Author Richard Cahill's Website--Living By Our Motto:"There Are No Stupid Questions, Just Stupid People Asking Questions Everybody else already knows the answer to."

The Prez took a nasty fall the other day while handing out diplomas at the Air Force Academy, tripping over an unartfully placed sandbag. The octogenarian sprang right up and resumed presiding over an expanding economy and glorying in the Republican ass he had kicked in the debt negotiations.
 
We have sympathy for Biden over at our place, because we have lots of stuff to trip over, and sometimes we do. This is because of our household policy of never throwing anything out. In particular, one box full of old textbooks seems to be underfoot foot every time I go in the garage. It’s only a matter of time before I fall over it.
 
I hope I spring right up like Joe did, and when I do, I’ll point out that tripping over stuff is not age-related. People sixty or more years younger than Biden trip over things all the time, by virtue of being on their phones, mostly.
 
Why it took the similarly aged McConnell five weeks to get back to work is hidden in the depths of medical secrecy, but we have our sources. Apparently, McConnell emerged from his bump on the noggin with a completely different personality. He started by asking the nurses in the hospital how much money they made, and when they told him, he exclaimed, “That’s not enough! We need to raise Medicare and Medicaid taxes so you people can get paid better!”
 
When he said that, his staffers knew he wasn’t right, and transferred the Senator to a secret sanitorium. He kept on raving, saying he was going to raise taxes on the rich for the benefit of the American people. Jaws were dropping and heads were shaking.
 
No one had ever heard him talk like that, and his friends and fellow Senators became deeply worried. He would say things like, “Why should some shifty creep billionaire be able to hide his money offshore instead of shouldering his fair share of the costs of running the USA like some hard-working electrician or union schoolteacher?”
 
My source assured me they tried everything, from drugs to electroshocks to telling him Elaine was going to leave him to pursue a life of a single billionairess back in China. Nothing worked. McConnell kept talking about how grateful he was to live in a country that accepted gay marriage and ragged refugees. He agitated to be let out so he could attend drag story hours. He insisted that all his straitjackets be purchased at Target.
 
“We thought we’d lost him,” we were told. “We could never let him return to the Senate in his condition. He had woken up from his coma woke.”
 
“But gradually, the real McConnell returned. He was quiet for a few days, then, when one of his neurologists turned his back on him, the Senator lifted his wallet. Everyone was so encouraged. Then he started talking about how much he missed 'that prick Joe Manchin,' and started asking, hopefully, if Ted Cruz had died while he was sick.”
 
“And so now he’s back. American can be grateful for him or not. I assure you, thanks to his amazing recovery, Mitch doesn’t give a shit.”

Or an apathetic atheist—I waver between the two, but I don’t know for sure, apparently because I don't care enough to sort out my own personal beliefs thoroughly.
 
The point is I don’t care. I’m not saying you shouldn’t care. I don’t care if you do or not.
 
Apathy allows me to answer with a firm “No!” when asked if I want to attend any religious event whatsoever. This has been my position from my early youth, when I was forced to attend myriad Catholic events, some as a civilian but many as an altar boy. Altar boys have to tinkle bells and wave incense, which gives these sleepy youths the opportunity to tinkle the bell at the wrong time or let the incense go out, earning them a glare or a reprimand from the nasty old celibate representing God to his parishioners at, usually, a frighteningly early hour in the morning. Also, if you were an altar boy, that was the best thing that could happen to you.

None of the worst things ever happened to me. I want to make that clear. My experiences with Catholic clergy only served to confirm my belief that there are many twisted, sadistic weirdos in the world who are not child molesters.
 
After I left the Church behind me, like I was ditching a creepy hitchhiker at a rest stop, I was not tempted by any other faiths. I didn’t care to drink grape juice like a Methodist, or handle snakes, or speak in any tongue other than English or halting Spanish. I didn't want a bishop to advise me on my underwear style. I definitely didn’t want to substitute Friday or Saturday for Sunday as a day of worship, nor did I care much for dietary restrictions imposed by people who claimed that God has an interest in what you are chowing down on. I never wanted to have to tell a party’s host, “I belong to the Church of the Holy Fishmongers, and I can’t eat sushi on Sunday.”
 
