Dear Mr. Schieffer
After Bob introduces the candidates, but just before he starts in on his list of brilliant questions, he should make a little announcement.
“Gentleman, this campaign is definitely missing something. And since this is the last time that you two have agreed to sit down together — not to mention the fact that I am constantly on the prowl for seasonal sports metaphors — I have decided to call an audible.
“Instead of posing my beautifully prepared questions and then unsuccessfully trying to get you two off your precious talking points for the next 90 minutes, I have decided to leave the stage, sit down there in the front row and let you two visit with one another as if you might be in each other’s living room.
“No fooling. I am really leaving. No time limits. You can talk about anything you want. Football. Movies. Nationalizing the banks. Doesn’t matter to me. I just want to listen in on an intelligent conversation between two patriots who are concerned about their country.
“Take five hours if you want to. Order pizza or Chinese takeout if you want. In fact — being able to watch you two decide what takeout to order might tell us more than we have learned about either of you this entire campaign.
“I don’t care if the networks stay with it or not. That’s their problem. You two will have to decide if you want any rules. My only rule is ‘no rules.’ Have a nice chat. See ya later.”
At which point Bob does exactly what he said he would do. Then … tick, tick, tick …
Someone has to say something, right? Tell a joke. Ask about the family. My God — can you imagine if one of the candidates actually broke the ice and said something like: “You know, Senator, I heard you give a speech the other day, and I gotta tell you — it made a hell of a lot of sense to me. I was going to tell you that but my campaign manager threatened to lock me in a room with rubber walls.”
Now THAT would be a must-see TV debate. And I would be the first one to nominate Bob Schieffer for the Presidential Medal of Freedom.