A Weiner By Any Other Name

Despite his condom cap and dark glasses, we'd know him anywhere!  (Illustration by the author - no, I'm not proud)
Despite his condom cap and dark glasses, we’d know him anywhere! (Illustration by the author – no, I’m not proud)

By now, most people have heard about New York City mayoral candidate and former congressman Anthony Weiner’s recent relapse. Once again, he’s lost his footing on the slippery slope of posting naughty photos of his private parts. By a stroke of luck, I’ve been granted an exclusive interview with the star of the show, Mr. Weiner’s penis, Edgar Winston Weiner.

1PP: Edgar, thank you for joining me.
EWW: My pleasure, One Point, but please, call me Chumley – it’s been my nickname since Anthony saw his first Tennessee Tuxedo cartoon back in his childhood.

1PP: I think America is more than ready to hear your views.
EWW: I appreciate you giving me this forum. I’m sure there are a few wise-asses who’ll think it’s funny that a penis is being interviewed by someone named “1PP”, but I was tired of waiting for Pierce Morgan’s people to call. I want my side of the story out there.

1PP: Let’s get to the meat of the matter, what’s it like to be the object of so much attention, again?
EWW: Look pal, if you’re gonna get cute with the questions, we can end this interview right now. My PR people warned you about trying to be funny with word-play. I’m in a difficult position here, and if you’re going to go for cheap laughs with meat references, I’ll take my bag and leave.

1PP: My apologies. It was a Freudian slip, I guess.
EWW: Fair enough. Back to your question. It’s been hard on me. I mean, like most penises, I live my life in the dark most of the time. I’m not really accustomed to the spot-light.

1PP: How do you answer those who’ve speculated that you’re the brains behind the operation?
EWW: I’m glad you asked. Certainly I’ll admit to having a fair degree of influence over Tony, but these sexting fiascos are pretty much his doing. Can you imagine me taking snap shots and texting them to bimbos? I mean, look at me; I have no fingers! Seriously, look at me! How do I look? How about from this angle? Hold it a sec…how about now?

1PP: Umm. You look…ummm…can we get back to the interview? Please, sit back down.
EWW: Sorry. I’m trying to rebuild my image, but it’s an uphill battle.

1PP: Yeah…umm…well…Back to the questions. Speaking of your image, do you feel people are unable to look at you without a jaundiced eye?
EWW: I think lots of people have that problem. They can’t just look at me and see a penis; to them, I’m that penis. It’s embarrassing. I mean, I’ve got a life too. It’s not easy trying shield your family from the scrutiny of the media.

1PP: Tell us about that.
EWW: Well, you know, I’ve got the twins. I always try to keep them nearby, and sometimes it’s tough to protect them from the hurtful things that people say. For the record, I’ve done my very best to keep them out of this. I admit though, on at least one occasion, they were inadvertently featured in a photo.

1PP: Yes, that must be difficult for you. Have you discussed your feelings with Anthony, to try to help him avoid these incidents.
EWW: I’ve tried, God knows I’ve tried. Tony isn’t always easy to get through to – he’s a driven man. He’s running for mayor, for crying out loud! On some level though, I feel like he’s still an 11 year-old boy trying to impress that Blattstein girl behind the snack bar at the city pool. For the record, I told him it was a bad idea even back then – the water was especially cold that day and we could have been caught. Her mother was right around the corner, waiting on line to buy snow cones. Sorry – that’s still a difficult memory for me. I wish I could turn back the hands of time.

1PP: I think we’ve all had moments of regret, when we wish we could undo bad things we’ve been a part of…
EWW: Maybe the Blattstein girl is in the phone book. If not, Tony could get himself on the internet and do one of those searches. He could send her a pic, show her what my A-game looks like. How’s this pose? Whaddya think?

1PP: Umm…I thought you were referring to going back and not showing yourself to people.
EWW: Oh…oh yeah! Yeah, that’s what I meant.

1PP: Did you have anything to do with Anthony’s choice of the name “Carlos Danger” in his attempt to protect his anonymity?
EWW: Glad you brought that up. As you can imagine, Tony had a tough time growing up with that last name of his. I mean, I had the same last name, but look at me, the name fits right? Really…look at me. Anyway, I understand him wanting to try to use a different name for discretion and all, but I was never a fan of “Carlos Danger”. I thought it sounded a little corny, you know? It was too B-grade porn star for my tastes.

1PP: What’s next for you and Anthony?
EWW: That’s the 64 dollar question, isn’t it? We’re hoping he somehow manages to win the mayoral race. I try to use positive visualization to help him along. I picture myself standing proudly at attention on the podium as the band plays. Between you and me, I’ve got my eye on a cabinet post. Something in public relations, maybe. From what I hear, the mayor gets his own photographer, and the lighting in his office is supposed to be really nice.

1PP: Well, I wish you and Anthony the best of luck. One thing seems clear to me, no matter what happens with the campaign, I’m pretty sure we’ll see you again.
EWW: Thanks, One Point. Is there any chance I can get a copy of the illustration? You can text it to me.

My Life As A Wise-Ass

I’m a wise-ass from way back.  I have the natural inclination to look at things through the cynical, mischevious eyes of a true ball buster.  If there are no balls available for busting, I’ll look for something smart-alecky to say about whatever’s handy.

