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.
