2006-04-28 - 10:00 p.m.
I have been watching with keen interest all this broo-ha-ha about illegal immigration that seems to be the dish of the day political issue, all over the country. You would have had to have been living in Alaska, where all the illegal immigrants are from Canada, to have missed it all! Why, stories about the feud between the Normal Red Blooded Americans and the Mexican Menace have even replaced stories about that dead girl in Bermuda and about how fat Britney Spears has gotten.
Oy, if you have been listening to Talk Radio, those jabbering jackels John and Ken have been all but calling for the genocide of everyone who comes across the Mexicali border. I swear I’ve heard them say that they should turn every Taco Bell into a death camp. And I don’t think I imagined it when they seemed to suggest that black helicopters should land in front of every Home Depot and whisk away all the guys looking for day work.
And the funny thing is, I can’t really figure out just what they’re all fretting about. No, seriously, I don’t get it at all. Because, you understand of course that no one is going to do a darn thing about anything. Oh, there will be much screaming and shrieking, and, on the Day Without Immigrants that is going to take place on May 1st (though not Cinco De Mayo, which I think would be much more appropriate and culturally kitschy, if network TV strereotyped), there will be tons of janitors and gardeners shrieking and howling and waving Mexican flags on Olviera Street. And I suppose I shall have to do my own laundry that day. But are they going to change anything? Hardly.
There will be the exact same number of illegal immigrants as there were before. And the reason for this is that they’re willing to work for less money. And bosses in America are too lazy and sleazy to pay a decent wage for Americans to do the same work. And even if the bosses were, the American consumers are too lazy and sleazy to pay the higher costs at the Walmart and the Vons.
You can’t blame us, really: I myself must confess that I prefer paying less money than more – the vaguery of making sure it was picked by an American slave, and not a Migrant one, is not enough to make me want to spend a buck more per orange. There will always be folks trying to make a living. I actually think it’s wonderful.
Just last week, I saw this incredible documentary called THE DEVIL’S MINER, about a young peasant boy in Bolivia, who essentially works as a slave in a silver mine. He digs for 24 hour shifts, filling his lungs with dust and lead and arsenic, in an industry in which he will be lucky to live past 35. He’s 13! And he supports his entire family, who live in a hideous, cold shack with no water or electricity. And they’re the lucky ones! Is it any wonder that someone would rather come here and pick oranges for a buck or two, instead of staying in a corrupt and horrible peasant life where you have even less future?
The thing is, illegal immigration just isn’t that much of a problem. All it is is a variation of outsourcing. I mean, you don’t hear folks shrieking and howling when these companies take all their fabulous jobs and move them over to India and China so they can hire lackeys to do the same job for pennies on the dollar, do you? It’s the exact same thing. When companies outsource, everyone just shrugs and says, “Oh well, that’s the way it goes.” But outsourcing is far more horrible a problem because those jobs that are going out of the country are higher level gigs, taken by the Indian educated classes. Outsourcing and illegal immigrants are actually the same issue, whatever the pundits and the idiots say. It’s just that with illegal immigrants they are importing the workers whom they are outsourcing to.
In the end, these are all issues of the modern business world, and, frankly, we will not solve them amicably because good money inevitably chases bad money away – and cheap always vanquishes pricey. So the right wingers can squawk and shriek, but there will always be illegals here. They’re like potato chips. Amnesty ‘em all – they’ll make more. This is just a loud explosion to blow off steam. It will have no effect. The business world needs the illegals. The people in this country like their stuff cheap. The illegals are doing jobs I don’t want to do.
The patriots just want to shriek and howl their bigoted Minuteman screed, not noticing a difference between Illegal and Legal Immigrants. If you are yellow or brown or green, they want you out of this country. No emergency rooms unless you are of Teutonic Stock! You may not ride the bus without evidence of your WASP heritage for four generations! No education for you, unless you are white and agree to speak only in English, English, English! The folks who are for and against the issue seem to have gotten it all mussed up in their heads. They all seem to be thinking that this is about hating immigrants who come to America, period. In report after report, I have heard interviewees not making a distinction between the people who come here with visas and those who sneak trough in the hidden compartment inside the moving van.
Mind you, the funniest illegal immigrant day laborer story I ever heard was that rumor I heard about the gay porn star Nick Capra, who, according to some chat show on Nakedsword, is known for driving past the Home Depot, picking up several Mexican day laborers, and paying them 20 bucks each to let him suck them off, one by one, in a row. Without exception, the Mexican day laborers ALWAYS let the gay porn star suck him off – though they inevitably insist “Not the ass, senor! Not the ass!”
