Money Really CAN Buy Happiness--Or At Least Me

Generally I try to steer clear of celebrity gossip and public events. I figure that there are already so many blogs and websites out there covering this sort of thing that there’s absolutely nothing left to say. Besides, celebrity watching is right up there with bleach drinking as far as stimulating intelligent thought.

A few years ago, my friend and I came up with an idea for a business called We Stalk the Paparazzi. Essentially, the concept was that we (with the aid of some top-notch first amendment and trial attorneys) make the private lives of selected paparazzi members a complete hell. For the prize of a few grand a week, we put a van of men on these guys: rummaging through their trash, taking high-powered photos, bursting in on private dinners with inappropriate questions, the works. Hell for a little extra, we’d even distribute handbills and pamphlets to their neighbors on the gossip, rumors, and unconfirmed stories of their lives.

I still think that the idea would be interesting. However, I can’t imagine the level of self-hatred it must take to turn a person into a member of the paparazzi. I do know that these people must be out of their minds, and sketchy enough that I wouldn’t really want to get engaged in a semi-legal invasion of privacy war. Also, I don’t own a van.

At any rate, at the end of last week, Paul McCartney announced that he and his wife were separating. This is the same woman that he married about twenty minutes after Linda died of cancer.

I know, celebrity divorces are about as shocking as the release of another Pam Anderson sex video (seriously Pam, you've already had like three of them stolen and released. Can you stop pretending to be amazed? I want you copy this sentence 50 times: "I will not bang washed up 80's rock stars within 75 feet of a camcorder.") But what caught my eye about this is that there was no pre-nuptial agreement. According to what I’ve read, Sir Paul is valued at about 1.5 Billion dollars. You realize what this means, right? This makes Sir Paul’s ex-wife, Heather Mills McCartney, the most expensive piece of ass since Helen of Troy. Maybe more. I’m telling you this: the war against Troy didn’t run three quarters of a billion dollars.

They were married for a grand total of four years. Let’s break down some of that math, shall we?

That’s $187.5 Million a year
That’s just over $15 Million a month.
That’s about $3.6 Million a week.
That’s about $515,100 a day.

He’s 64, so how often do you figure they had sex? Could we call him lucky if he was getting it once every two days? I figure even that's a little optimistic. And not just because he's old. He’s a national treasure with public appearances and protests to attend and she’s a working model. Shall we say it averaged out to about once every three days? That would work out to over $1.5 million a fuck. For what he was paying I hope he got anal. Because it’d be a shame if he was the only one in the relationship that got ass-fucked.

The irony of this whole affair is that when Ms. Heather Mills McCartney remarries in, of I’d say, the next 15 seconds, you’re damn sure that SHE’S going to have a prenupt. They’re going to have to pry her eighth of the Beatles from her cold, diamond-encrusted fingers. Paul, your marriage may well go down as the most idiotic thing EVER. Really, what the fuck were you thinking? First you sell your music to Michael Jackson and now this???

Lest I seem unsympathetic to the only living contributing member of the greatest band in history (yes that was a slam at you, Ringo), let me just say this:

“Paul, I’m deeply sorry for your loss. In fact, I’d like the chance to show you how sorry I really am. Let me comfort you as only a man knows how. That’s right, I love you. And when we’re making sweet, hot tongue love for the first time, you’ll forget all about that harlot! It’s high time you find out how true your songs was: happiness really IS a warm gun.”

I knew England legalized gay-marriage for a reason.

I’m not really homosexual. But for 187 mill a year, I’d learn. Hell, for that price I’d adopt a British accent, wear a thong, and act like John Lennon was a hack for no extra charge. And don’t even act like I’m alone. I’ve seen videos of women screwing horses. I’ve no idea what it cost to get those chicks to do that…but I guarantee it wasn’t six figures.

Besides, I work for corporate America. I’m already getting paid to be shit on and take it up the ass. I’m really just a bad moustache and a pair of chaps away from being a gay-prostitute. And in the end, isn’t that what marriage is really about?