The wrong bulge

Why is it that whenever a politician is busted for sending R-rated photos of himself, it always seems to be the wrong politician? Case in point, Anthony Weiner. I can honestly say that I never looked at him and imagined wanting to see his bulge, nor did I ever wish to see the somewhat scorched-looking torso of Rep. Chris Lee.

Why did these politicians think that sending lewd images of themselves would get some woman hot? Anthony Weiner's political career did impress me - he has a great point of view and great panache, although like many politicians, his debut in politics seemed a little shady. But he clearly has bad judgment if he thought his bulge was going to entice, rather than repel, any female onlooker.

You would think it would be the so-called hot ones who have pictures of themselves scantily clad at the ready. I am not attracted either to Men's Health coverboy Rep. Aaron Schock nor Sen. Scott Brown, two oft-mentioned "hunks" o' government. But if anyone was going to flash a bulge, you would think it would be these two.

Currently, the only politician I am attracted to (now that Tony Blair and Idi Amin are out of office) is Rep. Paul Ryan, or, as I like to call him, "the Dark Lord." Truly, so cute! But so evil, as well. Can't you just imagine his blue eyes boring into you as you (bound and gagged, of course) struggle to moan for help? Just to look at his beautiful, manicured hands is to imagine those hands cutting off your oxygen, just as he is trying to do with America's budget. Where is his bulge? Where is his blue dress? Nowhere, that's where. Phooey.

If anyone has a picture of Paul Ryan naked, and doesn't mind me building a blog post around it (and forwarding it to a small group of like-minded political enthusiasts), please send me a jpeg?

Idi Amin for TopShop

Everyone at work loved my blouse today! It was a short-sleeve button-up shirt from Marc by Marc Jacobs, which I daringly paired with some light-blue corduroys from Club Monaco. High on the compliments I was receiving for the shirt, I went over to Alyse's, where I came down to earth by helping her clean her apartment. This entailed unpacking a vast trunk of past outfits from her recent summer abroad in Europe, where she took lots of pictures and lots of lovers, most of whom gave her some scrap of fabric to remember them by. We breathed in the musk of these emotionally unavailable men, and it made our heads spin. I took the pieces out of the trunk, one by one, and their beauty transported me to other worlds, other times. "What a beautiful bikini!" I exclaimed while holding one piece, but it turned out to be a handkerchief. (Whew!) "Look at this exquisite Israeli cloth!" I cried while fingering an item that turned out to be a Louis Vuitton scarf. Everything seemed so exotic to me - and much of it seemed vaguely African. What I thought was a Moroccan scarf turned out to be a blouse. What I deemed a Bangladeshi shepherd's cloak was actually a pair of pants. We became consumed with the fun of mis-interpreting fashion, and invented new lines, new designers, for her outfits. I called one blouse "Nora for Target." (Nora is a friend of hers who is a successful actress, if fond of simple styles). Emboldened, I called the next item out of the trunk - which was ill-advised and overly ambitious - "Isaac Mizrahi for Sears." Alyse countered that the belt I'm wearing as a sash in this picture was "Idi Amin for TopShop." ! Where could we go from that one? Where - I ask you!? My cousin beat me at my own game!