Wednesday, August 2, 2006

Sir Paul is Royally Fucked

I feel bad for Paul McCartney. I felt bad for the poor bastard ever since he chose to forgo a pre-nup and marry Heather Mills. Dumb.
 
Heather Mills may be missing a leg, but she is all bitch and a gold digger to boot. I doubt she ever loved Paul but was more enamored with the cash she could get out of the ex-Beatle. Such is the way of women.
 
I could understand Paul making this mistake. He was married for decades to Linda McCartney who turned out to be a great pick. A woman like her only comes along once in a lifetime. Paul didn't understand this.
 
So, where did McCartney fuck up? He fucked up the day he said, "I do." Call me jaded and cynical, but I think it is foolish for any man to get married. Marriage is a way for women to get their hands on money they didn't have to earn. And how do these bitches justify this? Because they think their pussies are worth a million dollars. Now, you understand why I have respect for prostitutes. They name their price at the beginning and generally deliver on the agreement and disappear.
 
I have no interest in ever getting married. Even the "happily" married tell me it sucks. Every day is a constant nag. Sex is non-existent. And there is a steady drumbeat for more and more money. Why would anyone sign up for this shit?
 
I admit that there are a few guys out there who fell into a great deal of luck when it comes to matrimony. I think Paul Newman hit the jackpot with Joanne Woodward. That's about as far as my list goes. I think any marriage that lasts ten years or longer is pretty damn good. But I can count one one hand the number of guys I know who made it that long.
 
As for myself, I am pretty damn lucky. I've gotten to 35 and remained a bachelor. I'm holding out for the rest of my life. There's plenty of sex out there, and I am honest with the ladies. Most of them are looking to hook a husband to pay for their sorry fucking asses, but I tell them from the outset that I'm not the marrying type. That doesn't keep them from trying. Plus, I can tell you that my success with women is directly proportional to the amount of money I'm making. Here's a handy formula:
 
probability of sex = cash on hand/current income/assets + financial need of the chick + number of children she has
 
I can't tell you how many women I've met who believe that their pussy control can overcome all. But it hasn't overcome me. And they all start out the same. They tell me how sweet I am and all that horseshit. Don't get me wrong. I'm a nice guy. I hold doors for women and do all the heavy lifting and all that shit. But there's a difference between being a Southern gentleman and being a sucker. I'm not a sucker. Once they find out I'm not a sucker who will marry their sorry asses, I immediately become a cruel heartless bastard. Sorry 'bout it.
 
The sorry sad truth of it all is that love is a crock of shit. Being in love is not any different than being hooked on cocaine. It's fun while it lasts, but like cocaine, you end up broke and brokenhearted. Look at Sir Paul. Those sad eyes will only get sadder.
 
So, how's a man supposed to live? The best thing to do is never get married. The second best thing to do is never move in together. And the third best thing to do is to never get in a relationship in the first place. The amount of grief you suffer will be directly proportional to the level of commitment. If Sir Paul had opted to shack up with Heather Mills, his troubles would be over now except for a child support payment. This would be no problem for a man of his means.
 
My advice for McCartney is to get a good lawyer. Divorce is expensive, but that's because it is worth it.
 

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