South of The Border

At least you can dance to it…

I am thinking that there ain’t much left to sing about. I mean it’s really a pretty good song, and Sinatra. Well Sinatra,you know? That’s about all that needs saying. My father used to sing it, and even though he’d never been south of Atlantic City in his short life, he thought that South of The Border had got to have been a great place for a song like that to be sung about it. Personally, there may be other songs. We’ll talk later.

But, I gotta confess, so too did I use to think that way. But now? Now, from the pictures I see of the stuff going on down there. I gotta say this. The place reminds me of an ill kept corral. And, for a corral to look ill kept? Well…

I have in mind of course the current goings on with the herd that’s lately arrived from even more south of the border in the rather wild hope of ending up somewhere closer to me than I thought was, well, decent; like my upstairs bedroom or my car. The back seat.

That’s just silly. Right? But is it as silly as some bewhiskered thug from Honduranama, or somewhere, demanding Uncle Sugar pay him $50,000.00 and he’ll go home and never bother us again. That is, he won’t until the 50K runs out.

Then there’s the rest of them, dragging along their kids as targets for those Border Patrol Nazis and their grenades, machine guns and nerve gas down there keeping America safe for White People and Republicans. At least that’s what all of the News Outlets, which are more and more reminding me of sewer outlets, keep telling me, while reminding me in their reports that the dude priming the pump for his 50K isn’t the crook I think he is; just a guy with hope. Like Clinton, I guess.

Then there’s the story that broke last week, about the kid. You know the one. This kid walked all the way from Costaragua, carrying the mule because it was a pet, and her parents I guess. She made the trip just so she could go to college at Berkeley and become a Senator after burning down a few neighborhoods in Frisco. It’s everybody’s dream down there; either that or running a few loads of nose candy up into Dallas or somewhere. But, all of her dreams ganged aft agley when she died while in ICE custody of dehydration and everything else. And herself, her parents and the mule were this close to finishing the trip; sneaking into Paradise when they got snapped up by the brutes from ICE. And, next thing you know, the little girl is with the fishes.

The girls and the boys on the six and eleven had a time with that, I guess. I don’t really know because I watch them about as much as I do push ups, which is never. What I do know is that bunches and bunches of people with big hearts all over this land were torn to pieces by this tragedy, and the bloodless behavior of the thugs in green uniforms killing a little girl just because she wanted to live here with us, and not in some mud hut drinking water horses pee in down Mexico way. But, I figure, what could they do. She wasn’t in tear gas or machine gun range. Anyway, it gave the moaners and weepers up here something really worth their moaning and weeping. Anyone, even the wettest weeper, can have a hard time working up a goo fit over some Dude demanding $50k to leave.

These folks, all of who have a stature of Emma Lazarus in their living rooms, and tattoos of her poem, the best one ever written, by anyone, anywhere, in the most odd places,were paroxysmic with woe, rage, and stupidity. Right hand to God, I came in contact with a few myself. One wrote demanding to know what I thought of the beasts from ICE killing a seven year old illegal alien. That she died of natural causes…well…natural if your father forces you to walk a couple of thousand miles on meager rations and then drags you through desert and mountain with no food and little water for a couple of days on your way to Shangri La…is not allowed to be considered.

When I suggested that it might be a good thing to go down there with a little water and food, I was told it was more important to put pressure on the government from home…where the water ran clear and cold and the freezer was full, I guess.

Well, she’s no poet, and there’s already one stupid thing on that statue in the herbor…besides pigeon caca. And all of that does no one any good.

I append something here which I wrote afew years ago, simply to note that not a single damn this has been done except let stuff get worse:

I started this with a Sinatra song. More apropos the situation is my favorite song about those places, sung by Miss Peggy Lee, my favorite lady singer:


About Peadar Ban

There isn't much to say. I am here. I am here. I am here.
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