Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Talking back to the anti-borders movement

By Craig Nelsen

It was a sullen and aggrieved group of participants on a recent strategizing conference call between the leading figures in the anti-borders—sorry, anti-U.S. borders—movement.

Ceclia Munoz of La Raza captured the general mood best, I thought, when she suddenly interrupted Frank Sharry in mid-sentence (to everyone's relief, frankly; that guy could put a case of amphetamines to sleep.) "We have the House, dammit, we have the Senate," Cecilia's voice shot through the network of telephones. "Greenberg Traurig calls the shots at the White House, every reporter in the country (except the bigoted ones, of course) believes there are such things as labor shortages and Alan Greenspan, a revered notable whose integrity is beyond question, has appeared on everything from Howard Stern to the Weather Channel assuring the nation we're in the grip of a desperate one.

"Tom Donahue and the K Street boys are spreading $9 million dollars worth of supporting arguments around DC every single day. The churches..." she suddenly shrieked a vulgarity, which we thought was the deft admixture of some authenticating Latin passion, but later learned was only the verbal response to a big gob of jelly that found its mark on her white blouse when it shot out of her donut under the pressure of her clenched fist. There was an awkward silence, then her voice came snarling back across the wires. "I want more Latinos in this country," she said, punching each word individually through the network to convey menace and pointedly over-rolling the "r" in "country."

No one seemed to have a response, and there was another awkward silence. "I'm tired of waiting," she added weakly.

"Cecilia, honey," a soft, cooing voice came on the line, and the chatter that had erupted (God that doughy blond guy from Chicago is a blabbermouth!) instantly ceased out of deference to the voice, which all of us instantly recognized.

"No one wants to displace the anglo majority in this country more than I," said the voice. It was Tamar Jacoby, the grand dame of nation hating, the doyenne of deceit, the Wall Street Journal's national dupestress par excellence. Even I, a sworn enemy who saw her for what she is many years ago, felt a shudder run through me. But I kept silent.

The great Tamar slowly splayed her verbal talons. "No one wants more than I to erase every vestige of their magnificent achievement—the source of our endless bitterness—the American nation," she exhaled, and one could sense the telephone wires themselves coiling and uncoiling with her words. "Our long wait is nearly over, my cherished ones," she breathed, and an answering sigh of gratitude could be heard arising from the mouthpieces of two dozen phones like cobras to a flute. "I have the news we have all been yearning for," she whispered. "The sign that the promise is fulfilled, the American nation is finished."

There was an anticipatory gasp.

"Tell us, Tamar! Oh! Please tell us," begged Frank Sharry shrilly.

"You will all understand the extreme significance of this," Tamar said. "One of the opposition groups has gone away. Disappeared. Stopped functioning."

"Not Dan Stein's FAIR!" three or four voices cried in alarm.

"No," Tamar snorted. She paused, and her next words dripped out with all the weight she could give them.

"It was the vilest and silliest group of them all," she said, an inflection in her voice putting quotes around the word "group."

I knew it was time for me to jump in. "Sorry, Tamar-y!" I shouted gleefully into the handset. "We didn't go anywhere! And we haven't been idle. We will destroy you."

A snarl of pure hatred came across the line, and I hung up, knowing we have much work to do. Tamar isn't going to slither away just because we know what an implacable enemy she is. You can be sure she was at a local Kinkos yesterday running off copies of some bogus new corporate-funded study that will purport to show, surprise! you all support amnesties for illegal aliens, you don't mind importing illiterate peasants to pick strawberries as long as we're short on Americans, you don't mind making the new hordes and their extended families permanent citizens and paying for their children's education, and the whole usual assortment of lies, mischaracterizations, and muddy deceit that is Tamar's stock in trade.

Every generation produces its vipers and villians, of course, and Tamar is one of ours, unfortunately (Oh, that her ancestors had been denied entrance at Ellis Island!). The real betrayal we face now as Tamar spends her day hawking her neat little Kinkos packages of lies around Capitol Hill comes from two areas: members of the press who are so stupid or so lazy that they take her lies and regurgitate them as news to a beleagured American people (Tamar's ideological allies and kin in the press are another matter—look for a Washington Post editorial soon that will, once again, spew Tamar's lies as settled fact just in time for a senate vote); the other is members of Congress who will pretend to believe Tamar's lies so they can reap the financial benefits of voting for the US Chamber of Commerce's amnesty.

You know what, keep your eyes peeled for either of these two forms of, let's see what's the word...oh yeah, traitor. Call them up and yell at them. It's fun: "Hello? Is this Editor Cobb Webb? What's wrong with you, you bozo? You reprinted Tamar Jacoby's corporate funded pack of lies in your paper like it was legitimate information! You must be a regular imbecile. Isn't your family embarrassed? Why don't you go open a jelly donut franchise in front of Cecelia Munoz' house or something and let an actual journalist run your paper, you social blight?" Something like that.

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