With the re-emergence of the ineffable Anthony Weiner — all the pathologies and neuroses of contemporary New York City wrapped up in one tight but unimpressive package – another round of good ribald fun has begun. This New York Times editorial may help convince the former congressman that his run for the mayoralty is impotent, but performance anxiety seems to be the least of the man’s problems. Snarling and vicious when on the attack against conservatives and Republicans, yet cringing and whingeing when begging for sympathy, Weiner should be the poster boy for the Democratic party: either at your throat or at your feet, to paraphrase Churchill.
So, in the spirit of the Big Tone’s new revelations, this oldie but goodie, recounting the epic cry for help from Weiner to some idiot in Hollywood:
“Too bad Teddy’s not still around to advise you,” I began. “Have you had a frank talk with Barney, Weiner?” I asked him. “After all, we don’t want to rob Peter to pay Paul.”
“Can’t get him on the blower.”
“Have you tried him at Fanny’s?”
“No joy there.”
I whistled softly: This was the Big Enchilada Chuck Schumer’s mini-me, a man of parts not to be trifled with. I tackled this at my own peril. “This is a hard one,” I said.
In response to my whistle, Ginger pranced in, dripping wet, not even a G-string to protect her from the fierce L.A. elements. “Nice birthday suit,” I said, waving her off. That’s the kind of life we lead here in the City of the Angels, so eat your heart out, red-state Amerikkka.
“Look, Dave,” said the Big Tone at the other end of the line, “I’m getting the shaft here. You’ve got to use the old noodle and get me out of this pickle.”
“What about the modified limited hang-out? After all, it worked for Tricky Dick.”
“For a while. Then they ram-rodded him right out of town.”
“Good point.” I was shooting blanks now. “Listen, Tony,” I said, “there’s no more of these things floating around the Internet, are there? No loose cannons? No banana peels? No girls you’ve been sexting? No Facebook affairs? No pictures of you with your shirt off, like that clown in upstate New York — holy moly look how fast they yanked him. You gotta be straight with me. This is no time to pull another boner.”
All of a sudden he got real furtive-like. “Sorry, Dave,” he said, “Call coming in. Ding-dong you right back.” He rang off. He’d be back: The Weiner always rings twice.
I rest my case.