I don’t try to persuade other people to give up their religion, though. I don’t abuse people who want to take the Bible literally for their utter lack of logic, although many of my fellow rationalists feel obligated to do so. I don't argue with religious people on the Internet regarding their proofs for the existence of God. Here’s what a guy said this morning on my feed:
 
Do atheists think that God should be detectable by sensory experiences?
If yes, they are no different to those from the past who believed in such gods and whom they laugh at for doing so. If they want to have god be observable, why would they accept God this time?
If no, then why do they expect for God to be proven empirically or as they often say, "give us the evidence."
 
I admit that he didn't add, "Checkmate, Atheists," to his hot little argument, as many of them do, but I don’t think I am obligated to reason with this person. Many of my fellow rationalists feel the need to do so, but not me. I do not have the urge to pry open the hinges on that turgid little lockbox of a mind, for this simple reason:
 
There will always be religion. No matter how many astounding scientific discoveries are made, no matter how convenient our lives are enhanced by technology, religion will always be treasured by some. Some future person, having been teleported from Earth to a sub-moon of Betelgeuse 5 to attend an intergalactic rock concert for less than the cost of a monthly bus pass in Shanghai, will, as his molecules are re-constituted by a device that represents centuries of science, thank God for his safe journey. Count on it.
 
People will always want an afterlife, or at least way to influence or predict the unknowable future, whether that way be Jesus, a sacred bone necklace, a lucky rabbit’s foot, or an exhaustive study of astrology columns. Allah, Dianetics and cutting out your enemy's entrails with a consecrated blade also remain options. The future, however will remain just as unpredictable for them as it is for the rest of us, no matter how hard they try.
 
Why do they bother? No matter how nice their church clothes are, or how sweet the cakes are at their bake sales, the universe doesn’t care about their telepathic, sacrificial, or ceremonial efforts to bend it to their will. And neither do I.
 
It’s the only logical position.

"You can always judge a man by the quality of his enemies.”
 
This quote, which is attributed on the Internet to either Oscar Wilde, Franklin Roosevelt, or Dr. Who, which, besides raising the parallel question of whether a man can be judged by the quality of the people he plagiarizes, can be asked regarding the current crop of Presidential candidates, in some cases with excruciating results.
 
Trump, of course has his main enemy as E. Jean Carroll, a woman he attempted to rape in a dressing room many years ago. This is a nearly eighty-year-old woman who will never collect a dime of the 5 mil he owes her as a result. She is not a fearsome foe. His other enemies are Antifa, Communists and Democrats, vague collections of bogeymen he checks for every night under his bed at Mar al Lago. Nobody else worries about them in the least.
 
Ron DeSantis’ enemies are Mickey and Minnie Mouse, and their folksy ally Goofy. ‘Nuff said.
 
Nicki Hailey, Tim Scott and most of the other Republican wannabees are not even each other’s enemies. Nor are they enemies of Trump’s. They can’t stop praising him for stuff he actually didn’t do, like building the wall, standing against the pandemic or pooping sufficiently on China. They refuse to criticize him for things he did do, like violating the Constitution as if it was a roofied sophomore girl at the senior prom or collecting legal judgments like he was looking to get the complete set.

Mike Pence, whose enemy is Satan. Unfortunately, Lucifer will not be on any primary ballots, possibly due to his lack of existence.
 
Vivek Ramaswamy, whose enemy is himself, for not changing his Hindu name to Nicki Hailey.
 
Asa Hutchinson’s enemy is Donald Trump. Unfortunately, that sits him at about 1% in the polls, but it gets him on CNN a lot.
 
Joe Biden, on the other hand, collects enough worthy adversaries to start a museum of them. International criminal Vladimir Putin for one, who would love to murder Biden during the President’s nap time. Kevin McCarthy, who is willing to crash the world economy to cut off food stamps to the indigent. Old age, the enemy of us all, whom Biden meets and defies every morning as he brushes his teeth.
 
Quality foes all. Can’t think of anyone the President would have to take second place to, this side of Zelensky.
 
Or, maybe, Dr. Who.

The newly crowned Empress of Arkansas, Sarah Huckabee Sanders, has decreed that anyone applying for a state job in her kingdom must write a 500-word essay on what the applicant admires about her most.
 
The Huckster seems to be emulating her most recent boss, whose appetite for abject and probably insincere ass-kissing is never sated, but it’s easy to see where this is going.
 
