Why Not Weiner?

I've had a number of emails suggesting I paint Anthony Weiner. I wish I'd paid attention to them--it could have been the first tangible example of my "That Ass, [Insert Name of Subject Here]" series. I use the word tangible because, as anybody who reads TYOMP regularly knows, I talk a good game about painting people (See: "That Ass, Donald Trump") but oftentimes don't actually get around to doing it.

Does typing that sentence bother you?
No, it's fine. For one thing, it's obviously true. For the other, talking about the stuff but not actually doing it is part of the process.
I'm reminded of the night the bed fell on Father.
How so?
Because James Thurber once said the hardest part of being a cartoonist was convincing his wife that staring out the window was actually part of the job.
Exactly my point.
So you're okay?
Totally.
Good. We're all counting on you.

I had previously thought about doing Weiner but chose not to, for reasons not fully clear to me at this time (perhaps some misplaced sense of partisan political loyalty?). But today, when I looked across the aisle at the Illium Cafe (my local breakfast joint) and saw a headline in somebody's paper that read "Weiner seeks help" (meaning that he was checking himself into some un-named psychiatric facility) ... well, something in me snapped. I'm gonna paint that motherfucker. As God is my witness, to paraphrase the Bard.

That was Scarlett O'Hara, not Shakespeare.
Really? That whole "I will never be hungry again" business too?
Really.
Wow.
The closest she ever got to Shakespeare was banging Laurence Olivier.
I loved him in Hamlet.
Exactly.

Anyway, what's he seeking help for, exactly? Sex addition? (See: Woods, Tiger) What a load of crap. Next we're gonna read that he's asked the Reverend Billy Graham to meet with him and his wife for some prayerful healing. Surely That Ass, Dr. Phil has reached out.

My advice to Weiner is to show some balls. And not via the internet. I'm totally painting that son of a bitch.