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My father is an evil genius.
Either that or he just likes messing with me.
Not since he challenged the animal kingdom to a fistfight* has he come up with such a wacky idea.
We were watching Tucker Carlson on Fox News. We’re not opposed to watching CNN or MSNBC, but they spend so much time reporting on the crazy things Fox News says we decided to cut out the middleman. Personally, I wish I could find a news outlet that reported just the news, no opinion--I’ll connect the dots and come up with my own conclusions, thank you very much--and, when I say “the news,” I’m talking about ALL the news. Surely, there’s more happening in the world than what’s circling around in President Trump’s orbit.
The former Dancing With The Stars contestant was reporting on a NEW caravan of hopeful immigrants from Central America heading toward the United States. This one consisted of 20,000 people.
“And the next one will be larger,” he predicted.
I’m sure that’s true.
Once the entitlement genie is out of the bottle, there’s no putting him back in. President Trump blames Congress. Congress blamed President Trump. My ex-wife blames me. Yeah, there’s plenty of blame to go around.
Maybe this problem will be solved by the time you read this, maybe not, but well before all this nonsense happened, my wife and I went on a cruise to Ensenada, Mexico. One of the things we enjoyed was a horseback ride along the beach. Before we mounted our horses, however, we were warned that there would be soldiers stationed along the ocean. Sentries, protecting THEIR sovereign nation from foreign invaders. What a novel idea.
“Whatever you do, DON’T interact with them,” we were warned. “They are armed and have no sense of humor.”
I offered one of the soldiers ten bucks to take a picture with my wife... and he ACCEPTED. I guess THAT explains how these migrant caravaners make it across Mexico’s southern border in the first place.
“I could fix that,” my father told me, nodding toward the TV.
“You could?” I asked, turning my attention to him.
“You bet,” he said.
“How? There’s TWENTY THOUSAND of them.”
“Easy,” he assured me. “These people are poor and uneducated. They just want a better life, but they’re also very superstitious. Even Mexican drug dealers worship Santa Muerte, the saint of death. They know that all they have to do is make it onto American soil, find any border enforcement officer, ask for asylum, and—BAM!—they’re let right in. The trick is keeping them out. The way you do that is you change the uniforms of Border Patrol & I.C.E. officers so that they look like La Llorona!”
La Llorona?
For those of you who don’t know who La Llorona is, there are several versions of the story, so let me tell you the one I heard as a little boy: A single mother fell in love with a handsome stranger, but that love came with a horrible price. He would only marry her if she were childless, so she drowned her children in the cold, dark waters of the Rio Grande. Only then did her dark lover reveal his true self to her. He was, in fact...
DONALD TRUMP!
Just kidding.
No, the handsome stranger turned out to be the Devil. Then, in a puff of smoke, he disappeared faster than the evidence Nancy Pelosi, Chuck Schumer, and Adam Schiff all insisted they had proving Russian Collusion, leaving the deceived mother to live with her sins. Since then, she has haunted the banks of the Rio Grande, crying as she searches for her dead children.
My father continued, “What migrant is going to willingly turn himself or his children over to La Llorona? In fact, forget the wall Trump wants to build, just station these La Llorona officers along the border. Say, one officer every five miles. Have them walk up and down the border. Maybe play some scary music. THAT would keep everybody on their side of the border.”
Something was nibbling at my memory. A story my father had told me years ago. A story that, until now, I had forgotten.
There was a canal behind the house my father grew up in. When it was full, my father would fall asleep to the sound of the rushing water. He and his friends fished for crawdads in it, and, when one of the neighbors butchered a goat, they would toss the remains in it.
“You’d better not EVER go swimming in the canal,” his parents threatened, but he and his friends never listened.
When he was twelve, some neighborhood punks began hanging around the bank of the canal just behind their house, drinking beer and being annoying. This would happen almost every night and they’d stay there long into the evening.
One night, those delinquents were being especially loud. His parents weren’t home, so my father put on his mother’s robe, covering his head with the hood. In the darkness of the night, my father made his way to the edge of the canal and just stood there. After awhile, the hooligans noticed him. They grew quiet.
My father just stood there.
Trying to bolster their courage, they cursed at him.
My father just stood there.
One of them threw an empty beer can.
And THAT’S when my father finally moved.
TOWARDS THEM!
“I’ve never seen anybody run so fast,” my father laughed when he told me the story.
Back in the present, I thought, “Hmm... La Llorona.”
“You know, pop,” I had to admit, “THAT would probably work.”
The next story was about the various presidential hopefuls, each trying to outdo the other in buying votes.
“I could fix that,” my father said.
*June 2018 “Never Fight An Angry Monkey”
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com, JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com, @JimDuchene
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