“Oh, I wish I were an Anthony Weiner…”

Oh, whatever, I’ll say it: I would bang the hell out of Anthony Weiner. I totally want to see his penis. He can text photos of it to me any time.

Oh. Vote for him? Hmm… Will he let me worship his penis after? Right-o! Bring it, sex biscuit — UNF! (Don’t judge, I don’t live in NY, and no one that hot ever fucked up that hard — hee — in my state. My libido has not yet been a factor in the democratic process.)

Also, c’mon, pundits, really? Did you seriously say these things in the 10 minutes of coverage I watched?

— “He let that statement hang out there for a while.”

— “He’s getting off on the power.” (Did you really just blame this on fucking dopamine?!)

— “He made some full-blown mistakes.”

— “Just a taste of it, it’s a slippery slope.”

— “There’s something about this kind of scandal that gets most people up.”

God, this is great. Keep it coming! (Hey-o!)

Hee hee. “Pixelated penis picture.” Ha!

Amaze-balls. Literally. Hee.

Let us not even discuss my outbox.

It’s so wrong that I’m legally recognized as an adult when I still laugh my ladyballs off when I get an email with the subject line: “Are we still welcome in your inbox?”

It WAS from a foodie magazine, so maybe they’ll make me dinner first? Still, if you have to ask about your welcome status in my inbox, the answer is probably “no.”