Will yesterday’s revelation that New York Governor Eliot Spitzer secretly hired a $1,000/hour call girl in Washington, D.C. in February mark the end of Spitzer’s political career?
Eliot Spitzer spent a thousand dollars an hour to meet with a prostitute at a Washington, D.C. hotel the day before Valentine’s Day, and people are actually bothering to question whether or not he’ll have to resign as governor. Isn’t it obvious that he will soon be as gone with the wind as a fart in Chicago (or some really windy place in New York)?
Not only does this call girl scandal show Spitzer guilty of a moral lapse, it raises a few other serious concerns about his competence to carry out his duties as governor:
- He’s fiscally irresponsible. Spitzer spent a thousand bucks an hour for a prostitute. If that’s how he spends his own money, imagine what he’s been doing with the tax dollars of New Yorkers all this time! Spitzer got in trouble last year for using the state police to give his rival, the majority leader of the state senate, a hard time, so I’m sure he’s not above using government resources in other selfish ways. How much you wanna bet that new rumpus room in his private residence, complete with wall-size HDTV, Blueray player, and solid oak pool table, was bought and paid for by some earmark he snuck into a bill in the state legislature? How else could he afford $1,000/hour hookers on a governor’s salary?
- His loyalty is questionable. I don’t mean his loyalty to his wife and family, but his loyalty to his state. You’re telling me those fancy, world famous hotels in New York City weren’t good enough for the governor to indulge in one of his more ignoble interests? The governor of New York goes to Washington, D.C. to see his hookers. If I were the manager of the Waldorf-Astoria, I’d consider that a slap in the face.
- He’s a moron. Back when he was New York’s attorney general, Spitzer investigated and prosecuted people involved in several prostitution rings. Yesterday he announced that he was a customer. Why is it that whenever a public figure is brought down by an embarassing scandal, it’s always with an overpowering dose of irony? Anti-gay-marriage crusader Rev. Ted Haggard is revealed to have a long-term association with a male prostitute; ditto for Republican U.S. Senator Larry Craig; here in Hagerstown, local state delegate Robert McKee, also the president of the local chapter of Big Brothers, Big Sisters, goes down for having a computer packed with kiddie porn; and now Spitzer, the John who got famous locking up the pimps. I may be a stuffed dog, but no one this stupid should be in charge of a state.
So Spitzer’s going to resign. He has to, it’s how these things have always gone. Except for the Teapot Dome scandal — Warren Harding had the decency to die before any of that went public. The folks in New York could use that kind of class now.
I don’t see what the big deal is. So the governor of New York hired a hooker. Whoopee. At least he was smart enough to meet the girl at a hotel a few hundred miles from home, to make sure his wife and kids didn’t find out. If it weren’t for a few nosy FBI agents, Mrs. Spitzer and the little ones would still be happily in the dark about the debauched secret life of their husband and father. And speaking of the wife and kids, Spitzer was also conscientious enough to pay a little extra for a clean, classy hooker who wasn’t teeming with venereal infections, so he wouldn’t pass on a case of the French disease the next time he got his leather stretched by the old lady.
Let me tell you a story. Once, back when I was a cop, I was assigned to escort a certain individual during his visit to a big convention in Denver. I ate with him, I followed him everywhere he went, I slept in his hotel room. The second night we were there, my man got bored and threw a party in his room. A shitload of people from the convention showed up, as well as a few of my man’s more high profile chums. The hooch flowed like a Rocky Mountain stream. I never touched any, since I was on duty, but by around midnight the rest of the room was in a very, very good mood.
My man picked up the phone and called someone he said was a buddy of his. “Send us some girls over,” he said. “I want ‘em fat and nasty and ready to take it from all sides.” Not long after that the girls showed up, and they were a couple of pigs. I mean, literally, they were both pigs. The one, Isidore she said her name was, had these cute little hooves and fine pink fur so soft that I would have mounted her myself if I hadn’t been on the job.
They used those girls like a pair of pincushions. Squeals probably echo through that hotel hallway to this day. Some of the things I witnessed that night still haunt me. Let me put it this way: Have you ever seen a pig penetrated in every orifice by a donkey, two bears, and a purple dinosaur? I have.
Do you know who I was guarding that night? Barkerville. The Pound Puppy — you might not remember him. But do you think that his love of group sex with porcine prostitutes undermines his role as a somewhat snooty but lovable upper-crust aristocrat for one second? Of course not! And I can tell you firsthand that, like Spitzer, Barkerville indulged his vices responsibly; the sex he had with those pigs that night was 100% safe. I don’t know whose job it was to pick up all those spent condoms the next day, but I’m glad I didn’t have to do it.