People say I’m no fun, but would a no fun guy go to his niece Jackie’s sixth birthday party last weekend?

You probably can’t picture me standing in a room full of colorful balloons. That’s because there were no balloons. I wouldn’t allow it. Their manufacture involves toxic petrochemicals. Their disposal endangers wildlife. They can burst in an instant, causing fright. Balloons are not safe at any size. But you don’t need balloons to have fun, right?

Once all of her friends arrived, Jackie cut the cake with the rubber spoon I gave her. Jackie was about to open her presents, but before she did that, I wanted to share a story with her friends. A story about democracy and how it was killed at the hands of a corporatocracy that stifles free expression and buys politicians like you kids buy GI Joes and matchbox cars or whatever the hell kind of imported Chinese crap you want this week.

You can imagine my surprise when one of my unpaid interns interrupted my morning muckraking to inform me about the misfortune of fellow holier-than-thou-anti-corporate-crusader Eliot Spitzer. I had a soft-spot in my heart for Spitz. He, Susan Sarandon, and I used to play a regular game of Sierra Club edition Monopoly whenever all three of us happened to be in D.C. (Yellowstone replaces upscale Park Place and every time you pass “Go” you get 200 carbon offset credits, but beware of landing on the B&O railroad to Three Mile Island.)

Anyway, that a man who had once prosecuted organized prostitution rings would now be caught in one will undoubtedly be viewed as the new textbook example of hypocrisy. I am not condoning Spitzer’s actions, although the possibility did cross my mind that he might have been doing undercover research on the price-gouging practices of these upscale bordellos.

Geez. I haven’t gotten this many nasty voicemails since Michael Moore and I toilet-papered Gloria Steinem’s house back in ‘78. I know announcing my 4th run for President might be seen in some circles as imprudent, but running this year is crucial groundwork for a third party victory in 2020. (Don’t worry. Although I will only be 85 years old, by then, I will still be younger than John McCain’s mother, who, by the way, I’d definitely consider first-lady material.)

After Barack’s bestselling Audacity of Hope, I have put pen to paper on a series of books reaching out to potential Nader voters in 2020 – today’s crucial 8 to 13 year old demographic. It’s a little known fact, but I co-wrote Goodnight Moon, but “goodnight” was meant in the “impending doom due to ecological harm” sense.

It shouldn’t be hard to whip out a few more kiddie classics. Keep an eye out for:

• James and the Giant Pesticide-Laden Peach

He won’t admit it, but Ron Paul is practically running on my third-party ticket. And while I don’t agree with him on every point. I was impressed that he raised four million dollars in one day. Unless my campaign starts showing some signs of life, I might just vote for him next November.

via Flickr by cmiper

Last week, a sizable gathering of conservative religious leaders retreated to Utah to eat salt-water taffy and discuss their collective disappointment with the front runners in Republican presidential field. Upset that pro-choice, anti-gun candidate Rudy Giuliani’s political halo is still gleaming, they’ve decreed:

If there is a pro-abortion nominee [elected in the primary] we will consider working with a third party…

As soon as I read the news, I subleased my apartment on Craigslist, bought a bio-diesel pick-up truck, and headed West to translate my views into the political psalms of the heartland. Here are the beginnings of a new message. I am still the same old Nader, just with a much broader and, albeit, more pious base this go around.

…
Pro-life: I’m not afraid to say that the life of a sapling begins at germination. I am totally opposed to the abhorrent and immoral procedure of clear-cutting — except, of course, in the rare cases where the health of the forest ecosystem is at risk.

2nd Amendment: I’m 100 percent in favor of the right to bear arms. Let it also be known, that I full-heartedly support bear legs, and for the most part, the torso.

I don’t often get sick. My immune system has really been strengthened over the years by attending all those grassroots meetings; shaking mitts with thousands of teamsters, who would rather spit-shine the shoes of a Vanderbilt than wash their hands; breaking bread with incense drenched hippies who eat from shared plates and cardboard spoons; not to mention the general poor hygiene of many of the college interns in my office. But this morning’s mucus was flying from my nose like the swallows of Capistrano.

When I reached the medicine counter at CVS, an overweight woman, busy scrutinizing the active ingredients in a variety of athlete’s foot medications, blocked my path. While I am usually a strong supporter of comparative shopping, the aisles were narrow and her large shopping presence obstructed the antihistamines.

Reaching over her cart full of diet cola and Sun Chips, I stretched clumsily for a box of DayQuil. My hands fumbled as I tried to emancipate the pills. I can’t help but feel this country has gone backwards instead of forwards in terms of fraud, waste, and abuse in pharmaceutical packaging. First of all, getting the gel-caps out of the box, stripping the plastic wrap while struggling with the aluminum paper sheath and its three child-safety flaps, is harder than winning a game of Connect Four against Gary Kasparov. (It’s possible, but it’s still really hard).

Associated Press

I don’t mean to be a Nagging Nader to my fellow social justice enthusiasts at Greenpeace, but their latest produce protest in Thailand was a bit of a dud:

The environmental group dumped the papayas in front of the Agriculture and Cooperatives Ministry yesterday to make its objection to the lifting of the ban loud and clear to the government. Passers-by took matters, and tonnes of papayas dumped by Greenpeace, into their own hands, and ran off.