Man of the Peephole

(Oh, what a tangled world wide web we weave)

You know, if you're a writer who writes about dumb stuff in current events, what a rich, odd summer it's been! Case in point: normally, if one had a plan to pen something about politicians, one would eventually have to mention politics. Normally.

Not lately.

And if you want dumb, you can always depend on American politicians to deliver. Everyone remembers that memorable bromide, "All politics is, or are, local, or stupid," ascribed to former Speaker of the House Tip O'Neill, although he personally attributed the phrase to his father, Tatum.

But this summer, it seems someone's ratcheted up Dumb in D.C. As Hunter Thompson might have put it, "when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro."

Granted, there are political tales to be told, to be sure. After all, we're facing the 2012 election season, which officially began at 7:01 PM on 4 November 2008. In fact, the rule-free vote-fest that we call the "American political system" shares a unique honor with the Great Wall of China - these are the only two manmade objects on Earth that can be seen from outer space, if you don't count Geraldo Rivera's moustache.

So there's no shortage of political targets. For example, former Alaskan Governor (and quadrennial potential Presidential candidate) Sarah Palin made headlines when she announced a bus tour.

Personally, it takes me almost no time at all to tour a bus.

Just a few days ago, thousands of Alaskan emails from Governor Palin's term were thawed, printed, crated up, and delivered to the public. No, I don't know why. Avid Alaskan email analysts who, sadly, have no life of their own, eagerly dived into the collection, and NBC's Brian Williams plans to personally interview several of the emails.

And have no doubt - the analysts will find something to Eureka about in that email tonnage. They'll turn up something, like, oh, Mama Grizzly once complaining about an under-toasted bagel, which clearly proves she is an anti-Zionist, or pro-Pop Tart.

In a related story, the election season's moron marathon witnessed an unprecedented political disaster from the Republican bench, when everyone on the "Newt Gingrich for President" staff did not abandon ship; however, Newt himself resigned.

In global news, the International Monetary Fund was hacked by an eight-year-old using his smart phone and a modified banking app. When it was all said and done, billionaire George Soros found that his entire fortune had been donated to a conservative-leaning Baskin-Robbins in Dayton, Ohio.

Oddly enough, our Defense Department admitted to a similar security breach, as the Pentagon's procurement system was hacked by a rogue calculator virus. As it turns out, the virus reviewed some of the military's math, got embarrassed and, unable to stop itself, made a few recalculations, resulting in a savings of several billion dollars.

Meanwhile, a raging wildfire in Arizona jumped the state line, crossing into New Mexico. That action brought the blaze into the realm of the bloated Interstate Commerce clause (which is also visible from outer space), so Congress immediately taxed combustion. New Mexico petitioned the Fed for assistance, and a few billion in mortgage adjustments, a move championed by several terra cotta potters at a liberal-leaning equine therapy seminar in Taos. Due to a miscommunication, FEMA rushed emergency supplies to Santa Claus and Tina Fey, and Homeland Security issued an Ember Alert.

Of course, the story that's grasped everyone by the ... ah ... the, um ... the ... the story that's got everyone talking is our hesitant peek into the bawdy antics of a certain lewd member of the House of Representatives.

The story unfolded almost as quickly as the lies unraveled. After days of total denial and outright outrage, the apparently self-appointed leader of the "Raucous Caucus" found himself guilty of full frontal stupidity.

Yes, him. The one with the funny name. That bizarre buff-monster, that Twitter twit, that self-serving self-photographer, that ego zeppelin, that monument to hubris: Congressman Ballpark Frank.

Sure, his name didn't help matters. I mean, when you're named after something that men buy from other men at sporting events, you're bound to have a few stability issues here and there.

But then, like the Arizona wildfire, the silliness spread. Whenever anyone heard the news, and the names in the news, they started to snicker. And suddenly, everything became a double entendre. Everything. It was insane. A typical conversation at the office water cooler:

"I would like to have some cabbage slaw for lunch."
"Yeah, I just bet you would."

And from there, it quickly got out of control. People gasping, blushing, complaining to Human Resources.

Like many self-inflicted episodes in life, it was simultaneously sad and funny. A mirror-kissing moron in Congress who thinks he's attractive enough to take very un-Alaskan photos of himself, and then sends them to a child that's young enough to be his parole officer's daughter, using an unsecured social network where the chief literary attraction is a fictional farm.

What next, Ballpark? Circus animals? Interns with pizzas?

The jokes flew. "Is that a Congressman in your pocket, or are you just glad to see m ... never mind. What was I thinking? Of course there's a Congressman in your pocket."

And he just kept digging a deeper hole for his dumb self. It was like watching a politically-pointed remake of Oscar Wilde's classic tale, "The Picture of Dorian Gray," as Ballpark Frank's career faded, and faded, and faded:

"Absolutely, I didn't do it!"
"I was hacked!"
"I didn't do it."
"I think I was hacked."
"I don't think I did it."
"You can't prove I did it."
"I got people looking into it to see if I did it."
"Maybe I did it."
"Okay, I did it, but I didn't break any laws while I did it."
"Okay, she looked sixteen to me."
"...re-elect me?"
"...please?"
"...plea..."
"...pl..."

Soon, his own political cronies stopped returning his calls. One party leader, a lady from Florida, made it very clear that he should resign. I forget the lady's name but, based on her haircut, I think it was Congresswoman Labradoodle.

But no. He wouldn't go. Ballpark Frank was made of sterner stuff. A man who can stand unsheathed in front of a taxpayer-funded gymnasium mirror and go all Olan Mills at himself is not gonna just hop the next Greyhound.

No. Like any politician worth having a vote to purchase, the Congressbiped capitalized.

First, we heard that he was allegedly photographed wearing a promotional box of Fruity Pebbles. Ballpark claimed that somebody had hacked his online grocery account and had then sent a bogus Harris Teeter. A spokesman said that someone was looking into Ballpark's box.

Next, we learned that he might resign after all and expatriate to Europe, where he planned to accept a lucrative offer, performing suggestive interpretive dance routines during Bunga Bunga parties at the estate of Italian Prime Minister Sylvio Berlusconi.

Lastly, rumors were floated that Ballpark was being courted by clothing giant, The Men's Under-Wearhouse, to pen an endorsement deal promoting a new slogan: "You're gonna like the way I look, if you can prove that's the way I look."

And, in the end, karma kicked in. In a classic case of poetic justice, the occasionally stark Congressflasher, Ballpark Frank, was molested by his own ego.

Think about it. These days, we have email and instant messaging. We have chat, texting, cell phones, cell phones with cameras, Facebook, Twitter. These days, privacy eludes.

Imagine what a vile, sordid, Sodomitic cesspool Washington D.C. must have been, back in the days before they got caught...

As Lily Tomlin might have put it: "We're the Government. We don't care. We don't have to."