The legendary 19th century Prussian leader Otto Von Bismarck once said that “laws are like sausages. It is better not to see them being made.” He was dicing up the Berlin Reichstag at the time, a hot dog stand of corporate collusion and military munching. He was referring to the sleazy backroom deals and greasy appropriations that lawmakers take to get a law passed.
Today, Bismarck would declare that New York City has turned into a smorgasbord of political exhibitionism. Instead of the laws, though, his focus would be on disgraced former lawmaker Anthony Weiner, whose seven terms in Congress were indiscreetly interrupted with pictures of his private parts turning up on Twitter.
Who Me? Nah.
For weeks in 2011, he deflected questions about the shots, claiming someone had hacked into his account and sliced the salacious photos. Because of the grinding greatness of the now deceased Andrew Breitbart, Mr. Weiner no longer could hold back. He admitted that the photos of himself were from himself.
Still he stalled on splitting from Congress until the uproar started to further barbeque his Democratic caucus. From the resistance to Obamacare to the debt ceiling that Republicans would not raise without bringing down serious spending, to Obama’s flailing foreign policy, the Democratic party did not want to dicker any longer with Mr. Weiner.
Upon resignation, the Congressional seat opened up an unexpected, and later unprecedented, opportunity for Republicans, who had lost an upstate New Yorker following that Congressman’s intense need for Twittering his love to a woman not his wife. Following a short campaign spurt, and some ketching. . .er catching up with former mayor Ed Koch, Bob Turner turned a safe three-to-one Democratic seat into a Republican sit-down by 10 points.
Mr. Weiner went away. For awhile. A media-frenzied hot dog like him, though, could not stay out of the fire forever. Longing to be back in the bun with New Yorkers, he sculpted his private life anew. Like a sausage going from skewered and crammed with filler to a Hebrew National dog, he yielded to a higher authority, whether it was his wife or a marriage counselor.
Looking for grace from the world (whose admiration he relishes), Mr. Weiner graced the covers of national magazines with wife Huma, the two lying (reclining that is) together, her man and their dog. They also have a child, not named Frank.
Mr. Weiner was getting better, no longer sending nude pictures of himself. All was looking good, so much so that he threw his bun into the bakery to run for mayor of New York. If former Gov. Spitzer was putting himself on the spit, why not a Weiner, too? Now that Mr. Koch was gone, Mr. Weiner would have nothing left of his previous position (or positions) to contend with.
If They Survived, Why Can’t I?
Mr. Weiner was looking like a winner. Perhaps voters were willing to start singing (to the tune of Oscar Meyer): “My mayor has a last name, spelled W-E-I-N-E-R.” If Mark Sanford , ex-governor of South Carolina could take back his old Congressional seat, if David Vitter of Louisiana could remain in the U.S. Senate, despite frequenting Washington madams, if Bill Clinton could soil his reputation and walk away as if nothing happened, Mr. Weiner could be a winner, indeed.
More reports rolled up, however, like a frank on a roll, proving that Mr. Weiner frankly not been frank with the public, or his psychiatrist, or his wife about more frank photos. Apparently after he had resigned from Congress, Mr. Weiner still was playing with fire. Hoping not to get scorched again, he posted photos of his private parts to precious Prunellas under the name Carlos Danger. That a man would expose himself at the time no one would care. He no longer was in office.
Now that Mr. Weiner is dropping in the polls, a dysfunction brought on by trying too hard to be seen, heard and devoured by as many women as a man can find. His hot dog contest-need for attention, from his early days as a cocktail Weenie on the New York City Council to now, have cooked this liberal sausage. Increasingly an ice cold candidate, he should chill out.
To be frank, Anthony Wiener needs to leave the New York City mayoral race. He needs to split like a bun. That will be the only place left where he can lie at rest, hoping someone will take him as the frankless frank he is.
Arthur Christopher Schaper is a teacher-turned-writer on topics both timeless and timely; political, cultural, and eternal. A lifelong Southern California resident, he currently lives in Torrance.
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