Oh, Senator Craig

Oh, Senator Craig. Matt Lauer is being so nice to you, so gentle with his words, just as he did with the glib Mr. Cruise, but let’s be honest. You’re that guy.

For me to believe that you didn’t do this, I also have to believe that every guy who didn’t call and later explained it with an “I dropped my cell in the toilet” or “I spent the night in the ER with one ruptured testicle after I caught it in the oven baking brownies for the homeless” really did so. I haven’t believed them since the 8th grade. And neither has your wife. You know, the woman you hid your arrest from.

For me to believe that a local Minneapolis cop set you up for this, somehow mistook your foot tapping and wedding-ring laden jazz hands for something other than an invitation to the naughty side, I’d have to buy a Cafepress “OJ was Framed!” junior ringer tee, and I’m quite sure my money would be better spent on your children’s therapy.

Sir, for me to believe that you actually don’t remember employing a well-established, synchronized series of movements a la Dancing with the Boys, I’d also have to believe that Clinton didn’t remember that Cigar in the Conservatory with Colonel Lewinski. Please don’t insult our collective intelligence. We Americans are a bright people, even if some of us did buy into the Bush sale items that were those elusive weapons of mass destruction. And “I don’t recall?” I don’t recall who worked as the puppeteer for Alf. Or where I was for Arbor Day 1974. This, Senator Craig? Like our first yeast infection, this we’d all recall.

You see, as hard as it may be for you to believe, 10 out of 10 of us have indeed used a public bathroom, and in the vast majority of cases we weren’t catchers calling fastballs to the pitchers next to us. If my foot ever were to slip into a neighboring potty area, which would take quite an extension of my squatty legs and yours, it would be followed with an “excuse me” or an “I’m sorry” or at the very least “my apologies, I’m not attempting to have the oral sexuals with you before my evening shuttle to National Airport,” things I’m pretty sure were covered in your freshman Hill manual.

I don’t know how to guide an airplane in for safe landing. I don’t know how to tell someone I’m angry using American sign language. And I certainly don’t have the foggiest as to how I might ask a stranger to have sex with me in a neighboring bathroom stall using just my feet and hands. Seems you did.

Land any planes lately, Mr. Craig?