Some Things Are Just Unfair

“Well, you've got me dancing in a figure of eight

Don't know if I'm coming or going

I'm early or late.

Round and round the ring I go

I want to know

I want to know:
Why can't we travel a continious line?

Make a love a reliable covenant all the time.

Up and down the hills I go

I got to knowI got to know.
Is it better to love one another

Than to go for a walk in the dark?

Is it better to love than to give in to hate?”

--Sir Paul McCartney from the song “Figure of Eight” from the album Flowers In The Dirt, 1990.

An Open Letter To Heather Mills (formerly) McCartney:

Dear Crazy Woman,

How dare you assume any money from Paul’s estate that he did not earn in your marriage. Trust me, by his last three relatively worthless albums, he did not earn 50 million dollars during your time together--let alone the 100 million he would have to have earned to give you half.

So you got some easy money. I mean, what the hell, roll over on your back and there you go.

And you have to admit, you have done nothing in your career to award that kind of money. I give you credit for a gutsy performance during dancing with the stars, but you were anything but elegant.

Oh how I wish you could explain to me the manner that you earned that money. Oh and I saw the internet pictures. Kind of boring if you want my opinion and they were a bit weak considering they are twenty years old. Nice 80's hair--and yes, you are a natural blonde.

You are so despicable, you make us Beatle fans think Yoko Ono really is not so bad after all.

So Gold-digger, rest assured that the world pretty much agrees with me that you are a free-loafing opportunist. You are also a mean-spirited wench who deserves nothing.

Plus, you have become quite ugly. I mean the outfit you wore in court? Did you make it yourself or find it on a discount rack at Wal-Mart. You look like a cheesy clown.

I give some (and I mean just some) of the blame to Paul for thinking with the wrong head.

Go home, Heather, count your money, but don’t bother counting your faults. You simply do not have enough digits to count them all. Oh, and take that last one any way you wish—because as mean as I may seem, you are a downright villain.

I have some lyrics for Paul’s next ballad about you. I wonder if he can come up with some words that describe you that rhyme with snitch, store, and bunt. I bet he can!