In a few years, will Sanders sit on the Gunmetal Throne of Little Rock? Will she acquire extra titles like “Khaleesi of the Snaggy Bottoms?” “Princess of the Greenish Swamps?” “Tornado Born?” “Protector of the Realm’s Razorbacks?”

Will every bass boat in the state be required to have her figurine on its prow?
 
Beats me, but if you are applying for a state job in Arkansas, here’s some advice. Do not start your essay with, “You always seem like you’re winking at me,” or “I like ‘em BIG.” Also, don’t mention the former Governor, her father. She didn’t need that tired old fake sleeping-pill selling hack to get where she is today.
 
Do not say, “Your legs remind me of a pachyderm’s,” because she has Google too, and when she looks that up, you’re going to be settling for work in the private sector.
 
“But what can I say?” you ask. “She’s only been the gov for a few months.”
 
Well, remember, she banished the word “Latinx” from the Arkansas state vocabulary. It’s not much an accomplishment, since everybody hated Latinx, even outside of the state. Latinx is supposed to be the non-gendered form of “Latino” or “Latina.” I still don't know how to pronounce it. Hispanics especially dislike it because in Spanish, the favored language of many Hispanics, like most other languages, everything is already gendered. Us would-be Spanish speakers have learned that the hard way. We are prattling along fine until we have to try and remember things like is a refrigerator male or female? * So, we switch to broken English and hand gestures.
 
So, “Latinx” not much of an accomplishment, but put it in anyway, for God’s sake. All the rest of Huckabee’s acts in the last few months are things like forbidding drag queens to read the Bible within a hundred yards of a Sunday school and keeping transgenders fleeing the state out of YOUR rest stops.
 
Anecdotes help. “One day I opened a porta-potty in the state park, because the heebie-sheebie inside had forgotten to lock the door. I wisht you were governor then, because I was traumatized.” So do compliments. “I watched you when Trump was President, and I often thought, If I could lie like that, I’d still be married.”
 
Other than that, you’re on your own. But put your all into in, otherwise she’s going to pick some else to be the director of the Lake of the Ozarks Sunken Rowboat Museum.
 
And as you toil over your task of kissing Huckabee’s great round ass, think of the only person who has it worse than you, the person who must write an essay on Huckabee to get a government job.
 
That’s the guy who has to read them.

*Male. Who the fuck knows why?

Last year, as wokeness raged across all of the Sunshine State, a man took a stand. His name was Ron DeSantis, and he was the governor of that peninsula full of gators and bugs, and he decided wokeness, whatever it was, would not prevail. He arrayed the forces of the state against its biggest business, which was of the Disney variety, and proclaimed, “Thou shalt not say gay!”
 
And when Disney World refused to stop saying gay, he revoked all the cozy deals the state had made to get Disney to come there in the first place. Thus did DeSantis think he had slain the dragon of wokery, and he went off to Iowa to brag about it.
 
But while Meatball Ron was boasting on his triumphs, not only against the Magic Kingdom, but against immigrants, drag queens, school libraries and old black guys that tried to vote, Disney World struck back, and when Ron’s attention was drawn to measuring the White House shades, the children of Walt filed a few reports, had a couple meetings, and got all their cozy deals back.
 
“That’s about what you should have expected,” a Disney PR man told me. “People think of Mickey Mouse and they think of Steamboat Willie and Mickey’s disastrous role as the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, but what they don’t know is that the Mouse is one of the finest legal minds in the United States, especially when it comes to property law and sixteen-dollar cheeseburgers.
 
“And Minnie is the Gloria Allred of rodent attorneys, tough, sharp, and with that reserve of sneering feminism that made the governor’s legal squad wet their pants.
 
“Goofy? Everyone says he’s not the sharpest member of the team, but when he pulls that ‘Oh, garsh,’ routine and starts shuffling his feet in front of any jury, you’ve lost that case, my friend.
 
“Huey, Dewey and Louie Duck are the detail members of the office. They churned out the research that made Disney World’s case implacably strong. And Disney never had to worry about the deep pockets of the state of Florida exhausting their resources, because the company has always been financially backstopped by Scrooge McDuck. Sure, you might think of McDuck as just a harmless old drake who enjoys bathing in tubs full of gold coins, but that’s what the New World Order wants you to think. In reality, he’s the George Soros of the Happiest Place on Earth. He’s got his bill in nearly every liberal cause there is, and is a bottomless source of funding for Critical Poultry Theory, especially as it applies to wealthy mallards.
 
