Dawn calls me, to tell me to check the news regarding New York Governor Eliot Spitzer. Hoo, boy, dandy, is he in trouble.

Later in the day he gives a brief statement, with his wife dutifully at his side, natch. And by brief I mean all of 182 words. Here’s fifty of them:

Today I want to briefly address a private matter. I have acted in a way that violates my obligations to my family and violates my, or any, sense of right and wrong. I apologize first and most importantly to my family. I apologize to the public, whom I promised better.

A private matter? Are you kidding me? Good luck trying to keep this a private matter, while you’re facing federal criminal charges.

I keep trying to come up with a spits-or-swallows pun with the name Spitzer, for the title of this blog post, but it keeps eluding me. And Daniel Gross in Slate will write about a common feeling on Wall Street regarding the Governor’s spectacular downfall: Spitzenfreude. I’d use that as the title, but I’m not that thrilled about the whole thing. Dude never prosecuted me for anything.

I do, of course, feel for the wife and kids. Oh, especially for the kids. Three teenagers, he’s got. That’s just all levels of suck for them.