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FDL Late Nite: Alan Schlesinger, I Feel Your Pain

Alan, I’m a partisan, okay?  You are, too.  Let’s pretend we’re at the Capitol Club knocking back some fine Laphroaig, okay?  Is it just us, off the record?  Good.

I feel your pain.

Here you are, a party guy, in both senses of the word.  No sin in that.  Look at the other guys on the Hill, what they’ve been up to lately.  A little card counting?  Puh-leeze!  Sleezier shit than that can make you Ambassador to the U-Fucking-N.  Gimme a break.

You won the endorsement of your state party.  You’re all green light gaga over preemptive strikes against Iran:  that should make the guys at Redstate and LGF sport tiny, stubby woodies, right?  Right.  You want to gut Social Security and fight the white man’s fight against the dark Latino horde swarming at the border.  Medicare?  Fuck the poor, the middle class and the old and the infirm, all the way:  you’re a true President’s man.  And now the national Republican Party – your party!- is going full guns a blazin’ for Joe Party-of-One Lieberman.

What a stab in the back!

I mean, on my side, I’m pissed the DC incumbent establishment is selling out my party and Ned Lamont by continuing to give support to Joe during what should be his Norma Desmond death march.  It pisses me off.  Lamont and the voters in our base worked hard, very hard, to get a candidate through the primary system who really represents our values.  And you and your people, you must feel the same thing:  the President and his Mayberry Macchiavellis are selling you and your conservative base voters down the river because they don’t have the balls to fight for your conservative agenda.  Are you kidding me?  How pathetic!

I have to give you some mad props, my friend:  that Hardball performance was fantastic.  You smiled all the way through, while Tweety gave you the Karl Rove fax machine knuckle massage.  Rove and his people really don’t want Matthews’ conservative and moderate viewers to see that there’s a true conservative in this CT senate race, and Tweety did his best to make you look like a schmuck.  But you kept cool.  You kept smiling.  I admire that:  you’ve got pluck.  "Plucky," that’s what you are.  You’re my plucky friend.

I wonder how many movement conservatives feel just the way I do as a movement progressive, watching the DC plutocracy screw over our candidates, over and over.  You know, let’s catch some of this bipartisan fever, you and me.  No no, take your hand off my leg.  That’s not what I meant.  Ahem.

If there’s ever anything I can do for you, my friend (other than, you know), just let me know, because that performance on Hardball was pure gold.  Alan Gold, as it were.  Cue the James Bond music:  "Gold.  Alan Gold."  I like the way that sounds.

I gotta go:  let me get the tab, Alan.  Save your scratch for the Mohegan Sun.  See ya at the debates.  You’re gonna kill!

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Pachacutec

Pachacutec

Pachacutec did not, as is commonly believed, die in 1471. To escape the tragic sight of his successors screwing up the Inca Empire he’d built, he fled east into the Amazon rain forest, where he began chewing lots of funky roots to get higher than Hunter Thompson ever dared. Oddly, these roots gave him not only a killer buzz, but also prolonged his life beyond what any other mortal has known, excluding Novakula. Whatever his doubts of the utility of living long enough to see old friends pop up in museums as mummies, or witness the bizarrely compelling spectacle of Katherine Harris, he’s learned a thing or two along the way. For one thing, he’s learned the importance of not letting morons run a country, having watched the Inca Empire suffer many civil wars requiring the eventual ruler to gain support from the priests and the national military. He now works during fleeting sober moments to build a vibrant progressive movement sufficiently strong and sustainable to drive a pointed stake through the heart of American “conservatism” forever. He enjoys a gay marriage, classic jazz and roots for the New York Mets.

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