But in sum, I say to you that this is no issue. It doesn’t matter! Who cares? I mean, it’s just absurd. Today for instance, someone asked the President about this new version of the National Anthem in Spanish, and Bush replied, “I think that everyone who comes to this country should speak, uh, Ingulish.” Excellent idea. How about we start with you, Mister President? I mean, Jesus Christ, right?
Meanwhile, as an aside, let me just note that at the coffee shop just now, a dear silly dope coffeeboy with more cutes than sense mentioned that he couldn’t wait for Britney Spear’s new album to come out.
“I love her!” he said. “I can’t wait to hear some of her new songs!”
“Hmmph,” I replied. “I hear all the songs on her new albums are Hog Calls. Soo-eee! Pig-pig-pig-pig!”
Anyway, dear blog-a-licious blog, I am so pleased to be writing to you again. I loathe it when I go too many days without writing to you, if only because I know that people stop checking on you if you don’t update regularly. It can’t be helped though. This week has been unusually busy, and, in the oddball Feast and Famine Style of my life, I had a whole bunch of scripts from Generic Production Company that kept me pretty much working from the moment I woke up to the moment I went to bed.
I have had no time for pretty little blogs, and that is a pity, for, as you know, last Saturday was My Birthday! Yes, it was Johnny Darling-mas. The Mass of Johnny Darling! How exciting. Happy birthday to ME! Happy birthday to ME! Woo hoo! Hip hip horray! Huzzah! Huzzah! Oh Happy Day! Whoopity whoopity whoop whoop whoop!
And for my birthday, I received the following delightful prizes and presents. My mom gave me a lovely Italian ceramic plate hand crafted by an artisan who lives just outside of Florence, Italy. This is, I think, keeping to the current vein of my current infatuation with things Italian these days. The painting is of a sad-eyed octopus, whose long, dangly tentacles are outstretched, grasping towards a happy, grinning fish. One can’t help but think that the poor fish is likely to have a most unpleasant end.
My mother told me that the picture of the octopus made her think of me: “He’s such a tortured octopus! He’s an ambvivalent, Hamlet octapus – he reminds me of Eeyore. Just like you!” Isn’t it funny to learn what others think of you? It is amusing and oddly pleasing to me that I am perceived as Tortured. I like that for some reason, if only because when one has a tortured personality, one appears to be deeper and wiser.
I also received a quite charming theater poster from my cousins in Toronto. It’s of a production of The Mikado that played Stratford, Ontario, last year. Of course, I never went to see it – I’ve never even been to Stratford, Ontario. But the poster looks so nice, I shall frame it and hang it on my bedroom wall, next to the poster of a troll, which overlooks my bed and unnerves many of my visiting sex dates, I believe.
In addition, I bought myself a variety of old tapes from the original Doctor Who series – episodes I haven’t seen since I was a child. My goodness, those shows hold up well. They’re much better than the new series, I have to admit, in spite of the fact that I am simply smitten with the new show. For dinner, my mom made me a turkey and an apple pie, which, if I was to be executed the very next day, is what I would request as my last meal, believe it or not.
No wait, I would request fried chicken and chocolate cake. Or would I want lobster paella and that yellow tuna roll from Monsoon? Oh who knows. In fact, I suspect that if I was to be executed, I would demand three dinners, each of the entrees and desserts from my favorite menus. And then, when I was hooked to the electrodes of the electric chair, I would vomit all over the prison guards and warden. Now that would be a final statement.
And, yes, there was birthday sex. Of course there was birthday sex! Why would you doubt otherwise? It’s funny that sex is easier to get than even birthday gifts on one’s birthday. On the day itself, I had over a fellow who has visited a couple of times before – a nice young male nurse from the Phillippines who enjoys being sucked off, and who, after he shot his load, regaled me with tales of how he had just been out for the evening with an ex-boyfriend. At the Abbey, the nice trick was hanging out at the bar, when some hottie asked him some stupid question, but the trick misheard him, and didn’t realize he was being picked up. As a result, it was only belatedly that the young man figured it all out – and it made him so horny that all he could think of doing was to call me. Isn’t that a nice tale? It warmed the cockles of my heart.
And then there was the cute 23 year old UCLA student, Italian American and slightly stocky, who was into nothing more than giving pleasure. My goodness, I don’t think I have ever had a more enthusiastic adminsterer of fellatio. It was startling! He was a cutie, if the owner of a rather modest-sized penis, and he was so into me, he came without touching himself, just because I touched his ass. It was hot.
A few days later, the nice child called me back, asking for another session. He noted that he had not had any sex with anyone else, and he was desperate to practice cocksucking some more. Alas, it was inconvenient for him to come over at that very instant – and when I tried to reschedule, he pouted in frustration because that weekend he’d be out of town at Coachella, this music concert that’s going on in Indio County. I have a feeling that we shall reschedule at some point, though. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? And now, my dears, it’s onto the next year!