“So, nobody should be surprised that they took on a bunch of guys from Swampy University Law School, or wherever it is that DeSantis gets his legal team, and cleaned their clocks. It’s a happy outcome for all Americans. They can sleep easy knowing that any time they want, they can go to Orlando and have all the fun they want for seven or eight hundred dollars a day, for a family of three, plus maybe three hundred extra for each additional child.”
 
I’ll keep that in mind. Do you think DeSantis has learned anything from being bamboozled by Disney?
 
“Hope at least he’s decided not to mess with Warner Brothers.”

Republicans, who feel covered in glory after one of their pet judges declared mifepristone, one of the two drugs women use to pharmaceutically end their pregnancies, illegal in all fifty United States, are now setting their sights on Narcan, the medication that people overdosing on fentanyl, can be administered to prevent them from going into “Hey, What Was In That Joint Anyway?” Heaven.
 
“Just like mifepristone, the use of Narcan is interfering with God’s will,” said a spokesman for the GOP. “When the Lord decides it’s time for that dude who shoots up behind the monument every weekend to come home to Jesus, it’s not the taxpayer’s responsibility to make sure he gets a pass from cops carrying emergency Narcan. Just let him stand before the Throne of Judgement while our police force focuses on its main duties, writing tickets for busted taillights and manning that speed trap at the city limits so the judge can afford to gas up his bass boat.
 
“Same thing for people who want to get Narcan at the Rite-Aid because they don’t know what’s in the wacky weed they think their kid is smoking in the rec room, only that it smells like the taxidermist’s does when he opens the door. They think a drug will solve their problems, but It’s plain the problem is they didn’t take him to church enough when he was growing up. It’s time for them to drop to their knees and beg the Lord for forgiveness when they find their boy turning blue underneath the head of that twelve-point buck his grandpa bagged in ‘58. Anything else means they’re just enablers, and like the pastor at the Creekside Church of Jesus’s Ever-Flowing Love says, there’s nothing that God hates more than enablers, except for homos, of course.
 
“It’s the exact same situation as when 14-year-old girl gets pregnant by her half-brother in the tool shed while her momma is working a double at Dollar General. That’s the mysterious ways of Providence asserting themselves. Of course, that half-brother is a little touched and it’s likely that gift from God that is on its way as a result of that sacred moment will never be able to count higher than four, or be trained to wear pants, but the Lord loves that genetic misfit as much as He loves you, me, or Kid Rock, and no legal morning-after pill should keep him from being born to praise Jesus.
 
“And we never know. That child could easily overcome its genetic burden and grow up to be a useful member of society, or at least learn to cook meth or run pills in from Florida like his daddy.
 
“We are all subject to the workings of the mysterious ways of the Almighty. Y'all got to admit that. Unless you’re a Democrat.”

The indictment of the ex-Caucasian-in-Chief last week had the pundit class howling all over the yard. Many bewailed the legal development, saying that the indictment was only going to further divide America into red and blue components, and agitate Trumpian Americans into violence while providing Trump with impetus in the polls and donations for his 2024 campaign.
 
And those are just the Democratic pundits. Republican ones are mourning the death of the nation, if not fomenting actual civil war.
 
All of Trump’s enemies in the GOP are too chickenshit to attack him. Even Meatball Ron offered Trump political asylum in Florida by saying he wouldn’t let Trump be extradited from his state. Of course, even DeSantis, who looks so much like a lizard you might expect him to fall frozen out of a palm tree during a cold spell in the Sunshine State, is smart enough to know Trump is never going to huddle in Florida for all of 2024, saying “My bro Ron has his arms around me, helping me stay out of Rikers while we run against each other for President. Say hi to the other 49 states for me, Meatball Man!”
 
But it’s the Republican talking heads that are losing their shit like a popped colostomy bag. Trump Jr. cannot be lapped in the race for hyperbole—he compared New York prosecutor Alvin Bragg to Stalin, Mao, and Pol Pot for bringing charges against his dad, even though Bragg is fifty or sixty million murders behind the dead Communist trio.
 
Junior didn’t mention Hitler. The neo-Nazi vote in an integral part of the Trump base. No sense offending them before ’24.
 
