Bunga Bunga, Bro!

Call me crazy, but I’ve been thinking about other people. Maybe it’s because I’ve been off of vodka since May 26th.  You should know I’m really very disciplined.

So I’ve been thinking about Tiger Woods and Arnold Schwarznegger and what they have in common. Which is very little besides buckloads of alimony and endorsements. I’ve also been thinking about old John Edwards and Eliot Spitzer and what they have in common. Almost nothing. And then I started thinking about Silvio Berlusconi.

What does Berlusconi have in common with these other publicly ridiculed philanderers? They’ve all been caught dabbling outside of their miserable marriages. Some were with hookers, others with maids. Some were with the sort of trashy chicks you’d expect to find overboozed at a hunting lodge on the outskirts of Bozeman, MT. But not Signor Berlusconi!  Well sure, some of those women were ladies of easy virtue. But more importantly, none of Berlusconi’s women look they belong in Bakersfield. And although their job description might’ve forced them to get down and work on their hands and knees, they weren’t down there scrubbing the floor with Fabuloso. That much I can guarantee.

Berlusconi the corrupt politician, chauvinist, misogynist, and horrific Prime Minister might be guilty of providing inadequate aid to Abruzzo after the earthquakes or for snoozing in whatever you call Italy’s Oval Office while they become the next Greece –but for all of his numerous and horrible faults, none of them include a one time intern named Monica Lewinsky. No, this man did not throw himself upon hired help. Rather, he hired help to throw themselves on him and for that he is a prince among his cohort of failed Lotharios.

Sure, he’s seventy-two and nobody has anything nice to say about him. Nor should they. And yeah, he’s broken all of his own country’s laws. All the more reason he should’ve been caught with two underage toothless Albanian sisters in a gas station bathroom, but he wasn’t.

And worst of all or maybe best, while Tiger’s hair is turning gray, John Edward is “suicidal” about the prospect of  jail, Eliot Spitzer has been publicly sentenced to a caricature, and Arnold… well, he’s a little different because that dude honestly does not give a fuck. I’m being totally serious. He doesn’t care about anything. If only he had better taste in women or maybe if his best onscreen performance wasn’t the documentary Pumping Iron then maybe I’d put him in Berlusconi’s league, but he really isn’t. Still, while the rest of these guys are walking around with nothing but their recent castration on their minds, Berlusconi and Arnold are pulling up their trousers, sending someone else the bill and looking for the next one.

Arnold’s got a two movie deal and a house for each of his twenty-seven kids (when they emerge from obscurity/San Bernardino). Berlusconi’s seventy-two and thrusts his arthritic pelvis at every Moroccan nubile as if she might be his last because let’s get real. This dude should be dead already. Bunga bunga, bro.

The Neapolitan Mastiff

This is Berlusconi’s campaign aid from 2008. Bear the lead-in because this is a gem.

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