Friday, August 9, 2013

What We Overlooked: Anthony Weiner Sucks At Sexting

We've learned a lot of lessons during the second Anthony Weiner sexting scandal. Mostly, we've learned exactly which men in the DC/New York media who look like they spend weekends cosplaying as Baron Harkonnen struggle with everything about the term "self-evident" except the bit before the hyphen.

We heard about Sydney Leathers in that generic strumpet/harlot/painted woman way that makes you suspect columns about her were written with a febrile brow and bitten lower lip by doubly-Dimmesdales trying hard to restrict themselves to only one sweated indulgence about that last name. For some, for a while, it was her fault, despite her being the only person in the Weiner/Leathers/Huma Abedin troika who took no oaths to be bound to someone else.

We heard, too, that Huma Abedin should or should not have done something. Granted, while she kinda looked like the woman who plays original acoustic songs during a Unitarian service stumbled into the press conference, she can look however she wants to look. It's not her damn press conference, and the fact that she was there was already probably a favor too far. There isn't a dress code for suffering or grief or even seething. She could have showed up in pajamas and with her hair standing on end, and no betrayed spouse would have rebuked her, unless the pajamas had death's heads or brony fan art or other atrocities on them.

In any case, it was easy to spot the ugly, broafish implication in singling out Abedin's wardrobe and aloof demeanor for criticism: If she'd just stood there in fingerless lace gloves, a velvet bustier and a look like, "The moment this ends is the moment I can resume giving my husband unremitting handjobs," then she wouldn't be in this mess. The dual barfiness of male commentary on Leathers and Abedin was the notion that they looked at Leathers and thought, "That's the whore you should have been in the bedroom, mom." Meanwhile, half the people pulling a Mr. Blackwell with Abedin's outfit were probably clad in sweatstained Oxfords and formerly wrinkle-free Dockers impressionistically specked with the gravies of six different continents.

Finally—sweet Jesus—we were treated to armchair analysis concluding that Abedin was only up there and supporting her husband to keep a hand on the levers of power. Which, really, who gives a shit? For one thing, after putting up with a monstrous dickbrain like Anthony Weiner, Abedin probably deserves at least 24 hours of sitting on a throne of skulls somewhere. For another, how many columnists would have the personal awareness to note their wives playing out the clock in a godawful marriage just for the chance to occasionally go to cocktail parties with people on TV? For that matter, how many columnists decrying cynical materialist reasons to stay in a marriage haven't upgraded to true love and Wife 2.0 for fear of losing 50% of their assets and having to sell that uncomfortably apt dinghy with the two-stroke outboard?

But you knew all that, because the world is awful and, frequently, repetitive and obvious about its awfulness. It's awful like a parade animated by Hanna-Barbera, where each awful thing loops in the background forever while you try to run away so fast that your legs just turn into a kind of elliptical whirlwind underneath you.

The one thing you don't know, however, that few took pains to point out, is that Anthony Weiner completely sucks at sexting. Where was that dazzling wit that made him such a sought-after politico on late-night shows? Where was the incisive commentary and winking swagger that made him devastating on the floor of the House? The guy didn't even have the wit to call himself the fuckhammer ready to nail you into 2x4 orgasms.

The fact is that Weiner had a bad case of Pornitis, where even his understanding of an act that he evidently devotes great time and effort to contemplating and planning became subsumed by the generic mass text of pornography. Look at his texts and see a dozen different smutty antecedents. It's incredible he didn't slip entirely into porn metonym, where the tired adjectives for the same limited set of body parts finally take over, nouns falling away uselessly, like a Swank cover once spied by an editor friend of mine, which read: "TRUE STORY: I CURED A LESBO WITH MY STIFF."

Here's the thing: It's not hard (cue Butthead laugh) to be good at sexting. It's a lot like being good at other writing. Purple (there's the laugh again) prose and clichés are a turnoff. Being all aggro and Chuck Palahniuk isn't hot unless you're a guy talking to another guy and neither of you is old enough to buy beer. Are you making constant puns? Um, are you also talking to Maureen Dowd or a NY Post headline writer? No? Then knock it the fuck off.

I speak about this as an expert. Not only professionally, but personally. I was once given a check for writing erotica (DO NOT ASK WHAT THE PROJECT WAS), and I have been sexting for years, before there were text messages, as a matter of fact. I would get on the phone late at night and call a girl I'd given a walkie-talkie to, ask her to turn it on, then hang up and send her absolutely filthy things in morse.

Later, for the longest time, I had one of those old bottom-line clamshell Motorola phones that you got for free and with a $50 rebate just for signing a phone contract. There was no camera and only a sort of a dot-matrix display, so I used to have to send ASCII pictures of my dick to ladies. Only I had to find a regular ASCII dick online, then email it to my phone's T-Mobile numbered account host, download the dot-matrix-y thing, then "FWD" to women. Only I'd change some of the straight lines to parentheses, to account for the curvature of my girth. I'm not surprised if I lost some of you, because all of this is science.

Anyhow, I mention each of these 100% legitimate biographical details to assure you of my absolute and complete competence when it comes to telling men how to sext and women what they should expect from satisfactory sexting. We can be better. It should be better. Ladies, it gets better.

With that in mind, allow me to put on my sext hat (it's a condom shaped like Lord Nelson's) and give you some bona fide examples of the kind of outside-the-box thinking that Anthony Weiner could have indulged in to improve his sext game and break out of the stale confines of dude-up-TOP frat innuendo:

As a matter of fact, I lettered in eating pussy.

You make me feel like Randy Newman. By that, I mean randy and a new man. Speaking of which, I love L.A. (licking anus).

