For those of you who have better things to do with your lives than follow this nonsense, Anthony Weiner is a New York congressman who’s long had his sights on succeeding Michael Bloomberg as mayor of the crossroads of the world. Even before his current problems, this was unlikely to happen for a number of reasons, not the least of which being that New Yorkers aren’t likely to elect a “Mayor Weiner” anytime soon, regardless of his qualifications. His story is essentially a re-run: the dope sent questionable pictures (in this case a shot of his bulging undies, amongst other equally unappealing images) to some pretty young thing via Twitter. Were he single, it would be a laughable indiscretion; given that he’s married, it’s a one-way ticket to a career change. Goodbye politics, hello co-hosting with Eliot Spitzer on some basic cable station or other!
For the most part, I don’t really care about these sort of things. As with Clinton-Lewinsky-gate, if the dope in question is doing a good job with what he was elected to do, I say let him duke it out with his possibly-departing family in as humiliating a manner as possible but keep him in his gig. The only thing I ask of future dopes is to spare us the utterly bonkers excuses and get to the heart of the matter with some amount of humility and honesty. Weiner’s evasion was a doozy: he claimed that his Twitter account had been hacked and that the pictures had been sent without his authorization, but that he could not say with “certitude” whether or not the junk depicted was his. In other words, Weiner can’t identify his own wiener on sight. Sure, chief, whatever you say.
Just once, I’d like to hear this at the first press conference given by one of these putzes: “Yes, I sent the pictures. Yes, they were of my penis. Yes, I sent them to a woman who is not my wife. Well, why the hell do you think I did that? Jesus, are you friggin’ dense or something? Because I wanted to have sex with her, that’s why. Any more brilliant questions from the peanut gallery?”
It’ll never happen, but a lad can dream, can’t he?