I like you, Congressman Weiner. And that's not a line I use very often. Your strategy of screaming at your political enemies on the floor of the House gave hope to this old political workhorse who thought the PC age had rendered our politicians ball-less eunuchs, too scared to tell their esteemed colleagues to sit down and shut the hell up. In an institution comprised of soulless, focus-tested automatons, you've been an actual human being - too human, it turns out, for the delicate sensibilities of the voters and the media. As calls mount for you to resign in the wake of your sexy pictures scandal, you must stand your ground and stay in office, if only to prove to your enemies that you're one Weiner who won't wiggle an inch.
Now, Dick Nixon is no prude. Once every ten years, my wife Buddy and I would engage in sexual congress. We'd polish off a bottle of Maker's Mark and I'd seduce her by sitting at our piano and treating her to a slurred rendition of "Let's Misbehave." After coitus was achieved, the help would burn our sheets, while Buddy and I would retreat to separate rooms and avoid eye contact for the next three weeks. It was magical. Of course, I was always loyal to Buddy for reasons I still can't explain. But as you well know, Congressman Weiner, you are not alone when it comes to politicians who think with their genitals. The only reason Eisenhower signed off on the national interstate system was so that he could have a faster route to take to his mistress's house. And though I was never on the in with that silver spoon-sucking pretty boy Kennedy, I'd suspect he wanted to go to the moon simply to learn how many titties moon women had, God rest his depraved soul.