Moving beyond Weiner jokes. No, seriously.

As L'affaire du Weiner surges toward its climax, perhaps we should pull back, as it were, and take some time to reflect as a society on the Meaning Of It All -- beyond, of course, its offering such an irresistible opportunity to indulge in cheap penis jokes.

For the record, I'm not spent yet. I still have a couple of dozen of them rattling around in my head. I'm not proud of this, but there it is. I was gonna do something about Weiner's poling booth. I had half a dozen revolving around the phrase "members of Congress." And then I got to thinking about the potential discovery of Tweets from Speaker Boehner that might reveal his orange tan is all over. But I knew it was time to stop when -- God help me -- I imagined a desperate Gingrich, willing to stoop to anything to get some publicity, rebooting his disastrous campaign with a series of Tweets of photos of his newts.

And thus some of us are reminded that our inner child seems to be about 12 years old -- and perhaps a little TOO eager to come out and play.

But even my inner child is getting bored with this; he's looking around for something to blow up, or maybe a frog to put down my wife's shirt. So, the story clearly has about run its course. On Saturday, Weiner took the next logical step, announcing that he was checking himself in for treatment -- of what, it's not clear, though perhaps there is a clinic somewhere that treats overweening arrogance, stupidity and generally cretinous behavior. And if not, I want in on the ground floor of investing in a nationwide chain of such rehab centers, especially in the Washington, D.C., area.

Now, we ought not to be too hard on Weiner. (Oops, I said we were moving beyond that, didn't I? Sorry.) He certainly isn't the first -- and won't be the last -- powerful man to throw it all away because he let his little head do the thinkin'. Now, he is the first Weiner to do so, so he's groundbreaking in that way. You would think an ambitious man named Weiner would have privately resolved long ago that whatever vices and illicit perks he might indulge that could threaten his career, for sure they would not involve the very thing for which his name is a euphemism. For example, if your last name were, say, Scrooge, you'd go out of your way to avoid a reputation for stiffing waitresses. Or, if you were named Douche, you'd certainly avoid jerky behavior at all costs.

I'm digressing. I promised some reflection on the social import of this all, didn't I? Well, for starters, let us note that some opportunistic women have used as an excuse for indiscriminate penis bashing. I read a couple of pieces in the last week that attempted to make a case for Weiner's behavior as emblematic of our patriarchical, masculine-dominated societal .... Zzzzzzzzz. Blah, blah, blah. One piece pulled that accused rapist that headed the IMF into the fray and name-checked a bunch of other creeps -- Woods, Roethlisberger, Favre, etc. -- in an attempt to drive home the whole "men are pigs" argument.

I think most men will cede that argument, and I will admit "The Daily Show's" Kristen Schaal got off a great line: "Men need to realize their penis has far more power over them than it does over us." But, for the record, some of my best friends have one, and as far as I know, they all keep them where they belong at all times, having learned to ignore them when socially necessary. And we are frankly embarrassed to see some of our brethren incapable of such self-control.

Besides, we men know what this penis hate from some quarters is all about: We can pee outside, women can't, and it just kills some of them.

Yeah, that's right. I went there.

Finally, there's this question I've seen explored seriously in a few venues: Is what Weiner did "cheating?" Is it infidelity to one's spouse to engage in a little online flirting or play a little "you show me yours, I'll show you mine; well, OK, I'll show you mine no matter what, even if you decide to share it with Andrew Breitbart?" With all due respect to those who argue it's harmless fun: You're idiots. Stupid on stilts. Period.

I am not interested in navel-gazing ruminations about how rapidly evolving communications technology has somehow changed the rules of what's right and what's wrong. No, no, no. It hasn't.

So, I guess now that I think about it, there really isn't any Meaning Of It All to be found here. Just a big bunch of penis jokes.

Oh, well. I've filed away a bunch of the unused ones away in a folder on my computer. Pass-word protected, natch. There still is a child in my house, after all, and I don't want her taking credit for them on the playground.

I'll bet Letterman, Stewart and Colbert, et al., have filed a bunch of their unused penis jokes away, too. For one thing we all can be assured of: Some stupid man's going to do something to make them relevant again.

God, please don't let it be Gingrich, though.