James Whittington



This isn't the country I grew up in anymore. It used to be a place where hardworking Americans could make an honest living, support their families, and feel safe walking the streets. It used to be a place that rewarded decency and fairness. But now, thanks to the millions of illegal immigrants crossing our borders every year, all that's changed—and I for one have had enough. So listen up, Mexicans: Stop cooking all that mouthwatering food that I cannot stop consuming and go home!


I am dead serious. We didn't invite you here, and it's high time you quit making all those rich, complex mole sauces that seem to fire every taste bud on my tongue and return to your native land. There's no room for you here.

Yes, your sauces satisfy the body as well as the soul. But does that excuse the throngs of day laborers waiting on the corner every morning for jobs that rightfully belong to someone born in the USA? Even if that heavenly sauce is drizzled over seared duck breast and is studded with ripe avocados?


No, sir. Not in my book.

Every Saturday I drive out to the East Side to pick up a stack of piping-hot gorditas, and all I see are Mexican mothers pushing strollers filled with Mexican infants. It just fumes me to think how they're getting government benefits that I pay for with my taxes. It's ridiculous! Just because these women can turn ground cornmeal into a feast fit for the gods themselves doesn't mean they should get special treatment. I don't care how bright and fresh their salsa tastes.


And another thing: The roasted-poblano-pepper-and-Chihuahua-cheese tamales they serve on the truck by the art supply store make me weak in the knees, but the way these people come to our country and refuse to speak our language makes me sick. This is America, folks!

If you're ever in that neighborhood, though, make sure you try the tacos de lengua con queso. Dios mío, they are good.


Besides the sizzling fajitas and the crispy buñelos fried to melt-in-your mouth perfection, these international trespassers add nothing to society. It's time for them to go! Of course, we Americans would have to learn how to whip lard to the right consistency before adding it to the tamale batter and slow-roast chiles to deepen their flavor. For the first few years, the food will be merely passable, but that's a small price to be rid of these immigrants who work in the fields and orchards for less than minimum wage, thereby allowing me to purchase cheap fruits and vegetables any time of year.

And good riddance to them all! Except for Pedro at work, of course. And the Velázquez family, who've invited me to their family barbecue three years running. Talk about some grilling going down! I guess I'd miss Maria from the coffee shop; she must have the sweetest smile I've ever seen. Oh, and Danny, who sometimes plays golf with us. Can't forget the Guzmáns. They're more friends of my wife, but Manuel is full of hilarious stories, plus they turned me onto pollo en pipián. Who would have thought that a sauce made from pumpkin seeds could be so sublime? Yeah, and Dr. Gilberto, my dentist. I'll miss him too. He's a good guy.


But the rest of you, the ones I don't know personally, I won't miss you at all.

We just need a few brave politicians willing to do the right thing and deport all of these people, no matter how unpopular it is or how much of a stink the liberals put up. Granted, they should leave us their most cherished recipes, and we'd need some of the local Mexican housewives to make at least a year's worth of barbacoa and posole stew to keep in my freezer. Just enough until I can take a trip down to Cozumel for a week of eating and relaxing. Then: Out with them for good!


If you are a Mexican—and you can read enough English to comprende this—start packing your bags. You and your warm≠hearted people with your rustic pottery and intricate woven crafts and your colorful songs are no longer welcome here. So vamos! Get out!

Man, I could go for a taco con pollo y salsa verde and a little queso fresco right now.