Anthony Weiner: Searching for the Real Sexter!

Am I the only one who made that rather crude association? Today, a local TV reporter stopped by Congressman Weiner’s office to talk with him. Weiner’s staffers, having had enough, called the police. Not before this exchange happened, however, with a different reporter:

Cordes: “Congressman, I think the main question people are asking is, was that a picture of you?”
Weiner: “Well the main question that a lot of people are asking is did I send the photograph. I did not, this was a prank, a hoax.”
Cordes: “So it sounds like it was a photo of you.”
Weiner: “Well, we’re going to try to find out exactly what happened.”

I am pretty sure that, like O.J., Weiner knows exactly what happened. But the intrepid Congressman assures us that he is searching for the real sexter!
UPDATE: The incomparable IowaHawk weighs in with “Farewell, My Weiner,” a noir tale in which Congressman Weiner hires private detective Dan Rather to get to the bottom of Weinergate:

My name is Rather. And I’m a dick.

Weiner and Rather soon find the malefactors who are responsible for “hacking” Weiner’s Twitter account:

The sun had already set on the Pacific as I wrestled the Prius silently up Topanga Canyon to Breitbart Manor, home of LA’s notorious news pornographer. To keep him from accidentally blurting out another “glavin,” Weiner insisted I fit him with a tight fitting ball gag. We parked the car and trudged up a secluded path that led to the swimming pool of the glassy modern hilltop estate, just as [Charles] Johnson had mapped.
“AYIHN!!” mumbled Weiner.
As we crept toward the house we heard maniacal laughing and blaring disco music, punctuated by the wafting sickly aroma of unconfirmed innuendo. It seemed Breitbart had company – and we were about to witness one of his infamous Teabagger conspiracy orgies. I slid a glass partition door open, holding my blackjack tightly in case we were jumped by one of Breitbart’s thugs. We sidled our way to the noise and the smell, and peered around a Lucite pillar into a big open fern-lined room.
In a sunken conversation pit sat a rogue’s gallery of the Internet’s sleaziest out-of-context adult information celebrities: the criminally insane Ace. Malkin the Dragon Lady. The Powerline goons. The fez-adorned weasel Allahpundit. The smoothly villanous Professor Reynolds. And sprawled regally on a cushion, Breitbart. All appear half addled on Tweet and wiener jokes. Sensing the element of surprise was on our side, I jumped from behind the pillar.
“Freeze scumbags! Looks like you’ll all be enrolling remedial Journalism at State Pen.”

Read it all!

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