"This guy is just an incredible p*ckerhead," America thought to itself. "He's already lost his job as a Congressman for putting pictures of Little Anthony on the Internet. People were ready to let him be Mayor anyway, but now he's done it again. I mean, we all know guys that can't keep it in their pants, but at least they know better than to take a picture of it every time it pops out."
Legitimate criticism, sure, but consider this—Weiner just can't help himself. He is merely following the Social Law of Penis Size, which states that the timing and frequency of a man's revealing his penis size is in inverse proportion to his physical attractiveness, assuming the size of the penis is noteworthy. To illustrate:
Handsome, indifferent-looking and unattractive men with unexceptional penises—the penis is seldom mentioned.
Handsome guy with a big one—you'll hear about it on the first date.
Indifferent-looking guy with a big one—you'll hear about it in the first five minutes of the first date.
Butt-ugly guy with a boa constrictor in his BVD's--it's printed on his business card.
Or Tweeted to the world. That's Weiner's problem. Or consider this: Since the invention of the camera phone and the possession of one by everybody over the age of six, every teenager in the US has sent a picture of his or her genitals to some other teenager, which technically makes every single one of them simultaneously a producer, a distributor and a victim of child pornography. Weiner's just courting the youth vote.
Weiner's man-lumber did not stand alone last week, however. A Subway employee gained some viral notoriety by posting a picture of himself rubbing his guy gear on a freshly-baked Subway roll. This column has complained previously that Subway rolls don't taste like anything, but that is not the solution the writer had in mind. This Subway person could have plunged his male essence into the mayo for its fifteen minutes. He could have wrapped his bro bone in little Subway cheese triangles. But no; he chose to massage the taste of his package into the one item that has to be on a Subway sandwich—the roll.
Subway fired him, rather than change their corporate slogan from "Eat Fresh" to "Eat Me."
Still another man-unit in the news belonged to Lucien Greaves, who placed the essence of his dudeness on the tombstone of the deceased mother of the head of the Westboro Baptist Church, which tombstone is located in Lauderdale, Mississippi, as part of a "pink mass" which Greaves and his fellow Satanists, who all hail from New York, claim will turn that woman gay in the afterlife. This could be regarded as a favor, if it is in fact ontologically possible; eternity is a long time and switching up sexualities is bound to pass some of it.
The local cops in Lauderdale aren't thinking theologically, however; they've issued an arrest warrant for Lucien for indecent exposure. He's escaped back to New York ahead of the law and the extradition of him and the leading citizen of his trousers back to Mississippi is considered unlikely. The authorities in Mississippi are said to merely wish to discourage copycat crimes, apparently afraid that every hipster in Brooklyn would otherwise now want to make a pilgrimage south to desecrate a Dixie grave-marker by waving his man-wand over it.
Speaking of Brooklyn, that is where our final briefly famous dipstick hails from. They had a "Brooklyn's Smallest Penis" contest, and somebody actually came. And won. Nick Gilronan took home the bragging rights, such as they are, selfishly ignoring, in the glow of his sudden celebrity, the likelihood that the guy who really has the most microscopic man-worm in that borough probably never even heard of the contest. That guy spends every night at home, snorting fat lines of raw Enzyte off his glass-topped coffee table while scouring the Internet for some pneumatic device that will magnify him to the size of Nick Gilronan.
And he's not voting for Weiner.