Blazer hikes on the long campaign trail

America is on a downward spiral rivaled only by J. Lo's career after Gigli. Recession, pollution and Arnold Schwarzenegger are frolicking about the country like so many headless chickens, and the time has come to take action.

Citizens of Montgomery Blair: I sit here before you to announce that, in accordance with my patriotic duty as an American, nay, as a human being, I am joining the masses and running for governor of California.

I am neither deterred by the fact that the date for filing my candidacy is 55 days past due nor by the fact that I have never lived in California. This is California we're talking about. Deadlines there are made to be conveniently ignored while sipping piña coladas on the beach surrounded by happily proportioned but cognitively inhibited Swedish bodybuilders named Sven. And the country, er, state will be easier to run from my basement fortress on the East Coast, away from Scandinavian distractions.

Besides, my excellent grassroots support will more than compensate for any legal flaws in my plans. An informal poll of six Blazers (who may or may not have been my easily bribed friends) shows that five of them will vote for me. The sixth person doesn't matter anyway, because as soon as I become governor, I will be exiling her to Guam.

Of course, Californians expect a large helping of entertainment served with their politics, and unfortunately for me, the easiest way to get publicity—killing someone—is out of the question. Arnold's so far ahead in the polls I'd need to off most of Los Angeles to catch up. To save time, I visited Blair's most successful politician, SGA Executive President Denise Sylla, in hopes of obtaining snazzy campaign tips.

Sylla began our interview by offering the obvious clues to a successful run. "Be honest," she admonished. This advice was totally unnecessary. I had not planned to hesitate to inform my would-be supporters of the details of my life, which include having relieved world hunger and recently saving a puppy from a runaway Metro Bus on I-95 at rush hour. No, what I needed from Sylla was something that would set me apart from the rest of the candidates. So I asked for the secret to her success.

"I was running against myself," explains Sylla. "So the only thing I had to fear was myself, so I was very confident that I was going to win because I was running against me."

Mass murder was looking better and better, but arranging fatal accidents for 158 gubernatorial candidates would take more time and hush money than I had. I needed a new plan. I thanked Sylla and went looking for SGA sponsor Rondai Ravilious.

"I would get a bumper sticker that says, ‘I am not Arnold Schwarzenegger,'" Ravilious advised. Actually, getting "I am Arnold Schwarzenegger" tattooed on my forehead would probably be more helpful. If I could convince people that Arnold currently inhabited the body of an adolescent female, my chances at the polls would skyrocket faster than you can say "publicity stunt."

While Ravilious rambled on, I pondered my election platform. Cleaner air? No. More jobs? No. None of these had the ring of a guaranteed victory. And then it struck me. California has Hollywood. California has Disneyland. But there is one 24-hour party, one seething cornucopia of vice outside of California's grasp.

California needs Las Vegas.

Citizens of Earth, elect me governor of California, and I promise to personally lead the mighty forces of this great state and liberate Las Vegas from Nevada's miserly clutches.

And if there's any collateral damage, it's Arnold's fault.