If it’s Monday, this must be another episode in the gripping tale of titan of crappy pizza, Washington lobbyist and unwelcome impromptu lover man Herman Cain. If credence is given to the narrative details of today’s accuser, Mr. Cain has done his experiential due diligence in the policy area known familiarly by the cognoscenti as fellatio on demand.

Herman’s technique appears to be hopping into the car after dinner, moving from “Wasn’t dinner lovely?” to hand-to-hand offensive maneuvers under his companion’s skirt. Romantically, this is smooth without the letter o. Mr. Cain’s history with women indicates he is less Al Green than he is al-Awlaki.

I’m no political consultant, but I gather that attempts at spinning this revelation would appear to be taking the political brand of unpolished candidate a backseat too far. Of course there’s an old joke that Italian foreplay consists of “Hey, look at this.” So perhaps Herman as the embodiment of the Godfather dream is the correct play.

Still, his behavior with women reeks (literally) of a certain too familiar type, and betrays a rudimentary hubris not unconnected to the kind that would lead such a manifestly unqualified man to think himself qualified to run for president.  There is something all too familiar in the success –in-business-inflated ego (it’s really time for the word misinflated to enter the lexicon) that prompts such men (Carly Fiorina and Meg Whitman may be the female counterparts, sans the sexual predation far as we know) to believe themselves on the basis of this genuine but narrow business success, capable of any and all great things, leader of the free world not to be excluded.

Evidencing nothing even remotely as foundational as genuine curiosity about subjects customarily considered pertinent to the governance of the United States: economics, constitutional law, history or foreign policy let’s say, and going so far as to be all but blithely dismissive of knowledge and expertise, Cain is left with nothing upon which to predicate or to recommend a quest for public office but running a pizza company and being a professional nag to public officials, and whatever bloating of ego then occurred as a result.

Both limits of intelligence and absence of self-awareness are clearly exposed by the apparent failure to consider, or at least to consider with any modicum of sober deliberation the eventual repercussions possible with a history of such unseemly and possibly criminal multiple incidents with women before choosing to run for office. The counterpart to this bull-headed sort of ego is that the incidents, and more importantly the human beings themselves never even registered as significant to the man: the women, as well as the egregiousness of the acts lodged neither in the conscience or even the memory it would seem.

Worse, what in terms of character, and perhaps of manhood, is to be concluded about the sort of person either content with or preferring the bruiting of raw power as a substitute for basic seduction… or even basic appeal? One would think that these romantic drone attacks would be beneath a person with even minimal romantic self-regard, this reversion to sexual muggings a humiliating admission if nothing else. Expectations are not unduly high, yet a great distance and ample operating room exists between the wiles of Byron or the Casanova-esque erotic rope a dope and the assault of Bigfoot.

From a distance, the city of Washington certainly emits a scent of clumsy sex,  mating appearing to be so ploddingly and prosaically undertaken one wonders how little bureaucrats, rug rat consultants and think tank tykes ever emerge.  As a place for discriminating voyeurs, yet another scandal confirms it as of little interest.

Of course, I live in LA, the only place where thinking with your genitalia counts as proof of thought.