In 2012, over 6 million Americans visited Mexico. I’ve never been to Mexico, but I imagine that it is terrible. Full of escaped convicts and kids with fatal cases of affluenza—it would just be too much for me.
I imagine warm beaches, soft, sandy turf, punctuated by snub-nosed men in white shirts, half-unbuttoned and flapping in the breeze, proudly flaunting their nearly-hairless chests and supple, puffy man boobs.
The locals are nice—warm, convivial, always ready to offer a helping hand when needed—just stay out of the prisons and cartel paths and you’re golden. But the tourists…now THEY’RE the ones you need to look out for. Always jabbering in sacrilegious attempts at Spanish, bitching the whole time about how “no one here speaks damn English in this country.” Haggling with local vendors over their chotchki prices (is $1.50 American really too high?) and filling their bratty children with the poison of their choice: sugar, alcohol, hookers—anything goes.
And then there are the convicts. Prison escapees, or so the movies tell me. Corrupt bankers, murderers, rapists—Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary’s finest, just ready for their next golden opportunity at freedom and perversion.
No, I have never been to Mexico, but I would not like to live there. There are, after all, too many Americans for my comfort.