Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles. If I did, none of them would've married.

Okay, so. Le summary:

Paul had always been the most popular of the four, at least with the ladies and possibly some queer men as well (they were never quite sure). Ringo wasn't unpopular, so to speak, just the least popular out of the four. This was fine, it was just how it was. But what happens when Ringo accidentally does something to upset that balance? How will Paul react to being left in the shadow of his formerly unpopular band-mate? Will John get really pissed off at Ringo for taking Macca's spotlight? Will George be okay when Ringo starts to let it get to his head? Will Ringo let it get to his head? To find out, read all about "The Funky Mishap"!

P.S. This probably won't be the most historically accurate fic out there. Just bear with me, folks.

P.P.S. This has lots of Ringo bashing, but honestly, folks, I love Ringo. He's my fave, so I'm really just pointing out the unjustness of people ignoring him, right? Right.

P.P.P.S This isn't meant to be slash, but I ship McLennon and Starrison so be warned. It might come out unexpectedly.

Third Person POV:

It was a clear Saturday evening in May, 1964, and New York was still on a high as the Beatles finished their concert for the night. Bending over in their customary bow, the four young men trudged off the stage carrying their respective instruments. Or, in Ringo's case, his drumsticks, as it was rather hard to carry a whole drum set by yourself. Anyway, we follow the boys down some stairs, around a corner, into a car, and then after a while, into a hotel room. We see the tallest young man set his bass down in a stand near a corner of the room, then plop down unceremoniously onto the springy couch, his butt flying off the seat momentarily. Next we see the auburn-haired man, who wasn't really that tall but just carried himself that way, lean his guitar against the wall, then plop down on that previously mentioned couch next to the other young man. The young man with the dark, bushy eyebrows (or should I say 'brow') set his guitar lovingly in its stand, then went over and sat in one of the armchairs near the telly. The Beatles, in all their young-attractive-boy-band-glory, are sitting right – wait a minute! We forgot someone? But who? Oh, yes, Ringo. The shortest Beatle, the one with the frickin' huge nose, and the slightly over-sized mouth that wasn't too attractive for kissing purposes, as well as those dopey little sad-puppy-dog blue eyes that were admittedly adorable. He set his drumsticks over on one of the counters, then sat down in the other armchair. Now, young reader, what might those four young lads be doing? Let's see, shall we?

Ringo looks at his hands with a sort of melancholy fascination.

"I've got blisters on me fingers."

John looks up from where he was staring at Paul's long, girly lashes towards Ringo, who he gives a little grin to.

"Aye, 've you been wankin' off too much, there, sonny?"

Ringo scowls a little at John, but he's smiling, too. Paul chuckles lightly. George had pulled a sandwich out of his pocket and was munching on it quietly, not really paying attention to the conversation.

John turns back to Paul, who was staring off into the distance.

"Eh, Paulie? How'd you get your lashes to be so long and curled like? I've 'eard birds use curlers. D'you got a lash curler, Paul?" John asks with a touch of incredulity towards the end.

Paul smiles flirtatiously at John and bats his eyelashes exaggeratedly.

"Oh, Johnny, you've figured me out! I'm busted now, I am. What'm I to tell the reporters when they ask me about lash-curling techniques?"

"You could always tell 'em that Johnny-boy 'ere has been curlin' 'em for ya," Ringo says with a smirk. This then causes George, who had been on his way to get another bite of his sandwich, to splutter and cough up crumbs trying not to laugh.

"Christ, Geo, I know I'm funny but I'm not anythin' to go chokin' yerself on!" Ringo gets up and starts thumping George on the back, causing his choke-laughs to cease.

Just then, a knock came on the door. John got up, peered through the peep-hole, as was necessary when you're famous and creepy fangirl stalkers will come to your room, then opened up the door, seeing as it was a fan-mail delivery man.

"Eh, lads, the mail's 'ere!"

Paul, George, and Ringo made their way towards the doorway to collect their respective fan-mail bags.

"Uh, this one's for George, this one here for John, this's Ringo, now this one's fer Paul," the delivery man rattled off as he handed the bags off to each Beatle.

Finding seats on the floor that were fairly spaced out from each other, all of them dumped their bags upside down. Paul and John had the most, but Paul had just a bit more. George had about ¾ of theirs, and Ringo had about half of George's.

Paul reached down and picked the top one off of the pile, one smelling strongly of something flowery that had a 99.9% chance of being some bird's perfume. Sniffing lightly, he ripped open the envelope, stuck his hand inside, and gave a little yelp, blushing slightly.

"Oi! Me letter's got a pair o' knickers in it!" He cried incredulously, pulling the pink, lacy thing out with a mixture of fascination, awe, and disgust, as his face slowly turned the shade of the underwear he was holding.

John looked up at him, "It's not anythin' to go shoutin' about, Paulie, it's 'appened before."

"Yeah, but, I think this pair's been used!" He said that last word with about as much disgust as he could put into a single word, scrunching his cute face that all the fans adored into a mask of repulsion.

Paul then dropped the undergarment onto the floor and scooted away from it slightly as if he expected it to move.