I call my dick THE INTIMIDATOR. I got the idea from a truck rally.

You know, if you look up "weiner" in the dictionary you see a picture of me.

I'm gonna fuck you so hard your tits hit your face. I'm gonna pull your hair. I'm gonna put on your pumps and stretch them out. I'm going to bend the underwire all out of shape on this bra. I'm going to cum inside you and flush all your pantliners and then take you out to a trendy café so you have to sit uncomfortably on a tiny bistro chair in goopy underwear. I'm gonna answer your phone whenever the caller ID is a man's name, just in case one of them is your father. I'm not gonna laugh at your jokes. Do you want me to mansplain this again?

I wanna get you pregnant with excitement.

The video for "Freak on a Leash" was inspired by what happened one time when I pulled out.

My wife's name sounds a lot like "humus." I actually got her in bed the first time by doing karaoke and singing, "How Can I Get You, A Loam?"

I lift up your boob to find a secret boob underneath.

Down in DC they used to call me the Lee Boyd Malvo of ejaculating because I was a deadly shooter, and I had to do it a lot in vans.

Do you mind if we only fuck to Sugar Ray?

I want you to get a tramp stamp that combines a target with the great seal of the United States and the words, For He Who Don't Pluribust In'em.

I've been thinking about your tits all day, during some really important stuff even.

I don't want to alarm you, but we need to have sex as soon as possible. I have a fatal condition called Not Enough Pussy Syndrome.

Woof woof, baby. Are you ready for this Milk Bone? Hold on for like five mins, I made myself sad about my old dog.

You know the end scene of Casablanca where Rick is like, "Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow?" When Elsa (sp?) got on the plane, it would have been RIGHT NOW. Maybe in the seats or maybe in the can. Also, if the Germans tried to shoot us down, I would have used my dick to plug holes in the fuselage.

I'm making you a Kid 'n' Play list. I hope next time we hear it together we can "house party."

I just let Chrome autotranslate a foreign-language Wikipedia page for anilingus. "Introduction of language in the anus. This practice involves the input language into the anus, after which the motion is possible, simulating friction, or simply feeling the language of the walls of the rectum. This method is usually used to prepare for anal intercourse, as anilingus can relax the sphincter and wet anus." Thinking out loud here!!!!

I'm going to get your tits really far apart, and then I'm, uh, we're just brainstorming here, there's no wrong thing to say.

BMW stands for Big Mr. Weiner. I am the ultimate drilling machine.

I was just at a leadership conference and got $5,000 to make me holla, but I wish I got paid to do the wild thing.

We put on headsets and fuck while playing X-Box. I keep crushing your box while calling you the n-word. Pwned.

I come into the room, and then you sink to your knees and pull my cock out, and I'm like, No, not yet, not here, because it's too far away from the bed, so I just try not to fall over and eventually am like can we go over here a second bb? and waddle to a chair with my pants around my ankles. You knee-walk over to me, which is hot because your boobs bounce when you do it, but it makes your knees hurt, and you keep going down on me and I'm like o my God, because I might finish already. But do I want to finish already? If I finish, I could last longer in you later, but I'm also tired, and what if I can't get hard enough again after this for an hour, because what are we going to do for an hour? But if you don't finish me, then I'm going to be super excited inside you, and then I have to look away from you and at all the pictures of my family to keep from going off. But you make the decision for me and get up and lie on the bed, and I have to kneel on the floor and eat you from there, because you won't pull your knees up and arch your groin upward and instead just lie as flat as possible on the bed so I'd have to snap my head back like I was getting whiplash just to get my mouth near you. I like the pain, though, because it tamps down this monster rod I've still got, and, holy shit, did my wife buy this comforter from Laura Ashley? Anyway, we're good for now, because you said that just thinking about me gets you off anyway, so I'm going to get inside you right now, from behind, because it makes me afraid when I look at you and your face seems unfamiliar. Also, I want you to suck on my thumb and get it wet so I can work it in your butt and ask if you want it, because it kind of doesn't matter what you say. The no is hot and wrong, and I know you're going to say that, and, anyway, I don't know what I'd have done if you said yes because—bang—it'd have been over like that and a total waste of anal anyway. Then I'll need to cum, and ask you where you want it, and you'll say tits, and I'll think, I can plausibly miss higher, so I pull out and try to flip you over, but OF COURSE you roll to my right as I move to my right, so you take me out at the ankle and knee. Now I've got my left hand holding your hair to the mattress, and I'm stroking when the pain in my leg and your screeching at your hair being pulled distracts me, and I just kind of sneeze out this sad wad that you duck at the last second, sending it splashing against the pillow shams and FUCK, we tore the tags out of them so I don't even know if I can put them in the washer or dryer. I think they might be dry-clean only. Do you know anything about bedding? It's from Neiman's. I think it's the Martha catalog. You can use the shower. Jesus, I have to open the windows. It smells like your perfume in here. Oh, God, what did I do? Nothing, I'm fine. It's fine. I'm just going to stare out the window for half an hour and a thousand yards because everything is different now that this isn't exciting anymore.

Do you remember ever seeing your father cry? How old do you think kids have to be to form memories?


  1. Quick thanks to my friend David Thorpe for quality control and brainstorming on my sexting game.

  2. You misspelled "boner fide"

  3. Holy shit. I have LIVED that long sext.

  4. That was the funniest fucking thing I've ever read. Dying at the long sext.


Et tu, Mr. Destructo? is a politics, sports and media blog whose purpose is to tell jokes or be really right about things. All of us have real jobs and don't need the hassle that telling jokes here might occasion, which is why some contributors find it more tasteful to pretend to be dead mass murderers.