Dear Anthony Weiner:
Don’t bother to explain. We’ve already heard enough.
Don’t write a book about it. No tree should die for that.
Don’t do a sit-down with Oprah. She just had that couch cleaned.
You want to redeem your name through public service? You want to use your gifts to help those in need? Wonderful. Very commendable. And Somalia is lovely this time of year. Make sure you get your shots.
Now, can you just go? Please?
Does it surprise you to hear that? Well, I am equally surprised to say it. America, after all, is the land of redemption, second chances and comebacks. We love nothing so much as the guy who beats long odds, the underdog who achieves the improbable, the loser who wins. That’s who we are. It is woven into our DNA. Our national history begins with a ragtag group of farmers defeating the mightiest military on Earth.
The problem is, you remind us of something else that lately seems to be woven into our DNA: an incapacity for shame.
You won’t know that word. It came into use before the 12th century, but you don’t hear it much anymore. Merriam-Webster defines it as “a painful emotion caused by consciousness of guilt, shortcoming, or impropriety.” One sees little evidence of that consciousness in reality television, cable news, politics — or you. Taking care to pinch both nostrils shut, let us review the record:
After you tweeted an image of your sheathed but erect penis, after you lied and said you had done no such thing, after you finally copped to the truth, after your humiliated wife stood beside you, after you resigned from Congress in disgrace, after you went through therapy, after you posed with your wife and baby for People magazine last year and pronounced yourself committed to being a “better person,” we learn that you were still sending out explicit text messages and pictures all along.
One of your sexting partners, a woman less than half your 48 years, was last seen, according to TMZ, leaving the offices of a pornographic movie producer. How much you want to bet the call is already out for a beak-nosed man with curly hair to, ahem . . . “act” with her?
Meanwhile, you have the scrotal audacity to come before the voters of the nation’s largest city and ask for a second chance.
There are no words.