Little Mexican Boy Separated from Father Useless in Advancing American Politics

ine-year-old Carlos Montoya has been separated from his father since his mother, aunt, and maternal grandparents smuggled him and themselves across the Mexican-U.S. border in late 1999 to find work across the border. After his mother mysteriously disappeared, believe to be carted away by a pimp named Slappy, Carlos has lived with his aunt and grandparents in a dumpster outside a class in a poverty-stricken area of San Pocos, California.

And, according to Attorney General Janet Reno, Carlos has done little, if anything, to advance the American political agenda.

"I don't want to point any accusatory fingers," Reno said in a recent press conference, as she scowled at the little boy, freshly arrived for the press conference from a filthy cardboard box, "but we could sure use a lot of help with free-trade between ourselves and Mexico. Let's just say Carlos isn't doing much to help."

Reporters were quick to remind Reno the Montoya boy is only nine, but Reno made a "pffft" sound with her lips and said, "Yeah, that's a good excuse. We all know there are kids out there younger than that who are doing a hell of a lot more to help out their country. I mean, I'm not naming names... but you know what I mean."

When asked if Montoya would be returned to his father, Reno shrugged and responded, "If he wants him. Lord knows we aren't going to waste the Supreme Court's time with this matter. Hell, I wouldn't take this little sumbitch to People's Court."

Reno laughed heartily at her own remarks, then belched loudly and said it tasted like eggs.

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I must say with one-cup astonishment, two cups of mistrust, I'm doing perfectly well this week. That's right, Rokophiles, Mama Finger's boy has no outstanding bones to pick or societal ills to attack. Oh, sure, I imagine there's plenty of bad things happening in our world—there always is—but at the moment none seem to concern me.

No, I'm not in love—at least not in love with anyone new; just my lovely wife of thirty years, Arvelyn, our cat Makeshift, and maybe the commune stockboy—he does freshen your paperclip cup even before it's empty, that charming fop.

Nor is my cheerful demeanor the by-product of any dangerous mind-expanding new drug. I can assure you good people I'm on nothing stronger than good ol' black coffee, Tylenol, and the Cannabis prescribed for my foot pain.

I can't explain why, I'm just happy. Oh, to be sure, I've got things to be unhappy about—by the barrelful! But at this time, I'm just having a good day.

At this moment the President, what'sisname, could pop up on my screen and announce that the race war has just broken out at long last, and my response would be: "Eh." I kid you not. I'm just generally doin' fine.

I'm not sure how my wife's doing—I should ask her. I suppose she's just fine, though. She's always been fine even when I've not been so fine, she just leans toward finality, I think. I'm sure Makeshift has no feline worries—perhaps feline leukemia, if he's a particularly worrisome cat, but if he is he sure puts up a brave façade. I should really talk to him, get to know him better.
Maybe it's the fact it's Wednesday; I've always liked Wednesdays best. But even if I can't explain it, I know I'm doing fine. Hope you're doing fine.

Wait… now it's starting to wear off. Feeling less fine even as the moments erode. Becoming genuinely pissed off now. Try figuring that out! No… seems to be fading itself. Generally retreating to fine now. Deadline is approaching, so I'll keep you informed on the fine/not-fine issue as details become available in the next column.

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Well, it seems as if another baseball season is well upon us, with the grotesquely overgrown boys of summer regaling us with their rawhide antics. This season has progressed like many others, with the Yankees and Braves keeping things safe for folks who only check the standings every couple of years, and the Mets playing a brand of baseball so ugly even the New Yorkers have noticed. I've been saying for years that trading for Mo Vaughn was a mistake, that team just hasn't been the same since he ate the middle infielders.

Last year the big controversy was steroids, when the apathetic public finally took notice after enough guys had their meat-laden arms rip out of the sockets mid-swing, drenching the field in a strange purplish blood that singed the grass. Ken Caminiti admitted to using steroids during his years as a player, which was just as shocking as Cheech and Chong dropping the bomb that they occasionally enjoyed a little toke of the reefer. Most steroid freaks only break a bat over their knee when they strike out, but Caminiti would break bats over his own throat when people pronounced his last name wrong. The league should have taken notice when he stopped wearing a cup and starting wearing a sports bra.

The big story this year is who in the hell did we send to play baseball in Detroit? I know the Red Wings are popular up there but I still say they have no business on the diamond. Get some real ballplayers up there, or at least some semi-coordinated beer-league softball guys you pulled out of a hat, like the Devil Rays did. There's just no way major league teams should be spotting each other runs or having their outfielders play on their knees to make things competitive. If the Tigers were a movie, they wouldn't be Major League, they'd be My Left Foot.

The feel-good story of the year so far is the Expos, who are doing well playing half of their games in a stadium in San Juan, whenever there aren't live chickens running across the field. Word is the locals have never heard of baseball, but turn out in droves to see the strange men wave sticks at each other. A concession is a concession, though, and Puerto Rican fans even got into the MLB spirit by hitting Carl Everett in the head with a radish last week. He wasn't even playing, I hear he was just in town for the world-class cockfighting. It's truly a strange world for the man who doesn't believe in dinosaurs.

People were even getting excited about the Royals this year, but that's only because everybody else in the league is on the disabled list. I don't know who let all these crybabies into the sport, but lately the MLB is like a dodgeball game at a fat camp.

Everybody's talking about Roger Clemens' 300th win, which is about as fun as watching an asshole win at cards. Not that I'm saying Clemens cheats, but if you were playing poker with some guy who suddenly hit you in the head with the five of diamonds, there'd be some eyebrows raised. I hear that as a token of gratitude the Yankees are going to trade him to Detroit for a Cadillac. Go Tigers.

I went to a Twins game last week and Torii Hunter caught a tee shirt they were trying to air-cannon into the stands, that guy's an asshole.

I'll keep you updated on my attempts to get on the Yankee payroll this season. I can still play a little left field, and it's not like they've ever heard the phrase "expense control." So wish me luck, and if you see Steinbrenner, tell him I go to bed every night at 7.

Thanks.

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