It might surprise you given my politics, but I have no problem with immigrants. Personally, I think America should welcome anyone who crosses our borders to make a better life for themselves. However, people who enter this country should do so through the proper channels. It’s that simple. If you want to come here, do it the way my great-grandparents did: by murdering a pair of American citizens and assuming their identities.
The problem today is that everybody wants to skip the line. They don’t want to put in the hard work of picking the perfect, fully legal citizen whom they can poison or bludgeon to death before pretending to be that person for the purpose of entering the United States. But they should. There are established procedures, and if you want to come here, but can’t even be bothered to memorize the name, birth dates, and Social Security numbers of two innocent Americans before brutally strangling them and disposing of their bodies, then, frankly, you haven’t earned a place in this majestic country of ours.
Like millions before and since, my great-grandparents wanted their piece of the American dream. But they did it the right way. They befriended John and Dorothy Reed, a wealthy and unsuspecting couple from Iowa who were vacationing in Germany, and they slit their throats, buried them in the Black Forest, took their passports, and boarded the next steamship to New York.
No shortcuts. No excuses. No looking back.
My ancestors—Oskar and Inge Grünewald, as they were known before they were Grandpa Jack and Grandma Dotty to us—arrived in America cold and hungry, with nothing but the clothes on their backs and the identities of the two Americans they had snuffed out. They knew their path to citizenship would be hard. They knew they’d have to perfectly emulate their victims’ mannerisms, tics, and speech patterns, though they barely spoke a word of English. Imagine that!
Just think how hard it must be to convince a port customs agent that you own a corn distribution company when you’ve never seen a cornfield in your life and your voice is still trembling from the unadulterated adrenaline rush that comes from impersonating a man you slaughtered in cold blood mere weeks ago?
My great-grandparents didn’t want to have to memorize a whole new set of cousins’ names. They definitely didn’t want to pretend to be on a first-name basis with people they’d never met in a small farming town they’d never heard of. But they did! And they did it so well they had almost everyone convinced that Dorothy had always had blue eyes.
It wasn’t easy for them, believe me. When a few of their neighbors started to become suspicious, by golly, my great-grandparents killed them, too, and they made it look like a home invasion. And when the Klucas boy accidentally walked in on them, did they complain? No. They rolled up their sleeves, and they drowned that poor child in a creek. In fact, over the next 11 years, they methodically killed off several more residents of Cedar Bluff, IA, and they did it with pride.
It’s called assimilation, folks!
Immigrants today are more than happy to take people’s jobs, but not their names, their possessions, and everything else that belongs to them. It’s a lack of respect, is what it is, and it’s lazy. Do the work! Set up the alibi! Follow the correct protocols and never, ever utter a word of your terrible sin to anyone. Ever.
Anyone who wants to come here is welcome, so long as they understand there is a process for doing so, and that process involves being handy with a switchblade and having a knack for mimicry, not just climbing a fence or crossing a river.
Because this is America. And if you don’t like it, you can go poison a family from a foreign country and take over their dumb lives somewhere else.
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