Written by Samuel Vargo
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Thursday, 25 July 2013

image for Anthony Weiner Sexts and Stalks His Latest Victim

One of the strangest slugs I've ever seen jumped out at me just the other day: ANTHONY WEINER WANTS YOU! So I opened up the email and found this:

Hi. My name is Anthony Weiner. I've included quite a few naked pictures of myself as attachments to this email. I'm sick of twittering beautiful young women. They always rat me out to the media. So I'm sending some shots of my hot body to ugly middle-aged men like yourself. Although I'm not gay - I don't think so, anyway - I really get my rocks off sexting others. It's my fetish.

Psssst: Promise not to tell anybody about this, particularly the print or televised media. I have a mayoral race going on in New York City right now, you know. Don't be a tattletale. Let's have some fun. Send me some naked pictures of yourself. Make it snappy. I'll be waiting.

Although I found this email disgusting; and after opening Weiner's JPEG images, so totally revolting that I felt like vomiting, I composed myself. It was hard seeing another middle-aged man in so many compromising positions. What was Weiner doing with that chicken? There was another JPEG with him and a dairy cow. And alongside the bloated bovine was a calf. What the hell?! And the one in which he was wearing nothing but that hardhat and flexing his muscles? I had to laugh. And I laughed a hard belly laugh, yes I did. This political weasel, this Anthony Weiner guy, he hadn't done 15 minutes of hard labor in his life!

So I thought, why not have some fun with this nut?

I decided to look for really fat guys who were naked or semi-naked, and I was going to email them as JPEG attachments back to Weiner. I perused Google Images. I downloaded a photo of Charlie Daniels playing a fiddle. Ole Charlie was shirtless and was pretty obese in this particular JPEG. And he was covered with sweat, which was the obvious reason he took off his shirt during this particular performance - he wanted to cool down a bit. I also found another of a Sumo wrestler swathed in a tiny loincloth. If he wasn't topping 1,000 pounds, he was just shy of a ton. And this particular Mr. Sumo-Sized Sext-a-doodle image showed a leviathan even sweatier than Charlie Daniels. Obviously in some awful Sumo match, this Sumo was as ugly as Godzilla himself.

- Anyone who'd think of these guys in an objectified sexual way has to have some very serious issues going on.

So I emailed them to Weiner with the slug RE: ANTHONY WEINER WANTS YOU!

Three minutes later, my livemail account burped out this new message: HEY BIG FELLA, I LIKE WHAT I SEE and after opening it, there wasn't a message, but it came with a barrage of JPEG attachments. Not wanting to even click on any of these foul disgusting things, I simply wrote this, using the slug: RE: HEY BIG FELLA, I LIKE WHAT I SEE and flipped it back to Weiner:

Anthony: I don't know you from Adam, but if you're serious about running for Mayor of NYC, you better cut this shit out. BTW, that's not me in the photo with the slug "Without Beard," that's a Sumo wrestler. And the JPEG slugged "With Beard" is Charlie Daniels. Anyone in America would recognize him. He's as American and famous as Benjamin Franklin or Old Glory herself. And I don't even play a fiddle, for chrissakes. And anyone with common sense could see that Sumo wrestler easily outweighs Charlie by a good 500 or 600 pounds. And even though Charlie's far from being svelte, you should've known they weren't the same guy. Charlie's White Anglo-Saxon and the other guy's Asian. I'm reporting you to the FBI if you don't stop harassing me. Stop this idiocy right now! Get away from that stupid computer of yours and do something for your political campaign. Stuff some envelopes with flyers. But just stop this. No more! Understand?!

Two minutes later in my livemail box there kerr-plopped a new arrival with this arcane salacious slug: PLAYING HARD TO GET BIG BOY?

I jumped back, as I oftentimes do while reading Stephen King around the devil's hour and that horror master zings something really frightening my way. With trembling hands and sweaty palms, I stared at the screen as if the glowing thing was a dybbuk box that had just opened itself.

A minute later, another email jumped into my livemail box. This time with the slug WHAT'S THE MATTER BIG BOY, DON'T YOU WANT TO SEXT WITH ME?

I slammed my fist down on the delete key and the keyboard jumped high in the air and onto the floor. I ran across the room, getting as far away from the PC as I possibly could. Shivering in the corner in a squat position for what seemed like six hours, I finally got enough courage to stand up. I looked up to see the clock on the wall above a bookcase filled with dog-eared, moldy oldies but goodies. I realized it was only 10 minutes since the last of Weiner's emails hit my livemail. Holy Smokes! I'm actually living in one of Stephen King's tomes right now!

I tiptoed over to the computer as if I was approaching a wraith. I kept my eyes closed. When I mustered enough nerve to open them again, I shrieked. At least a dozen more messages - with much more aggressive, nasty, libidinous slugs than the earlier ones - were staring at me like little demons with horns and pointy tails.

Deciding it was a grave mistake to play this game with Anthony Weiner, I left my place after getting a five gallon can of gasoline from the garage. After filling it up at a nearby service station, I poured the accelerant all over the computer screen and pentium, along with its mouse and keyboard, then I lit a match and set the entire outfit on fire. The computer desk and half of the living room was in flames as I fled out the door.

Now I'm sitting in the hoosegow on arson charges, having burned down my house and causing severe fire damage to those surrounding it. Luckily, nobody was killed or even harmed.

The prosecutor's asking for a minimum five year prison sentence for my little firebug fiasco, but being an optimist, I look on the bright side of it all - no more Anthony Weiner!

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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