|What a Sex Pot|
This is not Weiner's first forage into madness. Back in 2011 he accidentally tweeted a picture of his crotch with an erection, which led to his resignation from Congress after it was revealed he lied about it to the media, falsely claiming that his Twitter account had been "hacked." I wrote about his foolishness here.
After resigning from Congress, he kept right on doing his online pursuits, meeting women online and sending sexy texts and revealing images of himself.
The man has a serious problem. He apparently has a deep need for young women to find him sexy and masculine and desirable. Unfortunately, he has only the sex appeal of Don Knotts or Steve Urkel to fulfill his Sean Connery fantasy. Anthony Weiner is not only not handsome, he is rather homely, nerdy and utterly forgettable.
Weiner reminds me of the Walter Mitty character featured in James Thurber's short story, "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty." Walter Mitty is a senior citizen, not terribly competent at anything, and led around by his wife who manages him closely. During a shopping trip to the city, Walter Mitty engages in one heroic fantasy after the other. He imagines himself to be the commander of an airship during a fierce battle, a defendant in a murder trial who is a crack shot, a World War I Airforce captain who must fly through hell:
. . "The cannonading has got the wind up in young Raleigh, sir," said the sergeant. Captain Mitty looked up at him through tousled hair. "Get him to bed," he said wearily, "with the others. I'll fly alone." "But you can't, sir," said the sergeant anxiously. "It takes two men to handle that bomber and the Archies are pounding hell out of the air. Von Richtman's circus is between here and Saulier." "Somebody's got to get that ammunition dump," said Mitty. "I'm going over. Spot of brandy?" He poured a drink for the sergeant and one for himself. War thundered and whined around the dugout and battered at the door. There was a rending of wood and splinters flew through the room. "A bit of a near thing," said Captain Mitty carelessly. 'The box barrage is closing in," said the sergeant. "We only live once, Sergeant," said Mitty, with his faint, fleeting smile. "Or do we?" He poured another brandy and tossed it off. "I never seen a man could hold his brandy like you, sir," said the sergeant. "Begging your pardon, sir." Captain Mitty stood up and strapped on his huge Webley-Vickers automatic. "It's forty kilometers through hell, sir," said the sergeant. Mitty finished one last brandy. "After all," he said softly, "what isn't?" The pounding of the cannon increased; there was the rat-tat-tatting of machine guns, and from somewhere came the menacing pocketa-pocketa-pocketa of the new flame-throwers. Walter Mitty walked to the door of the dugout humming "Aupres de Ma Blonde." He turned and waved to the sergeant. "Cheerio!" he said. . . .Weiner is the Walter Mitty of masculine sexuality. Carlos Danger's desired prowess exists only in his imagination.