WARNING: Sophomoric post ahead. You have been warned.
They have a knack for the best headlines.
For my non-American friends who don't have the privilege of calling Charlie Sheen one of their own (although, UK? You have Prince Charles and Camilla. So, it's kind of a wash), you may not know what all the hubbub is about here in the land of Dancing With the Stars. The congressman from New York, Anthony Weiner (I am NOT making up that name), found himself in a bit of a pickle (pun intended) this week.
Apparently, someone "tweeted" (LOVE those cutesy Twitter verbs!) a snapshot of an unknown someone's (NOT me) underwear-covered (thank GOD!) crotch on the aforementioned Weiner's Twitter account.
Well, he initially protested that a foul miscreant hacked into his account and sent the crotch rocket pic in an attempt to smear the good pol's name (I think that ship has sailed. I would have changed it. C'mon...Weiner!!??). Taking umbrage, he nonetheless insisted that federal authorities not squander precious taxpayer money (gotta save that for a study of the mating habits of screech owls and tit mice...yes, I said "tit") to investigate this alleged crime.
He said he will retain the services of his own private cadre of Inspector Clouseau, his old Cub Scout pack, Angela Lansbury, a troop of circus monkeys, a homeless man and his collection of cans, and a Magic 8-Ball to get to the bottom (as opposed to the front) of this heinous "Weinergate."
When asked whether the nasty bits were his, Weiner (I can't say that name too many times) couldn't recall whether it was actually him or not. Of course, the logical next question should have been: You mean you can't remember if you took a picture of your own junk? If that is the case, just how many pictures of the little guy do you have? In fact, do you have an entire album of "The Best of Weiner" on your computer?
Sometimes, I find myself at a loss when trying to decide what to write here on Blogger. But, then, something comes along and presents itself as a perfect topic upon which to blather.
In other words, you can't make this stuff up.
|A Big Weiner|