Volume 3 #29 May 28, 2006 So, Paul, (McCartney. For those of you who just came down with the last shower) is the centre celeb starring in the latest high profile "Bill of Divorcement" controversy. As it is related by the over-the-top avaricious Brit press/ courtesy Princess Diana infused form of "Journalism". In other words: SuperFabalistic Tabloidism. I think Sir Paulie was quick to hang up his grief ridden duds over Linda. (a.k.a. the first Mrs. Step) and unfold his bedroom eyes closet to "Self Proclaimed Model" Heather MIlls. Now, he is fast becoming the slothful whenever it happens and how many Pounds Sterling lighter divorce. 'Ang on...'Ang on... 'Ang on. Speaking of high profile union's end. Let's trip back to the "I want to be Queen NOW, Charles." Di for a Stratford-on-Avon sec. Excuse me. But I can't let loose of this. Face it. Her shoe size was larger than her I.Q! I give her credit for visiting Aids patients and graciously shaking their hands. But physical beauty-- NOT! That nose could secure her a prominent, proboscuis position in the Tom Cruise Hall of Ego shnozes! I am sorry she is dead. But to blame the Paparazzi? No! She courted them with gluttonous glee. The fluff to the hair as she glanced over her shoulder and begged for their salacious snaps. Oops! I think I got derailed on the "Royality Underground". Back to the crumbling Paulie Palace. Lack of a prenup. Not surprising. He's a decent sort. He luvs Olde English Sheep Dogs and runs a mob of sheep on his Scottish ranch. So, how many lambs will Heather shear him for? Only the Brit brayers and the English barristers know. Take heart, Dear Paulie. Your next legal lockup has already been plotted. According to my best friend, I am to be the Matron of Honour dressed in mint green. You are the catch of the century. Be prepared to bleat out your "I do" whilst the ink is barely dry on your "I don't"!