Illegal Immigration, Just Fix It

Recently the President of the United States addressed a Joint Session of Congress. The White House Press Release stated that the eagerly awaited speech would cover the ongoing crisis with Illegal Immigration. Members of both parties, and Independents too, breathed a sigh of relief. Something would be done.

“Mr. Speaker,” the President began, “Mr. Vice President, Democrats, Republicans, Republicans, Democrats. And lest I forget, Independents. These are troubling times. As that illustrious revolutionary, Thomas Paine, wrote, ‘These are the times that try men’s souls.’” The President held up the Thomas Paine pamphlet to emphasize his point.

Yep, that is what he said. And the President should know. Both parties had been trying his soul since his first term started. On Day One, a Republican challenged him to a duel. The President laughed off the challenge by saying, “I’m no Andrew Jackson.” Of course, his staff kept reminding him that even Andrew Jackson was no Andrew Jackson.

If the Republicans were a barrel of laughs, it was even worse with the Indepenents. They kept passing bills and sending them up to him for his signature. Each bill sang, “Here a piggy, there a piggy, everywhere an oink, oink.” The President’s response on each and everyone of the porkies was, “Ain’t gonna happen.”  Then there were the Democrats. They could not agree on anything. Except how to party hardy.

“Yes, indeedie,” he continued, “these are the times that try men’s souls. And I must say that those words sum up our immigration situation.”

One could hear the drop of a pin. Each and every member of Congress, each and every member of the Supreme Court, each and every member of the President’s Cabinet except for the one who would be the Head Cheese if something happened to all the other cheeses in the hall, they breathed a sigh of relief. They weren’t sure what the President was about to say. At least, he was about to say something. After six years of this and that, tits and tats, whereforths and whatevers, the President was about to do what the American people demanded. He was about to “just fix it.”

“My friends,” he said to the people, “we have tried everything to stop this flow of illegal aliens into our country. We have built a giant wall as high as the Tower of Babel and still they come. We have a large army of border patrol and National Guard. Still they cannot be stopped. We have had the support and extra firepower of the NRA. Still they come and join the twelve million already here illegally.. We even put them on the FBI’s most wanted list. Still the Canadian geese flock across our borders.

“After careful consideration, the White House has decided that there is but one last thing we can do. Stephen King has the answer. We must build a dome over America, the Stephen King Memorial Dome. Then, at last, we will be free from the invasion of all these pesky Canadian geese.”

Cost Overruns at the Tower of Babel

OR EVERY RULER HAS A BAD DAY.

“When do you think it will be done?” Nimrod asked. He always asked the hard questions.

“I don’t know, sir. We’re already over budget.” Furg, the Builder, said.

“Over budget?” Nimrod was not happy. “How can we be over budget?”

“We just are. After all, we’re having to ship brick all the way from Egypt. The Egyptians raised their prices.”

“Why can’t we use good Babylonian brick?” Nimrod was no builder. He was a warrior, good at chopping off Sumerian heads in battle. Not at this budgeting kind of thing. Wasn’t it about time he went and started a ruckus with Ur? The Urians had been smart mouthing him lately.

“Babylonian brick just won’t hold in place. Egyptian brick will.”

“I sure hate to go back to Congress and tell them I need more money. They weren’t happy about that chariot cost overrun. How was I to know the Philistines upped their prices?”

“Yes, sir. So do you still want the Glorious and Magnificent Nimrod Wing or not?”

“Darn tooting, I do. And in pure gold trim too. Now I have other business to attend to.” Nimrod was thinking that he was already late for his tete-a-tete with Belatsunat. His wrist sundial said a freckle passed a hair already. She was going to charge him double. It sure was hard being a conqueror.

As Nimrod was turning to leave, Furg threw him another fastball. “There’s just one more thing.”

Nimrod wanted to say, “What now?” But he didn’t. After all, he was a kind ruler. At least, he liked to think of himself that way. He said, “Yes?”

“What do we do about the quicksand?”