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By Andrea Peyser
January 26, 2016

Film shows Carlos Danger is still in need of a good whacking

Just call me Carlita Danger!

I was shocked to my skivvies. Objects spewed from my nose. How is it that I, a boring, monogamous and technophobic dame whose idea of sexual and electronic excitement involves getting naked and conning my hot husband into relinquishing the remote control, unwittingly scored a supporting role in the new documentary about Carlos Danger’s junk?

Insert punch line here — or better yet, keep all sharp objects away from La Danger’s hungry orifi.

Premiering at the Sundance Film Festival this week to audiences promiscuous (sorry) with excitement is “Weiner.” The doc, destined for theaters and living rooms on Showtime, is about the rise (sorry again) and crashing and burning of the former congressman who threw away his House seat, his dignity, his employability, but somehow kept his doormat wife, for the sleazy thrill of sexting pictures of his engorged manhood to random babes.

I come (yikes) into a scene recorded in 2013, about two years after he left Congress, as Danger, evidently begging for more and harsher punishment, sought the Democratic nomination for mayor.

But the doofus had relapsed, sending out even more nimble penis pics to strange and unparticular women under the nom de porn “Carlos Danger.”

His wife, Hillary Clinton’s longtime aide Huma Abedin, was pregnant at the time with the couple’s son.

Talking to me was Danger’s idea.

His communications director/masochist, Barbara Morgan, begged him not to talk to me. “I don’t think she’s a real reporter,’’ she said, according to Post columnist and film critic Kyle Smith, who filled me in from Sundance after the film’s producers refused my request for a copy.

Not a real reporter? Considering the stroking (oy!) Danger enjoyed from much of the media, I take that as a compliment.

“Let her get it out of her system,’’ Danger told Morgan.

Out of my system, Anthony?

I realize now that a guy addicted to spanking the monkey is powerless to resist a whaling by a reporter unafraid of seeing a grown man squirm. A good thing our conversation was over the phone — Danger insisted another reporter listen in. This created a journalistic three-way that, in retrospect, I’m glad I didn’t have to see.

The documentary, which gives part of Danger’s side of the conversation, doesn’t entirely capture him groveling. So here it is:

“I did these things,” he said. “These were wrong to do. I hurt my wife. I let down many people who supported me. I compounded this by being untruthful. I let down many people — including you.”

Right. I demanded to know if he had ever sexted a minor. He didn’t know.

“I’ve never had, to my knowledge, any of these inappropriate contacts with anyone who wasn’t an adult,” he started. “Of course, I never met any of these people. I wouldn’t know . . . If someone said, ‘I’m 21,’ I wouldn’t know. That’s true of communications. That reinforces the primary thing that I never met any of them.”

He admitted he never went to sexual deviants’ rehab, as he had promised, but had only met with a therapist in Texas four times — or was it three?

Nearly three years later, I need a shower.

“I did some very regrettable things I’ve apologized for,” he said.

Regrettable is mixing scotch with beer. A married guy who compulsively sexts gals, some young enough to be his daughters, is something altogether different. He’s a WEINER.

Danger lost the mayoral nomination, badly. By participating in this documentary, he proves he still seeks a good whacking.

But, hey — Carlita Danger is ready for her closeup.