Oh, that Jiggly Wiggle-Poof sure is a talented girlfriend! Sure enough, just as I winked a few weeks ago, our parking-lot Lothario, Toothy Tile, is becoming sickeningly domesticated with his sweet, if not chastising, b-f, so we can't look to Mr. T. for our naughty-time tuchus terrorizing—at least, not right now. But one can hope, right?
Meantime, the pooftah-outta-control award goes to the hugely untalented Mistah Wiggle-Poof. I mean, if this joker actually put into his career the dastardly effed-up scheming he applies to his loin activities, the dude would have an Emmy in less time than it takes to trim his scrotum so expertly.
Speaking of balls, guess where Jiggly's been putting his little ones? Are you ready for the shocker o' the week? J.W.-P.'s been screwing not just elder, almost homely geezers (no, not me, you bitchy snitchies) but...a woman. Quelle horreur!
Hey, not that there's anything wrong with nooky involving the female sex (I think it's simply adorable, used to do it plenty!), it's just that I happen to be hyperaware Mr. W.-P.'s not inclined that way—at all.
Apparently, said woman who got boffed by J.W.-P. knows it was for appearance's sake, as it were, 'cause when I asked her how J.W.-P.'s performance was, she answered:
"Any good?" I pressed.
"Well, I was," she replied, deadpan. "But I think he kept looking for something between my legs that wasn't there."
Hmmm. Nasty. Did Jiggle think the number to People's editorial office was tucked away in this poor babe's privates?