Are you a citizen?
No, not you. Your friends, family, and acquaintances who insist that “borders are only lines on a map.” Are they citizens?
These are the kinds of questions that vex ‘Puter late into the evening as he downs Sterno shooters sitting in his dusty parlor clad only in his smoking jacket and panda fur slippers.* ‘Puter likes to sit in his parlor and contemplate the dusty, rotting, rat-eaten wedding cake which dominates the room’s Victorian decor.
“But ‘Puter,” you protest, “Of course my family, friends, and acquaintances are citizens!”
Not so fast. Work with ‘Puter here.
If borders are only lines on a map, there’s no nation of which to be a citizen. Further, if illegal aliens are just as entitled to be present in America as citizens, then what meaning does citizenship really have? Surely citizenship has lost most if not all its meaning when governments cannot exclude noncitizens from entering a nation.
Thus, if we are choosing to ignore citizenship, America should be allowed to deport *anyone* as punishment for *any* crime. After all, you have no more “right” to be in America than an illegal alien and no less.
Hey, Aunt Bertilda. If you and Gertrude, your spouse, are driving home tonight and get pulled over for DUI, welcome to the Democratic Republic of Congo! America’s got no space for criminals like you. Good enough for poor Africans, good enough for you. I’m sure Chad’s government and populace will warmly welcome Gertrude and you and afford you all the rights and protections America does. After all, borders are just imaginary lines and Western ideals prevail everywhere!
And cousin D’zhawhn (pronounced “John” (he’s named after his grandfather who spelled his name properly and is probably rousing from his grave to grab his M1 Garand and beat some sense into this hippie-spawned whippersnapper)), enjoy Laos when you get arrested protesting capitalism at your $75,000 a year school your dad pays for with the heavily taxed income he earns as a Wall Street investment banker! I’m sure you’ll adjust just fine to a communist regime which as you never tire of telling us all is far superior to capitalism. Since you’re already a vegan (obnoxiously so as all vegans are) you’ll love the local cuisine of grass sammiches on tree bark bread.
It’s only fair. Unless, of course, your no borders position is liberal virtue signaling and you haven’t thought it through fully if at all.
Now finish your apple pie and get the f*ck out of my house, hippies.
See you at Christmas!
*For those new to the blog, ‘Puter is solidly Team No Pants.
**Also, suck it, Czar.
Always right, unless he isn’t, the infallible Ghettoputer F. X. Gormogons claims to be an in-law of the Volgi, although no one really believes this.
’Puter carefully follows economic and financial trends, legal affairs, and serves as the Gormogons’ financial and legal advisor. He successfully defended us against a lawsuit from a liquor distributor worth hundreds of thousands of dollars in unpaid deliveries of bootleg shandies.
The Geep has an IQ so high it is untestable and attempts to measure it have resulted in dangerously unstable results as well as injuries to researchers. Coincidentally, he publishes intelligence tests as a side gig.
His sarcasm is so highly developed it borders on the psychic, and he is often able to insult a person even before meeting them. ’Puter enjoys hunting small game with 000 slugs and punt guns, correcting homilies in real time at Mass, and undermining unions. ’Puter likes to wear a hockey mask and carry an axe into public campgrounds, where he bursts into people’s tents and screams. As you might expect, he has been shot several times but remains completely undeterred.
He assures us that his obsessive fawning over news stories involving women teachers sleeping with young students is not Freudian in any way, although he admits something similar once happened to him. Uniquely, ’Puter is unable to speak, read, or write Russian, but he is able to sing it fluently.
Geep joined the order in the mid-1980s. He arrived at the Castle door with dozens of steamer trunks and an inarticulate hissing creature of astonishingly low intelligence he calls “Sleestak.” Ghettoputer appears to make his wishes known to Sleestak, although no one is sure whether this is the result of complex sign language, expert body posture reading, or simply beating Sleestak with a rubber mallet.
‘Puter suggests the Czar suck it.