I'm a big admirer of the journalism over at stuff.co.nz, a quality publication by any measure. I was shocked to read that Heather Mills is trying to get into my pants pocket. The pocket where I keep my wallet. My big, thick wallet. You can see the bulge from across a room. It's enormous. It really is. Huge.

You see, I hired Heather to judge my Miss USA pageant. Miss USA isn't just about having a pretty face and a great body. It's also about using that pretty face and great body to get rich. Ms. Mills was a natural choice for the part. We did have dinner the other night because she invited me and, let's be honest, free food.

But Heather, I have to tell you -- I just didn't feel it. Something was missing between us. No, it wasn't the leg -- The Donald can get freaky. I'm already married, of course, but it wasn't that either.

Anyway, I'm moving on. My assisant tells me I just received another dinner invitation, this time from a Heatherovna Millsovich. She sounds wonderful already.

(Photo credit: Associated Press)