Bill De Blasio is available and looking for love.

 
On Wednesday, after 29 blissful years of marriage made in Marxist hell, former New York City Mayor Bill de Blasio and his wife Chirlane McCray announced they are separating. 

If Donald Trump had ever married an out lesbian to burnish his political credentials, I’m sure she would have looked like one of the hot French chicks in “Blue Is the Warmest Color.” When Bill de Blasio wifed up his own politically expedient lesbian, he had to set his sights a bit lower.

De Blasio is a man with a long history of taking politically expedient changes to his identity, including his birth name. He was born Warren Wilhelm Jr., but that’s a bit too Germanic to win elections in New York.

It turns out he’d noticed a few minor red flags even before their nuptials: 

“For the guy who took the chance on a woman who was an out lesbian and wrote an article called ‘I Am a Lesbian,’” Mr. de Blasio said, “there was a part of me that would at times say, ‘Hmmm, is this like a time bomb ticking? Is this something that you’re going to regret later on?’ So I always lived with that stuff.’”

Regrets, he’s had a few.

Marriages of convenience, as we know, abound in elite Democrat circles. Perhaps the most famous is the rapturous love story of Bill and Hillary Clinton, locked in their nuptial death spiral until the end of days.

You may recall that Chirlane was called the “co-mayor” in her husband’s administration, overseeing the embezzlement of a bizarrely huge sum of money, by some accounts over $1 billion. I wonder what Chirlane saw in her future husband. I suppose she saw the same thing we all see: a weak man so totally mentally castrated that he is almost more female than she is. 

She also must have seen what New Yorkers themselves saw: a politician who would one day cruise to victory as the leader of their city — which tells you all you need to know about the libs who live in New York.

The de Blasios’ announcement was a perfect reflection of the couple. No tasteful statement asking for privacy for their kids, no heartfelt press release. Instead, the separation was announced with an unprecedented level of stomach-churning cringe — and included a citywide call for hot dates. Maybe they were both auditioning for “The Bachelor.” Or “The Real Househusbands of Park Slope.” 

An unfortunate New York Times reporter was there to capture the moment as the de Blasios opened up about their new open marriage.

“‘You can’t fake it,’ Ms. McCray said Tuesday from their kitchen table,” referring to when she knew the magic was gone.

Was that, er, all she was faking?

“They are not planning to divorce, they said, but will date other people.” How optimistic of them — not if the “other people” get a vote, they won’t!

“They will continue to share the Park Slope townhouse where they raised their two children, now in their 20s.” Political props grow up so fast these days, don’t they?

All this is to say that after 29 years, our long national nightmare of not having access to Bill de Blasio’s de Dad Bod is over. Ladies and/or gents: Now’s your chance to get your hands on the least eligible bachelor in the city. Or, if he doesn’t float your boat, his wife is looking for some new crewmates, too.

Inside the newly minted swingers den, “a photo of the couple in Times Square on New Year’s Eve still greets visitors, which may come to include suitors.”

Do Bill and Chirlane understand that their children can read this article? Or perhaps the kids were educated in the New York City public schools and so are insulated from these printed horrors by their expensively acquired illiteracy. (It costs $38,000 a year per student to keep New York kids from learning to read, OK?)

But hang on a second — “suitors”? Will Bill be hosting these suitors? Suitors are male — did the Times reveal too much there? Or perhaps, since some of ex-Mrs. de Blasio’s new “visitors” might be female lesbians, we should refer to them as “pantsuitors.” 

The classy couple even asked the Times reporter to help them troll for dates: “Ms. McCray asked dryly if their phone numbers could be included in the newspaper. ‘Can I put a picture from the gym in there?’ Mr. de Blasio asked.” 

Ah yes, a photo of Bill in shorts and a sweaty T-shirt — just what the average New York Times reader craves. I’m surprised the paper doesn’t devote the entire front page to a giant de Blasio dating ad. Aren’t these creeps a little old to be this thirsty? In public, no less? 

I’m trying to imagine my parents having done this when they split up: calling the local paper, asking the reporter to get the word out about their newly single status. I would never have recovered.

“As the conversation neared its end, the former mayor pulled out his phone to play a song called ‘Mango,’ saying it might best explain their feelings now. ‘I don’t want nothing but you,’ it went. ‘Getting what you need / Even if it ain’t from me.’ Mr. de Blasio hummed a bit from his chair. Ms. McCray danced behind him, gazing ahead.”

And now I am gazing ahead too, at the nearest commode, as my lunch threatens to come back up. 

Folks, this is what the kids mean by oversharing. TMI, bro. No one wants to know your kink. No one needs to know what a creep bag you are behind closed doors. Please, for the love of God, show a shred of dignity and then, we beseech both you, go away forever.