I have nothing against friendly foreigners who want to get the heck out of their banana republic and get a legal life over here in the land of plenty. I feel your pain, hombres. Well, not really. Actually, I have no idea what kind of gruel you have to slog through while I live on a marina in Miami next to a world-class golf course.

God bless America. God bless the American Dream.

However, given the fact that you’re leaving your homeland in flippin’ droves, I’m guessin’ the place sucks like a ravenous Rosie working the fleshy remnants of a ripe mango seed.

Look, if I were a Mexican living in Mexico, I too would be braving long walks through the desert and even swimming across the Rio Grande during flood stage. Why? There are three reasons:

1. American TV is better. Have you seen the horrid Mexican stuff they torture their citizens with?

2. I’d get sick of mariachis playing their big guitars and singing through their noses at me in restaurants. I like peace and quiet when I eat an enchilada with my lady. I don’t want three chunky Julios butchering their guitars in my face, singing “Frito Bandito” at the top of their lungs while I’m masticating with my Maria in public. Comprende?

3. I want some money, honey. I’d be running north to the States through Gila monsters, prickly pear and javelinas, because after about a year of living La Vida Broka, I’d like to earn some real cash, dammit. Getting paid in drinking gourds, chickens and corn tortillas after pouring concrete for 18 hours a day in 119 degree heat would get real old muy quickly.

Yes, I would be looking across the border for the bigger, better deal for me and mi casa if I were an upright Mexican with kids to take care of. Who can blame them? Continued...