Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but if they didn't want Washington to be a hotbed of sexual activity, they shouldn't have named it after the guy who fathered the entire country. I mean, what else can you expect from a town that's famed for its cherry blossoms?
Sex has served as the you-don't-want-to-know-where-it's-been coin of the realm in American politics, long before the Clintons and Condits came along. Thomas Jefferson is said to have sired a child by one of his slaves, and, like I said, I wouldn't be surprised if the original George W. left a set of those wooden teeth on the wrong nightstand now and then.
Let's face it: there's constant groping going on in our nation's capital even when George Bush isn't trying to find the right word.
Do I think power corrupted Gary Condit? No. You can't blame Congress for turning him into something he already was. Gary Condit is simply a skeevy hound using the illusion of power to get laid. An everyman, as it were. If Condit wasn't a congressman, he'd be working as a car salesman who appears in his own TV commercials somewhere in central California, trying to nail female customers with the same mix of low-rent celebrity and bullshit power by telling them he's John Davidson's half-brother and he can "do something" for them on the undercoating.
Hey, at least if Condit had spent more time in California, he could've gotten some decent plastic surgery. Oedipus Rex had a better eye job. Looks like this guy had his crow's feet dermabraded out by some piercing pagoda flunky in Silver Spring, Maryland, who gave him a great rate but unfortunately ensured that good old Gary would spend the rest of his life looking like Lee Harvey Oswald in the nanosecond he spotted Jack Ruby lurching towards him.
Oh, by the way. I don't think Condit had anything to do with Chandra Levy's disappearance. Because I believe he was too busy at the time arranging for the death of Robert Blake's wife.
You know, it's guys like Condit who make me usually side with the women in these libidinal conflagrations. Everyone criticized Monica Lewinsky for being so indiscreet about blowing the President, but come on: What's the point of blowing the President if you can't tell everyone about it? I mean, there've only been 42 of those cocks and you had one lodged in your noggin. Why not take out an ad in the trades?
Now, I don't believe there's any danger of a sex scandal with our current administration. President Bush not only appears to be deeply in love with his wife, he thinks "fetish" is something you crumble on top of a Greek salad. And as for Dick Cheney, well, his team of doctors has cautioned him to not even look at a Sears bra ad, much less fuck.
More disturbing than the sex scandals that emanate from Washington, DC, is the realization that they are merely the tip of the vice-berg. The elective process in our nation is like a recipe for kink: Take some jagoff in a clip-on tie who, under any other circumstances, couldn't get laid if his penis had its own vagina; send him far away from his bowling-trophy wife for months at a time; stir in a little power and influence, and fold it all into a town that has more over-used escorts than a Budget rent-a-car lot. Add to that thousands of wide-eyed young acolytes flooding into the Below-the-Beltway each year, giving off a heady fer-a-moan brew of ambition and naivete that an aging political billy goat can smell a mile away. Christ, Washington is like Club Med for doughy, old, unattractive white guys. The crew from "Cocoon" would be considered the Rat Pack in DC. You think I'm exaggerating the way it works down there, folks? I don't think so. Let's put it this way: Newt Gingrich was getting laid. OK? Nuff said.
Henry Kissinger once said, "Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac." He was right because no one got more primo skirt than Hank Kissinger in the 70's, and this guy looked like a troll doll hanging from the rearview mirror of a Volkswagen Beetle.
What trips up politicians is never the actual sex itself. We know they have sex. We expect them to have sex. What we hate is the arrogance that accompanies the inevitable exposure of the sex as unfailingly as seagulls trailing chum. Somehow, Mr. Smith-Comes-On-Washington starts to assume that the American public is just as gullible as the 20-year-old kid that he's been bending over his desk on alternate Wednesday evenings for the last two years. Full of pry-appic swagger, when the rumors of hanky-panky start percolating, he runs his hand through his blow-dried Bobby Goldsboro helmet-cut coif, then maybe he sprays a shot of Binaca in his mouth, shoots his cuffs, and goes in front of the news cameras and denies everything. Practically insists that Wolf Blitzer hook his nuts up to a polygraph. And he just keeps on smiling that "Fuck you, you can't touch me, I'm bulletproof cause I got my constituents a plow museum built last year" grin. Come on, give us more credit than that. We know you're fucking around. Just cop to it. We read you like the top line of an eye chart. We know why Strom Thurmond keeps going to work everyday. Because of the very good possibility that one day soon, he's gonna get lucky with some hot, young 80-year-old.
Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.