Right behind Junior are eminences like Glenn Beck, who sobbed to Tucker Carlson that “America as we know it is finished.” Of course, Beck has been predicted the American Apocalypse since 2008, when Obama was elected, and while the guy in the park holding up the sign reading “The End Is Near,” may have been in the Doomsday-predicting racket long before Beck, the smart money is that Beck has banked millions doing it while that guy can barely afford crayons for his sign.
 
Tucker himself advised his audience that it was a bad time to think about giving up their AR-15’s. This is Carlson at his bravest, counseling Americans that they need to clutch their semi-automatic weapons to their chests like Lindsey Graham clutches his pearls, despite the school-shooting news of the week, just in case there’s a mass uprising that Carlson's audience would like to ride their diabetes carts over to this weekend.

Jesse Waters proclaims boldly that “This country (Ours) will not stand for this!” even though many of us are already standing. And cheering, with an air-horn in one hand and a bottle of Olde English 800 in the other.
 
Above all, Republicans are tossing around the phrase “banana republic,” in regards to our USA, in the sense that indicting one ex-prez makes us just like Guatemala, only with shittier weather.
 
What happens in a banana republic? For example, what if its leader loses an election, then conspires to have the election results tossed, stirs up a mob to desecrate its seat of government, all the while fund-raising like mad off his witless followers to keep his lawyers paid, and smuggling state secrets to his pool shack in Florida? If something like that were to happen here, does it make our nation banana-flavored?
 
No. That’s fine, according to Republicans. What makes us a banana republic is indicting an ex-President for paying hush money to a porn star he thumped bareback so he could keep the electorate from finding out that he always whips his mushroom out on any woman he can get behind a locked door.
 
Not that I’m criticizing the Stormster. I’m a fan. If the US Mint ever decides to print a $130,000 bill, they better put her on it.
 
In the meantime, I’m trying to relieve my anxiety about the US and its divided self, the forthcoming Civil War 2.0, the Beckian Apocalypse and the Tucker Carlson  Motorized Geezer Battalion.
 
And I’m doing great at it. In fact, gotta go. Door Dash is here with another case of beer.

A high school principal, Hope Carrasaquilla, was fired last week from her job in Tallahassee for exposing a sixth-grade class to a picture of Michelangelo’s David during an art lesson.
 
Although the dismissed principal was not given the reason for her canning, she stated it was because one parent had complained that the nude sculpture, long considered one of the world’s greatest works of art, was “pornography.” Another parent complained that she wasn’t “warned” that her precious child would be “exposed” to David, although she was not clear what she would have done to prepare her little Bobby Jim Bob Jimmy for his first glimpse into the art world if she had been forewarned.
 
Certainly, by the sixth grade, all these future GED holders had been familiarized with the concept of penises, if not by their Uncle Sticky in the tool shed, then just by life in Florida in general. Florida is the Penis State, not only because it is geographically shaped like a limp dingus, but because Floridians in general are preoccupied with their sun-washed dicks. Run a search for Florida Man Penis. I did. My favorite was “Florida Man with Drugs Around Penis Denies They Were His,” but there are many, many more to choose from. Penises flounce around Florida like they own they place. I’m surprised torpid ones don’t fall out of trees like frozen iguanas in the winter.
 
So, all these sixth graders know wang already. Showing them a picture of Michelangelo’s David is not likely to affect their attitudes towards male genitalia. Some of the boys are going to think to themselves, “At least mine is bigger than that,” while other, luckier boys are thinking,” I got a hog compared to that dude.”
 
At least one is saying to himself, “Bro, you could hardly wrap any drugs at all around that thing.”
 
All the girls are thinking, “Gross. He’s even whiter than Elon Musk.”
 
Anyway, it’s all over now. The chief of the school board gave Ms. Carrasaquilla the choice of resigning or getting fired. She’s sending out resumes as I type this.
 
All this is going on in Tallahassee, which happens to be the home of Meatball Ron DeSantis, at least until his ambitions for the White House are realized. No doubt the school board was feeling the Governor’s hot, slightly parmesan-scented breath down the back of their necks when they decided they had not choice but to give Principal Carrasaquilla the heave-ho.
​
Because you know how touchy the Meatball is, especially about sex, transgenders, drag queens and Mickey Mouse. If Michelangelo had decided to name his statue “Small Dick Energy,” Carrasaquilla might still have a job.

Trump claims he's getting arrested Tuesday. I just hope I can get ready in time. I know I can pick up a couple of air horns, and I've got buckets and hammers in the garage.

