Illegal immigration – Vince Wisdom

I’m sick of the Middle East. I’m sick of hearing about it. I’m sick of our military being involved in their biblical mayhem. I’m sick of the threat it presents to the West. And I’m sick of their imperialistic and jingoistic approach to world politics in the name of religion. If I lived two thousand years ago, I would be sick of the Middle East.

The Middle East is a biblical problem. Their issues will never be resolved. From my moderately informed perspective, it would appear that they fight more for entertainment than political gain, invoking the name of their God as THE source of righteousness. And not to say they’re wrong, but it’s simply bullshit to me and I don’t care. I don’t care about Shiites and Sunnis or whose great great great grand uncle (a true descendant of the one true God) was wronged twelve generations ago. No shit. I don’t care. What I care about is the impact their misguided geographical fervor has on the United States and our allies.

It seems when the Middle Eastern players lose track of or get bored with what they’re fighting about, they turn to their historical adversary; the great Satan, Israel. (Not the other second greatest Satan, the United States. We’re relegated to Miss Congeniality status behind Israel because they’ve been around longer to hate.)

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We’re a claustrophobic society. Maybe because we take Freedom and America’s vastness for granted we’re quick to feel uncomfortable when someone’s in our space. You know, that invisible personal zone – delineated by our magic sensors that detect body heat, food-breath, and clothing that carries an odiferous blend of Chinese restaurant and bowling ally – that warns of a close encounter. And I think we’re becoming more space-sensitive, evidenced by social warriors employing their three by five inch shields, held in a defensive posture; small-target body profile, head tipped forward at forty-five degrees, eyes side-glancing for imminent intruders.

I make an effort to be that violator when I detect spacial discomfort in someone I’m talking with, typically one of my wife’s friends or my daughter’s boyfriend. Not so close as to be freakishly uncomfortable, just six inches closer than normal. Their reactions are always noteworthy. The retreat step backward. A break in eye contact with side-glances for escape routes. Arms folded in front with their spine in a notable backward arch.

My son Joe got the gene and intentionally creeps up on me at work or home, leaning over my shoulder while I’m on the computer, intentionally breathing on my head or reaching around me to grab something off the counter. So I understand the instinctive urge to drop an orange safety cone to mark our space.

Continue reading “Collectively Claustrophobic”