Big Daddy

Big Daddy

Dear Big Daddy,
In light of recent events, should we all be glad that you were never on the planet at the same time as Twitter?
–Tittering in Tuolumne

Dear Tit,
You can rest assured that if I had been around at the same time as the one communications medium that is even shallower than the Internet, I would never have had my own Twitter account nor would I have subscribed to anyone else’s. Hell, I’m so old, I thought “Twitter” was a verb meaning “to turn into a twit.”

And, lo and behold, I was right (again).

Now I don’t know much about technology but I do know a bit about women. If I were to stoop so low as to give dating advice to the aptly-named Congressman Weiner (that’s “weener” as in Oscar Mayer), it would start with this: No one wants to see a picture of your namesake.

Think you’re endowed like Harvard? Well, good for you. But by dropping tweet on some unwitting lass, you’ve turned that positive into a creepy, creepy negative.

Women aren’t men. If a man gets sent an unsolicited photo of an attractive female body part, he’ll probably go buy a lottery ticket because he’s having a lucky day.

But if you twit a woman you’ve never met a photo of your money-spender, and she replies positively, chances are she’s either software fishing for your credit card number or an overweight middle-aged guy living in his mom’s attic. Best case scenario: Brad, that muscular barista in Chelsea. Worst case: cop.

Now,  a young lady might be quite happy to meet the junior member from New York, but you’d better make her acquaintance in other ways first. Charm her socks off, then give her a pleasant surprise. Just because that not-a-gun in your pocket tells you what to do doesn’t mean that it’s capable of persuading her of anything.

They didn’t call me Big Daddy for nothing, but when it came to wooing the ladies, what was behind my eyes was a lot more important than what was behind my zipper.

Of course, Rep. Weiner’s performance under pressure doesn’t leave me much confidence he could charm a penguin out of a sauna. Rule one, don’t lie. Rule two, if you do, at least stick to your story, especially when it’s going to be hard to prove you wrong.

Rule three, your wife is a stone fox. Who works for Hillary Clinton. You stupid, stupid man. Google “Huma Abedin,” or even “weiner wife,” poor woman, and you’ll see what might happen if Kamala Harris and Eva Longoria had a baby (can we get on that, stem cell people?).  Even if you were faithful, seeing your schlubby mug standing next to her would already annoy people. You’ll never get the sympathy of women, but at least you want men to think, “I’d cheat on her,” not “I’d cheat with her.” You two are the political equivalent of a beer commercial.

Cheating on someone both well-known and that far out of your league, who gets free advice from one of the most publicly-wronged wives in history … You, sir, are no Bill Clinton. We don’t like you so much we’ll forgive you. Meanwhile, your pretty wife is nowhere to be seen. But I’d be willing to bet she’s choosing among a number of attractive shoulders that have been offered to her to cry on.

Now I’ll admit that me berating a cheater is about as credible as Bernie Madoff scolding a shoplifter. But at least I did mine with style and grace, in a pre-media age, on my pre-fame wife, who was hundreds of miles away. As pigs go, I was one class act. I left it to others to talk up my exploits, and if somebody wanted to print an embarrassing photo of me, I at least made them go through the trouble of hiring a private eye.

Oh, and what’s this? You also like to twit out shots of your pecs? Hmm. You know, if we ever needed proof that biceps and a bulge don’t make the man, see the case of our recent former couldn’t-really-Governator. He had both, but most of us still think of him a hapless governor, a low-rent philanderer, and generally not someone we want to emulate. He’s spent his life wearing the kind of man suit most of us could only dream of owning, but I doubt many of us consider him much of a man.   

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