Fireworks are out. I live in firework-free California, and don't have time to drive out to Yuma and pick up enough personal pyrotechnics to beat Elon Musk to Mars. I'd like that, though.

I don't own any bagpipes or kazoos. Until Trump actually dies, that will be the case.

The party will happen all day. In my time zone everything happens early. I expect Trump to be indicted before my first sip of morning coffee, so I can switch to margaritas instead.

Trump plans to make a speech on the courtyard steps after he gets inducted into the justice system, and has called upon his followers to join him in protest there. This is not going to work out nearly as well as he thinks it is. First off, MAGA folk are going to suffer from the short time allowed to get to NYC, just like I can't get to Yuma. Some of them have jobs or drug deals they have to show up for; some of them still have their RV's up on blocks for the winter. Plus, parking your Ford 750 pickup in Manhattan is almost as easy as getting the Pope's autograph on a Communion muffin.

When they get there, they really can't expect the wide-open rampaging they enjoyed on January 6 in the Capitol. NYC's finest, plus probably the National Guard, plus an alphabet soup of Federal cops will be there. If you show up with merely your leftover pepper spray and a DON'T TREAD ON ME sign, you're gonna get treaded on.

But this is only the first time Trump gets indicted. You'll have time to perfect the art of getting a multi-year prison sentence on behalf of the Ex, if you haven't gotten one already, only this time, he's going to get one, too! Makes you tingle all over, doesn't it? Whether it's on the courthouse steps in Atlanta, or the federal courthouse in DC, there will be at least two more indictments, and you can play the chump for your orange-hued hero a few more times before they send him away.

Over here, we're just stoked. Nor quite as stoked as Meatball Ron. Close, though.

​In the current Republican party, the general itch is to make laws that nobody wants. They daydream about cutting Social Security back to dog-food once a week rates and paring down Medicare until you’re only entitled to a couple free Advil’s a month.
 
But don’t just accuse them of granny-starving. They’ve got plans for the younger generation, too. Loosening child labor laws has always been a dream for them. Instead of happy children playing video games or running around outside committing small acts of arson and sneaking puffs off swiped cigarettes, like we did, Republicans think kids ought to be working for the minimum wage, or, ideally, the minimum special child wage in a perfect Republican economy, in giant dangerous factories, and only smoking cigarettes during designated breaks.
 
Sarah Huckabee Sanders, the newly minted governor of Arkansas, is leading the league in getting minors off their asses and toiling on poultry farms. Of course, Sanders herself can’t be accused of hypocrisy on this account, as everybody knows Sanders worked as a trained circus pig every summer of middle school. Other Republican hands aren’t so clean. Iowa legislators are considering a bill that would allow 14- and 15-year-olds to work certain jobs in meatpacking plants and shield businesses from civil liability if a child laborer is sickened, injured or killed on the job. A bill in Minnesota would permit 16- and 17-year-olds to work construction jobs.
 
It is dead solid certain that these various Midwestern legislators aren’t envisioning their own kids working in a meatpacking plant, or some other dangerous industry. It’s not like they’re telling their kids at the end of the school year, “Boy, this is the summer you find out what a working crop thresher smells like,” or “There’s nothing a face full of chicken feathers in the morning to make you feel like you’re alive, son.” Hell, no. They’re all enrolling their kids in summer sessions at Country Day Something School, hoping they can raise their grades enough to stumble into Stanford, or at least TCU.
 
No, child labor is for brown children, particularly brown children whose English isn’t so good and their illegal parents or guardians don’t much like filling out paperwork. Meat-packing executives look out their office windows at these kids playing soccer with a ball made of taped-up rags and think, “Look at those little slackers. We could put them to work, and nobody would care.” So, they give them jobs at meat-packing plants full of sharp saws and knives, and keep them until they’ve lost enough fingers/limbs so they can't be a successful team member any more. Then they let them can drift back to the border and hold up a begging cup with what remains of their digits, so people crossing back into the US can throw their remaining pesos in them and think better of themselves for it.
 
Republicans seldom cross the border by foot or car—they usually fly in and out of Cancun, a la Ted Cruz. But if they are stuck in the border line, they gaze out of the tightly-rolled up windows of their Land Cruisers and say, “Look at that kid with one arm and one leg! And he’s probably trying to get into our country so he can get welfare!”
 
He’s already been here, you know. He’s been here.