A few summer’s back, I visited my friend Patrick’s house while it was under construction. The house was a slowly evolving project (building was done in multiple phases over the course of 24 months), and as I stepped onto his back porch, the house was finally reaching its completion. Two men were straddling small scaffolds, applying stucco to the backside of the house—essentially the last task before construction could be called “done”. We were sipping tea, admiring how beautiful his nearly completed home was, when Patrick launched into a vicious tirade against the crews he hired to build most of the house.
Well, not the crews he hired. To be more accurate, Patrick was merely talking about illegal immigrants in general, as opposed to the ones working less than 20 feet from where we sat. You see, he wasn’t talking about the illegal immigrants who had laid the house’s foundation, or built the framing, or installed the plumbing, or nailed down the roofing. Instead, Patrick was speaking about the Mexicans that come up to America and “take our jobs.” At some point, while Patrick was channeling his inner Lou Dobbs, I looked over his shoulder to the men scraping a muddy coating over a gabled window frame.
“Oh, them?” Patrick said sheepishly. “They do excellent work.” He was right: the house is a refined and elegant mini-palace, and according to Patrick it cost about half of what it would if he had hired “white people” to build it. What can you say, he’s a fiscal conservative.
Now, since I’m an Arizona native and have been dealing with this sort of cognitive dissonance my entire life, I was able to avoid stabbing Patrick in the face with something sharp. Though, to be fair, all I had on me at the time was a plastic cup
But it gets harder with each passing day. This week, for example, I found myself laughing uncontrollably at Gov. Jan Brewer’s signing of a bill allowing the state to collect donations to construct a fence along the Mexican border. This wasn’t any old laugh, mind you, but one of those long, rib-aching, Jack Nicholson-esque “I’m about to chop up the groundskeeper with an axe” laughs.
In my mind, I envisioned thousands of minute men standing at the completed fence, their sun-tarnished fingers stroking their guns, like feisty little poodles barking from the “safe” side of a locked front door.
“Finally,” I cackled, “it’s about time someone had the balls to stand up and do absolutely nothing about illegal immigration.” And when it comes to pretending to protect our borders, you’ve got to hand it to Brewer. She understands that immigration, from an economic and policy standpoint, is a non-issue. But when it comes to campaigning, immigration is “sweet, salty, buttah.” Punishing those who hire illegal labor? No. Building a fence that can be walked around? Oh yeah.
So, as I collected myself, I realized if I didn’t do something to stop illegal immigration, no one else would. As long as our state consists of people like Patrick, politicians on both the right and left (as well as whatever portion of the spectrum Libertarians currently occupy) would never have incentive to truly fix immigration. And it must be fixed. Not because of how it damages our economy or because Mexicans are stealing our jobs.
Hell, Goldman Sachs did far more damage to our economy and cost more Americans their jobs than any influx of Mexicans ever have or will, and we “punished” them by pummeling their asses with billions upon billions of dollars.
So sorry, it’s not the economy stupid. No, the real reason we must stop illegal immigration is, until we do, meetings with friends like Patrick and, more importantly, family gatherings will continue to spontaneously explode into real-life adaptations of “American History X.” I’m talking Thanksgiving, Xmas, the Super Bowl, birthday parties: it doesn’t matter. My xenophobic, talk-show parroting family has a supernatural ability to turn any conversation into an opportunity to bitch about Mexicans. In fact, if creative segues into racial epitaphs were an Olympic sport, my family would dominate the competition like a young Mike Tyson.
And for the record, as far as my family goes, there is nothing Mexicans aren’t to blame for: The economy, the earthquake in Japan, multiple spellings for words with the same pronunciation. According to my family, Mexicans are even responsible for the various side effects of Zoloft. Seriously, my aunt died of lung cancer after smoking for 40 years, and to this day my cousins swear she caught it at Filiberto’s. I’m not kidding either.
It was in the eulogy.
Chances are, if you hang out with or are related to white people in this state, you know exactly what I’m talking about. And, if you’re like me, you’re probably tiring of stories about the specter of Mexicana that’s destroying everything we hold dear. Don’t get me wrong, I love stories about Big Foot, the Loch Ness monster, and little green men in saucers sexing our live stock. But I’ve had all I can take of the alien invasion urban legend. Of course, I’m aware crimes have been committed by illegal immigrants. And, yes, I’m aware that millions of undocumented workers currently live in our country. More alarming to me, though, is the endless hordes of sheet-less clan members who tell me Hispanics are criminals, despite the fact these morons haven’t been victims themselves, don’t know anyone who has been a victim, and can only back up their claims with second-hand testimony from talk radio and/or damning anecdotal evidence from their last trip to the drive-thru at Wendy’s.
Sadly, the only way politicians will ever address the issue is if it actually becomes an issue. That’s why I propose we begin the work of turning the lies we’ve been told about illegal immigration into truths. According to many in this state, Mexicans are nothing but murderous, drug-dealing rapists who drain our tax dollars, and I’m committed to making those assertions a reality.
