10/09/2012 01:21 pm ET Updated Dec 06, 2017

Big Bird's Response to Mitt Romney, as Told to Me

Governor Romney says he loves me. But his track record proves that he cares far more about Wall Street than Sesame Street.

I'm not sure what America Governor Romney lives in. In his, I assume, people live in mansions, dine on caviar, and sunbathe on yachts in the South of France. What does it look like where I'm from? One of my friends sleeps in a trashcan. Another, deprived of food stamps and unable to pay for healthy, fresh produce, subsists solely on cookies. And a neighbor who can't afford his psychiatric medication spends his days locked up in his house, alone, counting aloud to himself.

Two other friends -- I won't say their names to protect their identities -- must live together in a domestic partnership, unable to consummate their love with nuptials because people like Governor Romney don't believe in marriage for everyone. To be fair, in this case, it may not matter all that much, since we all think they're a terrible match, totally incompatible -- one's an OCD neat freak, the other's out of control and can't get his life together -- but, still, if they want to make this life-ruining mistake, Governor Romney shouldn't be stopping them. But, again, for them, it's not such a bad thing.
Governor Romney styles himself a modern-day Mr. Hooper, a benevolent capitalist overseeing our country's business interests. Governor, I was served by Harry Cooper. I knew Harry Glooper. Harry Looper was a friend of mine. I understand the concept of death now because of Harry Super. Governor, you're no Harry Pooper.

Ultimately, Governor Romney's vision of a sunny America in which he sweeps the clouds of recession away to where the air is sweet is as phony as some sort of imaginary, seven-foot-tall, tuskless woolly mammoth. Any adult can see it doesn't exist.

You do not love me, Governor Romney. If you did, Bain Capital wouldn't be profiting off the imminent foreclosure of my nest.

And I haven't even mentioned -- buried within that nest, the object on which I planned to retire someday -- my rapidly shrinking egg.


Big Bird's Nest, 123 Sesame Street

This essay originally ran as part of 90 Days, 90 Reasons. For more essays, written by people such as Judd Apatow, Marilynne Robinson, Paul Simon, Elizabeth Gilbert, Moby, and Jonathan Franzen, go to

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