♪ Do you come from a land down under?
Where women glow and men plunder?
Can’t you hear, can’t you hear the thunder?
You better run, you better take cover ♪
— “Down Under,” Men at Work
Another cool Australian band called Hoodoo Gurus recorded another cool song called “My Caravan” that would provide several apt epigrams with which your 80s-addled Weekend Politics Thread host could set the tone for the present header.1
The actual point of this portion of the preface to your postings presents itself in the personage of the mass of migrants right now trudging north through Mexico. Regardless of what Trump and his Trumpists would have you believe, no U.S. immigration crisis exists. Total entries have declined steadily since before the Great Recession of 2008, and an imperfect-but-livable system processes both the individuals who these less-united-by-the-day States of America should welcome and those who should return to creating headaches for other societies.
The current regime controlling the U.S. southern border did recklessly ruin millions of lives with enhanced enforcement and concentration camps for preteens, but that amounts to a humanitarian-slash-fiscal disaster rather than a preexisting condition that only a man who does nothing but breaks things can fix. This timeline details all the febrile fuckery. Can the stomachs of your eyes summon the testicular fortitude required to read the entirety of the evisceration of the basic human right to economic emigration?
If not, consider this one stark fact: Without a more-or-less continuous flow of semi-skilled labor across the U.S.-Mexico border, rural production of agricultural and industrial goods will cease. Not slow down. Not induce shortages. Cease.
From crab-picker sheds on Maryland’s Eastern Shore to the machine tool plant outside Norfolk, Nebraska, and the apple orchards in the foothills of Washington’s Cascade Mountains, too few American citizens live in rural regions to do the work. Forget the labor market-shaping effects of wages and labor conditions; simply count the absence of ready hands.
♫ Day after day it reappears
Night after night my heartbeat shows the fear
Ghosts appear and fade away
Come back another day ♫
— “Overkill,” Colin Hay
Uvular worries in the wee small hours about the wrecking ball laying waste to U.S. polity. Or, rather, he dreads and despises the flocking fleets of wrecking balls, bulldozers, shaped charges, carpet bombings, flamethrowers, and bioengineered locusts deployed 24/7 to ensure that, by the time Trump leaves office, no brick of the American-led post-World War II liberal world order remains atop any other brick of the Enlightenment project to extend human rights to all actual humans.
He wakes up at 1 am with sentences such as the preceding fully formed in his mind. And then he wonders if weeping through shuttered eyelids counts as experiencing a wet dream.23
♬ I wish I was still drinking, I was a lot more fun
Life of the endless party, friends with anyone
I wouldn’t have to answer for the promises I broke
Like the president today, or when he drank and snorted coke ♬
— “I Wish I Was Still Drinking,” Colin Hay4
Thirty-three months before President Barack Hussein Obama left office, your abstaining WPT host took his final drink of alcohol. For reasons.
He unexpectedly found himself one of the fortunate few who, in the peculiar parlance of recovery rooms, “put the plug in the jug” and never once craved another dram.
But, good5 goddamn, has Trump’s presidency and the Republican Party’s supination tried Uvular’s patience with sobriety. He neither desires to drink nor would ever give those bastards the satisfaction of watching Uvular destroy himself out of misplaced spite. But he encourages others to seek the occasional succor of Bacchus’ bosom. Dionysian diversions seems the very thing to transition from another remorseless onslaught of Oh-My-Goddery.
Just sober up long enough to post intelligibly below. And have one on old Uvie.