Without going all Elizabeth Warren on his ass, as in, as the saying goes, cutting him a new one, much as he deserves it, Clinton might have addressed him simply and directly, even politely and demurely, asking: "Why are you behaving like that Donald? Don't you know interrupting as much as you do is rude and unfair? Donald, Donald, do you think people — do you think women — really liked being talked over?"
What would he say?
"No, it's fair, it's not rude, it's great! And the truth is, Hillary, real women love it! Maybe you didn't love it enough, Hillary. Maybe that's why Bill turned to Lewinsky, that pudgy lox-and-bagel-filled slut!"
The national audience gasps. It seems to many Trump has lost the election — and his mind.
But the debate, due a moderator whose main ambition is to get out of there in one piece, resumes. So Trump keeps interrupting, overriding, shouting, howling, yelling, which he cannot desist from doing — I know almost for a fact, yeah, almost, the doc has agreed to talk to me, it's the amphetamines that make him do it, whether they come in the form of speed, per se, or the nifty dopamine reuptake inhibitors, like Ritalin and Adderall, and hence the yelling and the sweats — Hillary might, a la Britney Spears, but sotto voce, sing,
"Oops, I did it again
I played with your heart, got lost in the game
Oh baby, baby . . . "
All right, enough with the fantasy of Clinton getting out of her unnecessary teletubby drag and doing a sweet soft shoe. . .
Back to the amphetamines and whatever else Trump might be on: there should be drug testing for these debates, same as for the Olympics or baseball. Is the World Series more important than the presidency? Well, then.
Where have all the steroids gone? Dunno. Trump knows. Yeah.
So, you test positive for performance enhancing drugs, you're ejected from the debate.
Bye bye Donald, bye bye.
To the outhouse of history, you go, the compost pile, where you know, underneath all your bluster, is where you belong.