In short: Instead of bitching about the crimes Mexicans have committed against us, I want people to actively be recovering from those crimes. That’s right. I won’t be happy until my family—and yours—is running in a frenzied terror every time they hear someone roll their Rs.
That’s why I’m now taking private donations to dismantle Brewer’s fence as it’s built. Of course, the fence itself will have little to no impact on immigration, but tearing it down will be a nice, inviting gesture to the drug cartels. Plus, I figure the raw fence materials can either be sold for scrap metal or, perhaps, used to construct a similar fence around Pinal County, which, according to Sheriff Paul Babeu, is where most illegals are entering the country anyway. If you don’t understand the physics of that, you should read Einstein’s ground-breaking work on the space-time continuum titled, “What part of illegal don’t you understand?”
But let’s be clear: Tearing down Brewer’s fence is but the first step toward true, comprehensive immigration reform. The second step is to figure out what, exactly, Democrats mean when they say “comprehensive immigration reform.” I’ve heard this phrase thousands of times in recent years, but it doesn’t appear to denote anything of substance. In fact, I’m beginning to think it might just be a form of phatic communication—Democratic slang for “how are you doing?” You know, you see a liberal colleague walking your way and mindlessly say, “Comprehensive immigration reform, Billy?” To which he replies with something about universal healthcare, you both chuckle, then head back to your respective cubicles.
Next, to make illegal immigration a serious problem, we need to do more to entice Mexicans to come to America. That’s why yesterday I drove to Rocky Point and tricked a tamale salesman into coming back to Arizona with me. He was hesitant at first, but after I assured him that if he came back with me I’d give him a house, he hopped right in.
When we got back to Phoenix, I dropped Marcos off at my Uncle Bob’s place and gave him the key, as well as some helpful tips on how to woo Bob’s wife, Marcy (turns out she’s a sucker for a firm pimp hand). So now when Bob launches into a tirade on how Mexicans are coming to America to freeload, rape our women, and rob our homes, he won’t be parroting what he heard on talk radio: he’ll simply be telling you about his weekend. Sure, it’ll be the same conversation I’ve been having with him for years, but at least now his hatred will be, if not justified, understandable.
Admittedly, I have run into a problem. You see, I drive a Honda Civic and there’s only so many Mexicans you can stuff in my trunk. That’s why, along with your private donations, I need your help smuggling Mexicans into Arizona. A Marcos here and there helps, true, but if we’re going to turn the hysterical fictions the right spreads about Mexicans into a reality, we need to be dumping them off at our relatives’ houses by the millions.
Oh, and you need to be selective when picking up Mexicans. If you grab just any Mexican, there’s a good chance when they get here they’ll just end up becoming decent, hard-working members of the community, and we already have enough of those Mexicans. What you should look for are signs of gang activity, drug addiction, or tattoos (having tattoos doesn’t make them bad, but it’ll scare the shit out of whitey).
Hey, maybe you’ll get lucky and find a Mexican or two dumping human heads around the desert. In any case, keep your eye out for the real scumbags. As a general rule, the scarier your drive with them back to Arizona is, the greater the chance they’re going to be a real menace to society. I mean, if you’re not afraid for your life, what are the odds your Aunt Edna will be?
There are exceptions though. Should you happen across any injured or sick Mexicans, you’re going to want to pick them up. From what I’ve heard, our hospitals are flooded with illegals milking our health care system dry. And while that may not be true, with your help it can be soon. Flesh wounds and broken bones are nice, but Mexicans with chronic or terminal illnesses offer the most bang for your buck. Remember, we’re looking for long-term drains on society.
And don’t forget to round up every child you see. All you have to do, from what I’ve been told, is dump them off at your local elementary school during recess, and, bam, they’re permanently entrenched into the fabric of society. And once they’re “anchored” to Arizona, they can spend the rest of their lives importing every blood relative they have into the states. As an added bonus, since they’ll be growing up without parents and likely working our foster care system for all it’s worth, the odds they’ll grow into productive members of society are slim at best.
Now, if you just make sure every Mexican you drag to Arizona is registered to vote (just have them fill out a form—according to Patrick, that stuff never gets reviewed), we’ll see illegal immigration escalate rather quickly from the camp-fire style narrative it currently is into a legitimate national crisis.
I know we can make this happen, and, when we do, we’ll force our politicians to quit using immigration as a promotional stunt and start dealing with the problem in earnest. I’m not saying it will be easy, but the hard work will be worth it if we can spend at least one holiday with our family without hearing someone bitch about dirty Mexicans.
That’s all I want. One peaceful holiday before my death—the cause of which will likely be infectious Mariachi music.
Oh, and for the record, I didn’t write this column. I paid Lupe $2 a page, and Uncle Sam’s not going to see a damn dime of that.