Let’s forget Silda Spitzer for now. The question at hand is this: Did Carlita Kilpatrick, wife of Detroit’s mayor, walk in on the jaw-dropping sight of a stripper “touching her husband” as part of said stripper’s performance, leave the room, come back with “a wooden object” and commence beating on the bethonged skank?
(“Wooden object” — snerk. In my mind, it’s a rolling pin. In reality, probably nothing so fitting.)
Pity the wife of a political bounder, these days. I think we’re reaching a tipping point. I never agreed with Chris Matthews’ belief that the secret of Hillary Clinton’s success is her husband’s dowsing rod, but even allowing for it, it can’t last forever. Women can empathize with a wronged spouse, but no one likes to back a self-deluding fool. My gut says there’s more sympathy for Donna Hanover no-longer-Giuliani, pitching a public fit over her scoundrel trying to move his girlfriend into the spare bedroom, than over the spouse whose coping mechanism is to pour another martini and think of the children.
That’s why they do it, of course — for the children. They stand up with Daddy as a way of telling the kids to not be afraid, we’re all presenting a united front. Your home will not break up over this. At least for now, we’re joining hands and supporting one another, because that’s what families do.
I have no idea what the “might not be safe” activities might constitute. My money’s on coprophilia; someone else I know suggests erotic asphyxiation. It’s a truism that powerful men are among the most enthusiastic bottoms in their sex fantasies — every so often, you just have to give up control — so keep that in mind, too.
Anyone who wants to take up that in comments, go ahead, but maybe the rest of you might want to wear latex.
I’m ducking out of this entry early — the weightlifting class at the gym starts in 15 minutes. I’ll add some bloggage after I return. If you like, my last-episode Wire blog is over at The New Package (or NuPac, as we’re calling it now). For now, my flabby ass takes precedence.