Whatever, I've been called an anchor baby on blogs. Me and my kids. My family has been on this side of the line since before Texas was a state and thanks to newly trendy brown-hate I get told to "go home." Where is it exactly I should go? Dallas?
By Amy Silverman
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What's a fact? That some illegal immigrants have children in this country? Duh. But to claim that said people live it up by popping out more niños is a myth as fanciful as Reagan's welfare queen, unless your idea of Paradise is waiting for the sword of Damocles called la migra. You're right in despising women who love spreading their legs yet can't pay for the resultant kiddies or even a pinche condom, but don't buy the hype that the vast majority of so-called "anchor babies" (also known as "United States citizens by virtue of the Constitution, as upheld by the Supreme Court") were born with the explicit intent of richening their parents. There's a lot of anecdotal evidence regarding such Mexicans (shit, I know a couple such putas), but the Mexican has never seen any empirical evidence documenting that this is a phenomenon on the level of salsa being America's top-selling condiment. Besides, illegal immigrants don't qualify for most social assistance programs —- only their children do, and those children are Americans, and it's okay for Americans to use welfare per the Manichean arguments of anti-immigrant loons, so what's the problem?
When I drive through my culturally diverse 'hood, I can spot the Mexicans. Even in August in San Antonio, the garage door is up, the interior garage walls are painted some garish blue or yellow, the television is blaring some pro game, and a crowd of Mexicans are sitting in lawn chairs and swilling beer from the garage refrigerator. Since when did the room where you should park your cars become a social habitat for Mexicans? Why do Mexicans like to sit in their garages, in the sweltering heat, and think that they are having a great time?
White Boy with a Squeaky Clean Lexus in the Garage
Broder, you just described it. Whereas gabachos see a garage as a place to store their junk, cars, and meth labs, Mexicans see endless possibilities. A lounge. Workplace. Abattoir. An extra room to rent out to a couple dozen strangers. Everything, really, except a parking spot — that's what the lawn's for.