This old vagrant dude in the old neighborhood, Bucks McGee, once invited me back to his lean-to for a little whiskey and some conversation. I was kind of leery of heading back with Bucks to his alley abode, but, I was eleven, and my modern dance class had been canceled, so I figured what the heck. After a couple tosses back of some bourbon from a disturbingly saliva encrusted flask, Bucks told me that that key to a happy life, one which had eluded him so dearly, was to stay away from pretty dames. Hearing a man use the word 'dames' in a serious sentence was worth the risk of being a pre-pubescent boy sipping booze out of a dirty snifter alone with a man with a long and sordid prison record.
Bucks told me that the pangs I'd feel in my loins for the lovely ladies was just a prelude to the real pain that was coming. He was a poet. A poet who died all too young, later that year in fact from consuming recalled cantaloupe. Life can kick you in the pants like that.
Which leads me to Heather Mills. Okay, so maybe Heather Mills financially raped Macca for fifty mill in a nasty divorce settlement, but, today, she's giving back to the entire world with some racy mountain top ski pictures that give a glimpse into the bad decision tree world of Paul McCartney. She is pretty damn kind of hot, and wearing that skimpy bathing suit on the slopes, her long sexy leg, you can start to see where the bad decisions come from. Enjoy.