Hats off to my orthodontist! Those Invisaligns worked wonders!

If you’re lecturing me in a seminar, please don’t have on a bad toupee or speak with a goofy accent – I won’t be able to focus on a damn thing you’re saying.  If you’re going to say something which could unintentionally send 13 year old boys into fits of snorting laughter, try not to say it in front of me (think Beavis and Butthead with careers and mortgages).  I have just enough self-control to keep from snickering, but I also have the rotten impulse to make my fellow audience members start cracking up if at all possible.  If I can’t find a willing audience member to listen to my side-splitting commentary, I’ll text someone.

It’s not that I’m a bad person, I’m just a firm believer in laughter being the best medicine.  The way the world presents me with crap to poke fun at, the people who surround me could quite possibly live to be 150 years old.  The thing is, I won’t likely be joining them.  I don’t actually laugh all that often.  I’m more of a pusher-man of laughter than an actual user.

I’m sure all of you armchair psychoanalysts out there will see my comedic stylings as a sad attempt at making myself popular. It’s likely rooted in my being shunned as a child due to my eczema and pathetic inability to keep from crying for no particular reason. My derisive comments are clearly a desperate cry for acceptance. Perhaps I use my barbs to build a wall around my soft inner core, like a partially frozen Three Musketeers Bar.  Good for you Sigmund, but let’s talk about your wacky accent;  you sound like the kindly old shepherd caught in a cheap motel with a cute little lamb from your flock.  The two of you look so cozy, smoking cigarettes and watching Animal Planet on cable as you lay in the tangled sheets.  Get yourself some help, you sicko!

In most workplaces, my humor tends to be more subversive. In one particular job, my boss was an aging hippy named David (Never Dave – like me, always David – like me when I’m in trouble).  I guess he was more “new age” than hippy.  He would have these meetings and I couldn’t focus on anything he said because he was such a screwball.  I began to think that irrespective of the topic of discussion, it was only an elaborate scheme to eventually try to convince everyone in the meeting to become vegans.  I started sharing this theory with my buddies in the office.  Since people are fundamentally bored in meetings anyway, the concept of us being pawns in the clandestine recruitment program of radical vegetarians caught on.  We got to the point where no one could really focus on anything the guy said.  We would all just cast smirking glances at one another whenever David would stroll into the meeting in his funny looking, leather-free shoes and carrying a platter of edamame hummus.

For reasons which probably had nothing to do with people not listening to what he said in meetings, David moved on and was replaced by another manager, named Michael.  Michael was quite different than David.  He was an old-school businessman and looked like he might be having a stroke at anytime.  He spoke with a distinctive accent which I quickly pegged as being nearly identical to that of William Daniels, playing the voice of Kit the Car in Knight Rider.  If you could get Michael to say his own name you’d swear you were sitting right there in the passenger seat next to Hasselhoff (say it with me now – My-kull).  True to form, I wasted no time in pointing out this similarity to my colleagues.  Michael’s meetings soon provided us with endless hours of amusement.  It didn’t hurt that Michael was fond of using some really bizarre phrases.  Imagine this one in William Daniels’ voice, emanating from the flashing dashboard of a Trans-Am “..well, if they don’t like it, that’s just hard cheese“.   I’m not kidding, he’d actually say that.

I moved on to bigger and better things.  Their laying me off proved to be a blessing in disguise.

I left those lofty, professional ranks for the position of bartender – worse hours, better pay.  There may be no career better suited for the terminal wise-ass than bartending, except perhaps morning-drive disc jockey or United States Congressman.  People don’t normally enjoy being mocked, but in the world of alcohol consumption, it’s close to an honor.  For an accomplished wit such as myself, mocking the booze-addled clientele was like shooting tipsy fish in a barrel full of vodka.  If you’re a regular at a given bar, the staff, particularly the bartenders, should point out any of your flaws on an hourly basis, or even more often if you’re a good tipper.  If, as a customer, you’re greeted by a demeaning nickname despite repeatedly asking not to be called that, then you are officially bar royalty.

Despite being so well suited for the career, I was smart enough to see the lack of long-term potential in bartending.  Besides, I kept getting canned.

The years have flown by since those halcyon bartending days.  I’d love to tell you that my wisenheimer ways have mellowed with the years, but no one I know seems to think so.  I like to believe that my taste has improved to the point where I’ll wait for the best opportunity to lay out a primo snappy remark, rather than forcing my humor wherever I can cram it.  These days, the amount of ridicule I heap upon my superiors is tempered by the delicious smell of money and the comforting arms of job security.  I end up relegating my mocking and busting of chops for the select few who I know to be able to take a joke and those clueless enough not to realize that they are the brunt of one.

I remember hearing in an art history lecture about an artist who went to be with his mother as she lay on her death bed.  He was frustrated with himself because though he was at her side, he couldn’t help but study the light and shadow on her face.  I would tell you who the artist was, but I was almost certainly too busy coming up with something funny to say to pay sufficient attention to learn that part of the story.  With that story in mind, I know that when I’m laying on my own deathbed, with some clergyman trying to give me last rites, I’ll be listening to his words and hoping I get a chance to crack wise before I croak.  You want to leave them laughing.