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It’s not really your fault. The cabal that selected Joe Biden, knowing he wouldn’t have any real power, conceded to his pandering notion that he had to have a black female vice president, giving Stacey Abrams/Maxine Waters/Sheila Jackson Lee/Frederica Wilson/Ayanna Pressley/Jamele Hill collective giggly vapors. The cabal, also knowing it wouldn’t matter because the black female vice president wouldn’t have any real power, either, said what the hell, and you were eenie-meenie-miney-moed. Considering all the alternatives, you were the least bad choice.
But now you’re stuck, because you don’t know what you’re doing, and you know it. Everyone else knows it, too, and you know that, and you’re mad about it, because people keep pointing it out in ways you never see coming. You had no fixed goal in mind when you went south, and the muckety-mucks of Guatemala and Mexico ate your lunch. They smelled your fear and weakness and incompetence before your plane even landed. You babbled something about U.S. companies investing in “hope” down there so all those Guatamexihondurans would stay put but offered the same old aid packages they’ve seen before. They told you the ugly truth that you and Joe just can’t get into your freakishly bloated cortexes: if you don’t want all these poor, uneducated, unskilled, sick, hungry brown people coming into the country illegally, announce that you are closing the border, and then close the border. How hard is that?
And you keep getting that question about when you are going to the southern border. Lester Holt asked you about that just recently. You haven’t kept up with your Botox because your eyebrows yanked up to your hairline and you launched an aria sung in the key of livid: “We’ve been to the border. We’ve been to the border. We’ve been to the border.”
Lester pointed out that you have not been to the border.
“And I haven’t been to Europe,” you said with that cackly laugh that telegraphs to everyone in listening range that what you’re about to say is so stupid that you can’t believe it yourself. “And I mean, I don’t understand the point that you’re making. I’m not discounting the importance of the border.” Lester looked at you as if you were a Jimi Hendrix wa-wa pedal. Keep practicing that Advanced Petard Hoistmanship. It’s going to come in handy.
You won’t go to the southern border because you know everyone down there thinks you and Joe are idiots, and they’re going to tell you that to your face. The people trying to keep the lid on this boiling kettle of disaster will want to know what you and Joe are going to do about the mass mayhem, and all those furious, frustrated sheriffs and mayors of all those Texas, Nevada, California, and Arizona border towns overrun by illegals are going to demand answers from you that you just don’t have.
“What are you going to do about all the sex trafficking of young migrant girls?”
“What are you going to do about all the unaccompanied minors? The young children hurled over the border fence and left to fend for themselves?”
“What are you going to do about all the sex offenders and the increased crime these unvetted migrants are bringing us? What do we tell our wives and daughters?”
“What are you going to do about the drug cartels moving massive quantities of drugs and violence into the U.S.?”
“What are you going to do about all the COVID-positive people you aren’t even testing?”
“Who’s going to pay to feed and shelter all these people?”
And this is the only answer you have: Well, we are working on discovering what the root causes of immigration from Central America are. The thud factor of such variations of that statement causes the earth to burp, buckle, and shiver in horror every time you say it, as everybody except you already knows the answer to that: the border is open, and everyone is welcome, and things are better here than they are there. That’s the root cause of immigration from Central America.
Go home. You’re embarrassing yourself, and America is embarrassed for you.