“Politicians got lipstick on the collar, the whole media startin' to holler. But I don't give a fuck who they screwin' in private. I wanna know who they screwin' in public. Robbin', cheatin', stealin', white collar criminal, McDonald eatin'. You deserve a beatin'. Send you home weepin', with a fat bill for your Caribbean weekend.” —Michael Franti
Oy vey. Has it been the season for awful behavior or what? Granted, it's a numbingly long season, dating (at least) all the way back to “It depends on what the definition of is is,” continuing with “I did nothing wrong at the Minneapolis airport,” and heading right on past “I don't know if that picture is me. It could well be. It looks like me. I don't know who that baby is. I have no idea what that picture is,” and directly into “I told my wife about this event, which occurred over a decade ago.”
Blech. It leaves a taste in the mouth more unpleasant than semen, doesn't it?
Last week, John Edwards was indicted on a number of counts, none of which include being an anal goiter, which isn't illegal. Unfortunately for Dominique Strauss-Kahn, sexually assaulting maids is illegal. Luckily for Dominique Strauss-Kahn, when you're a rich white dude, you get to live in a $50,000-a-month townhouse while you await trial. Somehow I doubt Herman Cain would enjoy such privilege under the same circumstances.
Capping off the recent spate of Ewwww, gross! by lots of powerful men was a tweeted photo of Rep. Anthony Weiner's semi-erect-in-boxer-briefs wiener. Or, his purported wiener, anyway—before coming clean, he said he wasn't sure if the protruding penis was his, which makes perfect sense to me, since I have absolutely no idea if my naked pictures of me are me.
I immediately attributed the partial peen to James O'Keefe or Andrew Breitbart, purely as a coping mechanism. What public narcissist—er, servant—would be so obtuse as to take naked self-portraits in the current climate? Note to future egomaniacal leaders: Don't let your fetish photos fall into the wrong hands.In the days leading up to his admission, Weiner said he was hiring his own investigative team. It's a tack that worked out well for the Catholic Church recently when its own investigation into sexual abuse by priests finally cleared up the whole mishegoss. It's all in the past now, they say. And it wasn't celibacy that made 'em do it, neither. It was the '60s. All that goddamned bra-burning free love had repercussions, people.
Mmm-hmm. And Eddie Murphy was just giving the transvestite hooker a ride home.
Prior to Weiner's pathetic confession (and bare-chested screen shots), CNN's Piers Mor gan launched his own investigation into Cock Shot 2011 by consulting, via phone, with Rudy Giuliani, a leading expert on Ewwww, gross!
The former mayor of New York—notorious for a moral turpitude desperately out of sync with the family-values mantra of his party—should have recused himself. That would have been classy. But Giuliani is klassy and instead offered a breathless condemnation of Weiner; his exasperation must have left righteous spittle all over his Blackberry.
Klassier still was Giuliani's response to Morgan's next line of questions, which focused on whether New Jersey Gov. Chris Christie's use of state police helicopters to get to his kid's baseball games was also inappropriate. (Christie has since written a personal check as reimbursement. A true mensch, that one.)
Giuliani had no problem with Christie using taxpayer money this way. Yet, his opposing opinions on the two sets of circumstances revealed the size of his moral yard stick, if you know what I'm sayin', and I think we've all seen just about enough of that.
Christie had to get to the games, he said. It's clear Christie is a devoted family man, he said. The helicopter was going to be up there in the air anyway, he said. Well played, Rudy. Well played.
Unfortunately, Morgan missed a chance to remind viewers that this mini-Newt Gingrich— who was fucking his communications director before he was fucking Judith Nathan, all while married to Donna Hannover, whom he was fucking while married to his first wife—used lots of taxpayer money to visit his mistress (which one, I'm not exactly sure). Also not included as a credibility asterisk is the fact that Giuliani's then-lover, now-third wife, began getting city-provided chauffeur services from the NYPD well before he admitted to his affair.
But, hey, Giuliani didn't take phone pics of his penie and send them across the internet (that we know of). He didn't have a love child with an employee (that we know of). And something I bet he'd consider evidence of his upstanding character: He didn't sexually assault any maids (that we know of). Bonus point for him!
Obviously, there is a difference between a rapist and your everyday despicable prick. But the news is ugly enough to make Octomom's new bikini pictures look hot, and that's saying something. Have you seen them yet? She's all chiseled, tucked, pulled, plumped and Botoxed within an inch of where her hymen used to be, wearing an animal-print bikini and kneel-squatting in ocean foam like she's trying to alleviate a months-long bout of constipation. She's holding her hair up with one hand, and, with the other, she's dragging what I can only presume is a brown, soggy burp cloth. It's not sexy. It's horrifying.
But it's better than the likes of Giuliani pretending he has any moral authority whatsoever. And it's way better than these self-enamored, impervious fucksticks flashing their fuck sticks all about town and thinking they aren't going to get caught.