Following the incomparable commercial and critical success of 'Dear Cum - The Fools' I have been inundated with letters requesting that I publish the complete April Fool letter. Who would have thought that the adventures of a virgin, perky, pokie, bouncy, sixteen-year-old debutante would be quite so popular? And everyone seemed very excited about that family-favourite game, 'insects', that she was going to be playing. So it will come as a huge disappointment that this week's letter is from Miss Jiggly Tits, a minor character who briefly appeared in the smash hit 'Dear Cum - Big Bugger'. 

Though whilst we're here, and because the letter is certain to be interminably dreary, what is it with 'insects'? Or come to think of it, wife swapping? 

Now I love 'Wife Swap USA' as much as the next saddo, though I do feel they should be using real people rather than actors pretending to be wild-eyed, brain-damaged, cunty-wipes, but I've spent a good few years training my spouse in his responsibilities so why would I want to exchange him for some grunting Neanderthal even if they're guaranteed to have a cock bigger than an Evergreen Marine container ship. Now if there was a catalogue, or perhaps a butler to present you with a catalogue, that might be a bit different. 

"And what will Madame's pleasure be today?" 

"Rogers (butlers are always called Rogers because they're jolly rogerers, and if you don't believe me ask Cunty the maid), Madame is in the mood for something in the bronzed continental range. Perhaps something Italian, all sultry sensuality, with sleek lines and sharp suits. Something with the silky smoothness of a cappuccino, the tangy vitality of a Limoncello, and the gluttonous hedonism of a visit to the gelateria."

"How about this one, Madame? I believe he might meet your requirements this evening". 

"Yes, Rogers, I do believe you might be right. That is just what Madame requires. Have him delivered to my boudoir after dinner, would you?"

Yes, I think that would do very nicely indeed. 

Which means we've reached the point in this excruciating excrement where I have say 'to the letter' but I'm not going to, no I'm not. I refuse, point-blank and point-blank with tassels on. I'm going to do this instead:

All you girlies remove your kits

Spread your thighs, expose your slits

Lustful fingers on engorged clits

Because here she is Miss Jiggly Tits

Boys untrouser your squidgy bits 

Time for a quick hand shank blitz

Welcome her with a cummy spritz

The one and only Miss Jiggly Tits

Dear Cum-Twat,

You fucking bitch! I had Big Bugger all set up, trussed, and ready for the kill when you stuck your big fat ass-licking tongue into my business. He was going to visit me in the park, bringing the moolah, and we were going to hold hands until the nearness of him made me feel faint and I needed to go home and lie down. After which he’d never see me again, the little dink.

Now he won’t believe my carefully prepared story about my ailing auntie that needs expensive medicines, and I may have to actually fuck the sucker, if I can find his prick, that is. At least, as it used to be, it wouldn’t have been much of a sacrifice. As my sister, Tina Twattie, once said when fondling a not-so-well-endowed vicar for the week’s take, “Well, this won’t be much of a sin!”

But, OH NO! You have to cum up with yet another of your patented sicko quack remedies for his tiny twinkie. You’re such a quack I’m surprised you don’t waddle like a fucking duck! You and your so-called advice column for that sleazy, ass-wipe, pre-pubescent, pubic-ation!

And as for your meat-tenderizing tendencies – maybe that’s how you get your jollies, having some no-life stick a waffle up your wimple, but how the hell am I going to convince him that I like it! I’m as likely to barf as moan! Did you ever think of that while you were squirting all over my plans, you Awfully English Cunt?

But as long as I’m here, maybe you can help me with a problem I’m having. I had big-time, breast augmentation surgery about three months ago, and my back is fuckin’ killing me! I’ve been thinking of investing in a small wheelbarrow to carry them around and take the strain off, but somehow that tends to be a real buzz-kill when I’m out with all my then-current suckers – I mean, sweeties. You’re in the swindle game. Do you have any ideas of how I can hold my head up, along with the rest of me, with these watermelons hanging off my chin?

Watch your ass, you fucking prima dorka!

Love and kisses,

Miss Jiggley-Tits III

Some saddos have such paltry little lives, and I think we can all agree that it was hardly worth the wonderful poetic build-up I gave it. But, seeing as I'm such an empathetic and kind-hearted person (empathy again, Janine, I'm a fucking fountain of fucking empathy is what I am) I'll do my best to bring a sprinkling of dubloons and dollars, glitter and sequins to her tawdry existence. 

Dear Jiggy,

I know what you're trying to do. I know you're trying to make me envious of the magnificence of your mammary glands, to spiral into a tirade of self-condemnation, to bemoan my bee-stung breasts, to remember all the denigration and abuse I've received throughout my life, the comparisons to Flanders fields and prairie plains, the itty-bitty-tiny-titty catcalls, but it's not going to work. I'm not going to play your game. Besides, they were as nothing compared to the 'ginger minger' or 'ginge minge' name-calling of my teenage years, and I'm definitely not going to relive that incident on the playing field in the fifth year when I was held down and stripped naked so the entire class could confirm that I had matching collar and cuffs, or as Philip Wetherby put it "her fucking twat is uglier than her fucking face". Anyway, I am a happily, reasonably contented, sexually frustrated married woman and these tears are due to the exceptionally high tree pollen count and have nothing to do with anything you might have said. 

So don't come around here moaning about a few aches and pains just because you've got a pair of tits like giant, helium-filled, party balloons. It's just nature's way of telling you to adjust your posture. What are you doing standing upright anyway? Sluts like you can always earn more on their backs or crawling around on all fours. Let's be honest here, your only real purpose is as a cock-sleeve-for-hire, a set of warm, wet, willing holes for blokey blokes to masturbate into whilst enjoying the sight of your jiggly jugs flopping and bouncing like a pair of space hoppers, as you clutch all that mucky moolah between your grasping fingers. Okay, maybe you've got a use as a soapy tit fuck; though given that you're almost certainly a really sweaty bitch I'd be surprised if you need much soaping. Just flash a bitcoin before your eyes and watch your lustful avarice ooze out of your unsightly, monstrous, melons, like crude oil escaping a petroleum seep. Though I'm sure your oversized, veiny, fun-bags look much nicer covered in crude oil. Plenty of money to be made in crude oil I've heard. 

But enough of this idle chit-chat. 

I must say how lovely it is that we're now grifter chums. I'm having a bit of a get-together in my garden on Sunday, a Garden Party if you'd prefer, and you're very welcome to come. They'll be plenty of suck-able saddos in attendance for you to work your hackneyed hustle upon; besides, there's nothing they enjoy more than something bouncy to jump up and down on. Also, April Fool has promised to cum, so if you fancy a nibble on her tender, post-pubescent, perky, flesh then just tell her you're some distant step-cousin twice removed.

It's what I intend to do.

TTFN you saggy, silicone-stuffed, swindling, skunk-slit. 

Cum Girl (Mrs)