For some time now, pundits have poked fun at New York City’s voters, perhaps with some justification. It is difficult for many to understand how Eliot Spitzer, a man now best-known for spending thousands of dollars a night on prostitutes, could be a credible candidate for Comptroller. The continuing cavalcade of convictions of local politicians for depressingly banal acts of theft and fraud does little to burnish the electorate’s image, and the recent disclosure that Charlie Rangel proposes to anoint David Paterson — perhaps the most woebegone fool ever to occupy the governor’s mansion — as his successor to Congress seems baffling, since Paterson’s brief tenure in Albany was distinguished only by ineptitude of Dickensian proportion.

But all this pales in comparison to the Weiner fiasco, which, up until now, defied explanation or understanding. Up until now. Today, however, the New York Post published photos of a bikini-clad Sydney Leathers — the temptress behind Weiner’s most recent imbroglio — frolicking in the surf.

A hunka burnin’ love….

Ulysses famously lashed himself to the mast of his ship to protect him from the song of the Siren.  Now check out Sydney.  Can any red-blooded man among us say with credulity that we are proof against an allure this compelling? Can we all now not clearly see his helplessness? Cannot we, with a renewed sense of compassion and understanding, forgive his indiscretion? No? You need more?

Nice tats.

Nice tats.

Well, you see what I mean.  Irresistible.  Weiner’s weakness, if regrettable, is now at least comprehensible. Even his texts seem less tawdry. Consider now the charming tenderness, when put into proper context, of “I want to f**k you so hard your tits hit your head!”

Shame on Weiner, certainly, but shame also on all of us. Now we can see that, under the right circumstances, we are all Anthony Weiner.   We owe him our thanks for reminding us that even in a world of online dating and cellphone sex, romance still lives on.  Viva Weiner!