Oh, this is a cruel town, and I can be an equally snitty columnist, sorry. You try growing up a fruit in Texas and get back to me. Until then, let’s dish up Pickled Fickle, shall we? See, Mr. F’s not in a great way these days. Career ain’t what it used to be, and his bedroom notches certainly aren’t what they used to tally up to, either. And take it from moi, all this mattress and life sadness has nothin’ to do with P.F.’s split with his honey recently. Ol’ P-man was certainly stepping out on his lady long before their recent bust up, I assure you. But like a lot of closeted stars in this town, P.F.got used to having it his way—meaning the gal and all the guys he wanted. Until…gravity and genes set in. And I’m not only talkin’ getting old here, hons, I’m talking the whole he-bang, as in the ever-awful three W’s: weight, wrinkles and wondering (as in what went wrong).
P.F.’s got those so big time right now—in fact, he’s very nearly delirious with the three W’s. He actually said to a pal whose shoulder he was crying on not long ago, “Maybe I should just go back to hooking.” Oh, darlin’. I dare say you’re in the category now where you have to dole out the green, babycakes. You been smokin’ somethin’ you picked up below the border? Damn, Sweets. Look in the friggin’ mirror.