John opened a letter from somewhere on the side of his pile. It had little pink hearts drawn all over the envelope and what looked like a lipstick kiss over the sealed part (whatever that's called). Opening it, he read aloud in his high, girly voice: "Dear John, I love you! I want you to get rid of that Cynthia and come with me! You're soooo handsome and manly [Paul snorted at this] and I just can't wait to see you again! Do you remember me? Of course you do, you silly little thing. I was at that concert of yours on April 15th, don't you remember? I'm the blonde with that hot pink dress on. Oh, and I'm 12 [Ringo then proceeded to choke on thin air], but that won't make much difference when you're 50 and I'm 39, will it? I love you, Johnny! Kiss, kiss, kiss, signed Elizabeth Parker, soon to be Lennon."

John, grinning in amusement, tossed the letter to the side and picked up a new one with a flourish.

George opened a letter, read it silently, eyes widening significantly, then handed it wordlessly to John, quickly turning a bright shade of scarlet.

"Ahem," John started reading the letter. "Dear Georgie-poo, I love you! I know you, but you don't know me...yet! I know we were destined for each other—eh, George, this's nothin' to go all pink over, son, you should see the stuff Paulie 'ere's dealin' with."

John looked pointedly at the still-pink Paul, trying to ignore the lacy knickers on the floor, then looked skeptically at George, one eyebrow raised. George blushed a little deeper and said tightly, "Keep reading."

John rolled his eyes and continued.

"I've already planned out our wedding, and the night afterwards. Are you a big boy, little Georgie? I should hope so, because I'm quite experienced in these matters, IF you know what I mean. What I'm trying to say is, I'm an older woman. I turn 73 on the 18th of August, but I just get so turned on by that husky little voice of yours. We should be together FOREVER, Georgie-poo! Lot's of love, Your Cougar, Rachel."

There was a moment of silence and then the three Beatles started laughing hysterically as George continued to blush furiously.

"Oh, lay off, would ya?" he grumbled, looking at the floor. "Ritchie's probably got some queer bloke chasin' after 'im, with the nose he's got. Why don't you read one of his?"

"Oi!" Ringo quit laughing to mock-glare at George. "Me neb's not that big. And anyroad, the queers are probably all chasin' after Paulie, what with his girlishness and those damn lashes."

"I am not girlish!" Paul squeaked indignantly.

"Yes, lad, yes you are," John added, smirking at Paul.

There was a tense moment as John smirked at Paul and Paul glared at John. Ringo looked to George and George looked to Ringo.

"So!" Ringo said brightly, with a huge smile plastered on his face. "Why don't we see what I've got, shall we?"

Paul and John reluctantly tore their gazes away from each other to look towards Ringo, who had opened up a letter and had begun reading it.

"Dearest Ringo, I'm quite a big fan of yours and I had to ask about your nose! [George chuckled lightly] Why is it so big? When you sneeze, does it rattle windows? Do you snore? I have a rather large nose (for a lass, that is) so I know what it's like when your nose doesn't behave. Yours Sincerely, Your Large Nebbed Fan, Rhonda Livingston."

Ringo huffed and tossed the letter to the side.

"All about me nose, that's all they want to hear. Your nose is this, your nose is that, can't they just feckin' let it be?"

"Jesus, Rings, never seen you so worked up over a letter," Paul looked over with raised eyebrows at the sulking little drummer.

"It's not just this one, it's all of 'em! All since that bloody interview! All I said was that my nose was rather nice, being so unique and all, but then these bleedin' fans take it the wrong way! They think I love me nose, that I cherish it with each heartbeat or summit, and they keep tellin' me off about it. I don't think I can take it anymore; me fans 'ave turn'd to me mum!"

John, Paul, and George then looked at each other as Ringo sat fuming silently.

"Well," George started. "I'm sure they're not all about yer neb, eh? Like this one 'ere, it looks all official like, I doubt it's be about yer nose." George picked up a red envelope, opened it, and started to read it aloud to Ringo, who's expression had softened just slightly.

"Dear Mr. Starkey – well, isn't that official – it has come to my attention that your fans are lacking interest in you. That is, fans of The Beatles are hardly ever Ringo fans. They don't like your height, they don't like your nose, and they hate your singing voice." George cringed a bit at the insults he was reading to his friend, who's expression had darkened considerably. "We, however, have developed a plan to help that. We think that if we turned some Paul fans into Ringo fans, that it would balance the scales a bit -"

"Oi! They're not doin' nuthin' to me fans, they aren't! I care about 'em, I do, Ringo can't 'ave 'em all-"

"Paul, shut it," John interjected. He motioned for George to continue.

"Um, it would balance the scales a bit, and help with merchandising as well. All you would have to do is contact us at 1-800-746-4678 or at 200 West Drumlin Avenue, London. Sincerely, A Friend."

Ringo was now smiling very, very lightly, only a hint of it was visible around the corners of his mouth.

"Huh," he said, with a strange glint in his eye. "That's summit."

"Oh, I'll tell THEM summit! They can't just mess about with me fans, like! I've got rights! I've got FANS for cryin' out loud! I can't be forgotten just because nobody likes Ringo!" Paul ranted on relentlessly.

"I like Ringo," George said quietly, though it wasn't missed by Ringo, who smiled at him.

John then tried to intervene and stop Paul's incessant ranting, to no avail. George got himself a sandwich (again), and Ringo was left to ponder that letter. How far would he go to be liked?

Note From Author: Well, how is it? Honestly, I loved writing the fan-mail, though I feel I could've done better. Should I continue? Should I leave it? Any suggestions? Please review, even as a guest.

Yours Sincerely,

Mo