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Hot From the Debate: “Time to Go, Joe!”

Hot gossip from today's debate:  Alan Schlesinger pwned Loser Joe again.  Hard.  Drew blood.  Stephen Colbert, please have him on your show.  I asked you once nicely.  Don't make me get nasty!

Joe kept going over his alotted time, so much so that CBS moderator Bob Schieffer had to cut him off abruptly.  Joe also tried to beef up his GOP credentials by calling for. . . wait for it. . . regime change in Iran.  As if one FUBAR war of choice were not enough.  The man is criminally, homicidally insane.  To make the case for his reelection to DC's status quo club, Joe kept harping on all the pork he says he can bring to the state, though my sources say the audience didn't react very well to that sales pitch.

But here's the best part:

Schlesinger ripped into Joe up, down, left and right over his record, calling him an out and out failure, and refusing to allow Joe to make the case for the Republican votes he so craves.  At one point, Schlesinger began an exchange that went something like this:

Schlesinger:  If you had someone doing a job for eighteen years, and after eighteen years, their record was one of complete failure, what would you do?  What do you think should happen with that person?. . .  Ned, you're a businessman:  what would you say about someone like that? 

Lamont:  I'd say, "It's time to go, Joe!" 

Alan Schlesinger is a real character, a regular Republican guy's guy with nothing to lose, who likes horses, the casinos and the ladies, and is willing to stand up for Joe sixpack, who doesn't want Holy Joe Lieberman sniffing into the working man's online porn.  

Folks, we have a new media personality in Alan Schlesinger on our hands, and a totally new race in Connecticut.  You can bet the whiny incumbocrat diva Miss Holy Joe is not at all pleased today.  Pass the popcorn. 

UPDATE:  Stoller has some backstage video from a monitor. 

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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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