Opinion

Go to hell, carlos danger!*

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This is the first time I’ve spoken at a press conference, and you’ll have to bear with me, because I’m very nervous.

Sorry, not nervous. I meant livid.

This jackass has spent the entire day pleading with me to do the walk of shame out here with him. To speak to you myself, no less. You win, honey. I’ll speak.

Where to start? I didn’t think things could get any more face-palmingly mortifying than they were two years ago, when “Carlos Danger” here accidentally tweeted a picture of his junk to the world at large.

First of all, I’ve always wondered, how did he still not know how to use Twitter at that point? You can create a bipartisan congressional middle- class caucus, but you can’t work out the difference between a direct mail and a public announcement?

At the time, my husband referred to it as “one fateful tweet.” Which I should have known was baloney. This guy is, was and will always be a total horndog. Don’t think I didn’t get into this relationship with my eyes open.

Still. Do you know what it’s like to be married to a guy whose last name is Weiner, whose career is then derailed by his obsession with his penis? This is not the life I envisioned for myself. In case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t grow up dreaming the man to whom I’d say “I do” would become a never-ending punchline for local newspapers.

But after the original scandal died down, I really thought we had a deal worked out: I would stay married to him, and he would stop playing with himself at the laptop at every available opportunity and use those many, many — many — hours to, you know, get elected mayor and govern the city.

His progressive politics are what turned me on in the first place. He gets as fired up about health care reform as he does a hot pair of “f–k me shoes.”

Even the latest girl he was sexting with got off on it. “Specifically your health-care rants were a huge turn-on,” she told him. Right before he asked her to look at his dick pics. You’re a real class act, honey.

This dichotomy reminds me of somebody else in that way. Somebody whose wife — my boss — got on the phone with me after the news broke this morning and advised me to stick with my husband, that it would pay off in the long run. She said to think about how well it worked out for her. That it was just part of paying your dues as a political wife. And that I would, of course, have a place on her campaign in 2016.

In case anyone’s forgotten, I was the goddamn traveling chief of staff to the former secretary of state. I’ve worked for Hillary Clinton for 15 years. Time magazine named me one of the rising stars of American politics.

And now I’m playing sidekick to a guy who can’t stop himself from texting the creepiest, most relentless — and perhaps saddest of all, deeply unoriginal — X-rated messages to unsuspecting female fans.

Let me let you in on a little secret, babe. Nobody wants a snapshot of your crotch. Nobody. Not ever. Not even if they explicitly say, “Yes, I want visual documentation of your penis, please send it ASAP.” They are being polite.

There are many good things to be said about penises, Anthony, but they don’t photograph well. It’s pathetic and a little hilarious that, at the age of 48 — and with a long list of impressive accomplishments in life, things that would suggest you’re a perceptive guy — you still haven’t figured this out.

Anyway, I appreciate Hillary’s advice, because she’s one of the shrewdest politicians I know. She has made some tasty lemonade out of Bill’s barrage of lemons.

But that was then, Hill, and this is now. You did stand by your man, Tammy Wynette-style, whether he deserved it or not. I don’t think women should have to do that song and dance anymore. You know what I’m talking about: the sad-eyed sidle out to the podium alongside your weaselly, philandering husband. The one I was just doing up until a moment ago.

I’m going to call B.S. on the whole practice of keeping up appearances. Ladies, let’s stop trying so hard to make everything OK. Is your husband a liar? A cheater? An abuser? Get out, and let him face the music on his own. Maybe if we weren’t so quick to make apologies for these dumbasses — and they didn’t have the “family man” image to fall back on — they’d actually have to come to terms with their destructive behavior.

I’m going to channel a different Wynette song today, sweetie. It’s called “D-I-V-O-R-C-E.” You’ll be hearing from my lawyers. New York, I think you know you can do better than this narcissistic jerkoff for your next mayor.

Thank you all for your time.