I Know a Wiener Man, He Owns a Wiener Van. . .

This morning, I finally read my first full article about the asinine antics of Anthony Weiner. Prior to today's article, the most I knew about the N.Y. senator was that someone saw a photo of him in his underwear. Oh, and that his name is kind of funny, considering.

I can practically hear Frah Brucher's horses whinnying every time Weiner's name rolls off the media's tongue.

In this morning's article, Weiner finally confessed to what he'd been denying all week long. Turns out, he really was trying to scintillate some sexy Sadie in his skivvies.

Maybe I just haven't seen enough kinds of men's underwear, but I'm having trouble understanding all of this juxtaposing in one's Jockeys.

What really baffles me, though,--even more than Weiner being too sexy for his pants--is the way in which some people so blatantly lie, despite the facts.

True, I've been that person from time to time. One 7th-grade overnight, in particular, comes to mind. A group of us were gathered in Sharon's basement, playing a casual version of "truth or dare" with each other. When someone asked if any of us had pubic hair yet, I made a face like I'd just smelled the most awful fart in the world. Now, considering we'd all just eaten four Totino's pizzas and three bags of Cheetos, it's possible I really had just smelled the most awful fart in the world, but my face was a diversionary tactic more than anything else.

Later that night, I would add more hubris to my ever-growing pile of lies, claiming that "of COURSE I wash my hair more than once a week! G-YAAAAAHD!"

I shudder to think of the ways in which I would have been outed that night, had such devices as cell phones and Twitter existed in 1975. Then again, we probably could have escaped men's perms and the big-hair '80s if social networking had been around earlier. . . .

Anyway, back to weiner man, . . .

Politicians, in particular, have become practiced liars. Practice, though, doesn't make perfect, a fact the truth always proves. Frankly, I don't know of a pair of jeans that could endure the spin cycles these people's stories go through every day. And I have never once respected someone more when they finally come clean from all their lies. In fact, Weiner probably could have saved his hot dog some trouble simply by fessing up immediately. Surely, the public could forgive a weird undie fetish more easily than they'd forgive the propensity for repeated lying.

"I messed up."

"I'm sorry."

"I lied."

"I was wrong."

We don't hear these words enough in our language anymore. My own children know that their troubles will only deepen if they ever frame their mistakes in polished explanations. I don't want them to explain their mistakes. I want them to own them.

Surely, a capitalistic society like ours would be open to such ownership.