big pool party at our house that day; she should stop by and grab everything, and should she feel the inclination, could hang out and party with us. She didn’t seem all that interested. At about 3pm on Saturday, we started trading phone calls to coordinate the pick-up. These went on almost every half hour. It was getting later and later, and it became obvious that this thing wasn’t happening. She wasn’t coming up, and I made it clear that I was going nowhere in my condition. She said she had a photo shoot for Seventeen Magazine the next day, and I should come down, hang out, and make the drop. I agreed, and we planned to touch base the next day.
I was hungover as all hell the next day and did not want to move. But I made a promise to Joe to deliver the drugs to Paris before she left for Europe, and I’m nothing if I’m not reliable. I enlisted my roommate to help me out, and he reluctantly agreed. She was down in Culver City at Smashbox studios, which was about a 40 minute drive for us. We sucked it up and made the drive. We pulled into the parking lot, and as we got out, we could see Paparazzi camped out across the street, just waiting for her to leave. We walked in, and she was right there, in mid photo shoot, wearing a nice little sun dress and holding her dog. I knew her from Mardi Gras and from seeing her out a couple times, so she waved at me when I walked in. When Paris waves at you during a photo shoot, all of the random flunkies in the room assume that you’re some VIP type; immediately, they rushed over to us, brought us drinks and food, complimented her, and told me how well the shoot was going. We watched for a few minutes, and then she needed to go to her dressing room for a wardrobe change. She walked off, then a woman came over and said Paris had asked that we go to her dressing room.
We walked in, and she was naked. She was waiting for her next dress or whatever, but had already taken off her old dress. For the record, I’m a big fan of that move. She asked me if it was any trouble getting it, and I told her not really. I took out the Camel box and handed it to her, and she thanked me. We talked for a minute or two about the apparent difficulty of procuring those drugs in Europe. I asked if she was flying private, and she said, “No, commercial.” And then as politely as I could, I asked her how she planned on traveling with that amount of blow and X. She held the box in her right hand, and then with an underhand swoop like a lower case J, she demonstrated exactly how she intended to beat airport security. She even whistled as she did it. A little alley-oop with the Camel Box, straight up her snatch. Classic. Right after that they came in with her next outfit, and she put it on. She said we could stay for a while and watch, but we were tired, and our work there was done. We hugged, said our goodbyes, and my roommate and I went back to the car to go home. I don’t think we said five words to each other the entire car ride. I spoke to Joe a couple weeks later. He thanked me again for the favor and said it all arrived safe.