Welcome to Well, That Sucked, our weekly compendium of exactly what it sounds like. Thrown in this week’s garbage: Anthony Weiner and Eliot Spitzer, but really, mostly Anthony Weiner.
Most people love a redemption story. It’s so satisfying to see someone rebuild; it gives us hope that, even in our darkest moments, not all is lost. What everyone loves, though, is a petulant, bratty, resilient cockroach who refuses to learn his lessons; it lets us know that, at the very least, we’re sharp enough to understand that a 23-year-old fameball with designs of infamy may not be the best confidant.
Five years after resigning as governor of New York due to a prostitution scandal—ah, the days of Ashley Dupre, when we were all so innocent and free—Eliot Spitzer tried to return to public office as New York City’s comptroller. He did not win. Perhaps this will free up his time to resume his position as Defender of Reason and Logic.
At least Spitzer can find comfort in his failure, since it wasn’t nearly as well-documented and dwelled upon as that other sexually impudent New York politician’s. Despite his best efforts, Social Media Expert Anthony Weiner did not win New York City’s Democratic primary for mayor. Actually, he was barely in the running: He finished dead last among the main contenders, with around 5 percent of the vote. But, hey, good on him for finding even one person willing to vote for him after he told a real, live woman that he wanted to fuck her so hard that her breasts would nearly hit her in the face. That is an actual stress nightmare I keep having, so a big thank you to Weiner for putting words to one of my greatest fears.
Saying that Weiner overshadowed Spitzer’s loss is an understatement. Spitzer should send him a fruit basket to thank him for breaking his political fall. Or just Snapchat him a picture of the head of his penis dressed up like Dorothy Zbornak with a caption reading, “thank u 4 bein a friend.”
Weiner, who towards the end was more insecure dick-pic than man, ran his campaign exactly like someone named Carlos Danger would. He insulted reporters, lost his cool at constituents who insulted his wife, and generally behaved as if he were entitled to certain level of treatment that he was, for some inexplicable reason, not receiving. He did, after all, say that he was sorry, and that was after he already told you he was probably going to do it again. You can’t say you weren’t prepared.
In his concession speech, Weiner referred to himself as an “imperfect messenger.” Great way of putting it. Did you know?: Burning up in a fiery ball of death before plummeting to the cruel and unforgiving earth was an “imperfect conclusion” to the Hindenburg’s flight? Now you do.
Adding incredible insult to hilarious injury, his online mistress-cum-pornstar (HA HA HA GET IT oh no this room is filling up with my own blood someone please help me) Sydney Leathers decided to visit his party following his defeat, clad in the tightest junior prom dress I have ever seen and sporting some very glamorous mid-section sweat-stains. Then, to avoid a confrontation, Weiner bolted through a McDonald's to get away from her. By the end of the night, he was buckled into his car seat in the back—you have to be a certain height and weight to sit in the front, of course—and calmly flipping off the press. This is his political legacy: In with a bang, out with a fart.
Markedly absent from the end days of his campaign—including his concession speech, and pretty much the entire night—however, was Weiner’s wife, Huma Abedin. She was seen the next day, going about her business and looking super-hot doing it, and maybe this is the beginning of what could be a very good week for her. She can finally stop pretending to stand behind her increasingly Sam the Eagle-looking doofus husband, who, in mere months, exploded his entire political career, forever, because he literally could not keep his stupid dick in his pants.
Hillary 2016, right?
Maybe now Abedin can leave Weiner and fulfill in real life the romantic fan-fiction I have been writing since 2011, where she gets married to Rahm Emanuel and they fight crime and solve world crises and snuggle each other. The whole thing ends with Joe Biden showing up in sunglasses, inviting me over to his place for hot-tubbing and beers. It’s another world, an alternate reality, where everything is right, we are all happy, and people never disappoint us. At least not more than once.
Well, That Sucked appears every Friday.
