So Mayor Bob Filner finally resigned. What a bummer. I kind of enjoyed hearing all those creepy, goofy, molester-nerd stories as they became public: the clumsy pickup lines, the touchy-gropey shenanigans, the curious headlocks—all of which were so cartoonishly over-the-top that it made Pepé Le Pew seem as lecherous as a chemically castrated Quaker Reverend.

Comedy potential notwithstanding, I do agree that Filner was unfit to be mayor of a major U.S. municipality, although my reasons might differ from yours.

I mean, yes, what he (allegedly) did was an affront to womankind. If he loses in court, not only should he be required to fork over a shit-ton of dough, but they should also go all A Clockwork Orange on his ass: Clamp his eyes open, inject him with a nausea-inducing serum and make him watch the city's sexual-harassment-awareness video, "Chicks Don't Dig Headlocks, Dickhead!" over and over until he's cured.

However, the fact that he is (allegedly) a creepy, goofy, molester-nerd is not the reason I believe him to be unfit for office. Rather, it's because—as a card-carrying creepy, goofy molester-nerd—he didn't recognize that he had one of the greatest jobs a creepy, goofy molester-nerd could have. 

I mean, dude was the mayor of the eighth largest city in America. Mayor! This is a job of power, celebrity and riches. All the mayor of a major American municipality has to do to get a little sumtin-sumtin is keep his goddamn hands in his goddamn pockets, shut his goddamn dork-hole and let the ladies flock to him.

How stupid do you have to be to not know that? Well, it's either stupidity that made him act that way or he's got one of those oversized gonads that pumps out testosterone the way La Jolla High School pumps out rapey, yuppie, trust-fund frat boys. But it can't be a high testosterone count. Filner is 70 years old. Ain't nothing coming out of his gonads but rust and wet sand. Which makes me wonder: If he's (allegedly) this horny at 70, what was he like in his early 20s, when hormones gushed out of every orifice like Viagra Falls and his perma-boner didn't know the difference between a woman or a farm animal? He must have put his clammy paws on every female within bleating distance.

You know how it is. Inside every male, from puberty to death, an epic war wages. It is a war between a man's brain and his testosterone level. Now, from puberty through our early 20s, it's not much of a battle. It's more like servitude as each one of us is dragged around by our phallus as if it were an alien-lizard slave master leading us empty-eyed on a leash and leg chains from one salt mine to the next.

In our 30s, as the testosterone begins to drop, the brain has a fighting chance, and we actually begin to rise up against our phallus-lizard overlords. In our 50s and 60s, we pretty much have won our lives back, and, in our 70s, the war is but a distant memory. Yet somehow—decimated as Filner's testosterone count must (allegedly) be by now, his brain cells still aren't strong enough to beat back his nearly nonexistent testosterone.

For instance, when he was about to (allegedly) put Stacy McKenzie in a headlock and (allegedly) rub her breasts, did he think, Hmm, could this be a bad idea? What if it doesn't go over so well?  What if it costs me my job? Crap! I can't lose this job because having it is the best chance I've got at satisfying my insatiable libido. 

Or did he think, Ah, no problem. Chicks dig headlocks.

The man was too stupid to realize one of the most basic laws of mating: Chicks dig mayors! They have to. It's the law! And if it weren't the law, you're the mayor, so you can make it the law!

I mean, OK, if you're the bürgermeister of Bakersfield, then you probably will have to work at getting laid. But mayor of San Diego? With the San Diego Zoo and SeaWorld and the two—count 'em, two—amazingly mediocre professional sports franchises? Are you kidding me? Even the city comptroller gets more jiggy than he'd ever dreamed.

All Filner had to do was sit in his honeysuckle-soaked Mayor's office and wait for hummingbirds to fly to him. Had he done that, his life would have been a veritable series of Penthouse Letters: 

Dear Penthouse, I never thought this could happen to me, but a woman came into my office today to ask that I alter the appendices of the Land Development Manual to tighten up zoning codes for sustainable re-vegetation and erosion control in the numbers 14, 15 and 18 blocks on the zoning grid map. I told her I would look into it and she unbuttoned her blouse and said, "Look into this Filney, baby"—boom chika, wow-wow!

The point is, if he'd just exhibited a little restraint, he'd have gotten all the she-yrup his little sex-addict heart could handle. Alas, he did not, and now he's doomed to be known not as a major political player, but as that creepy, goofy old guy who waits on his porch for the mail lady so he can hold her hand and talk her ear off.

So, goodbye, Bob Filner—I mean it sincerely when I say that I hope you get some help, turn your life around and get your own talk show. If Hedgecock can do it, anyone can.

Write to ed@sdcitybeat.com and editor@sdcitybeat.com. Edwin Decker blogs at www.edwindecker.com. Follow him on Twitter @edwindecker or find him on Facebook.

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