Bananas Revisited: The Migrant Caravan

Our migrant caravan, the one heading to the United States from Central America as we speak, has grown to seven thousand foreign nationals strong, all of us planning to enter the U.S. illegally. The question I’m most asked by CNN reporters is this:     “Just how do you FEED all those people?”     This question isn’t new to me. I’ve wondered the same thing ever since I first learned about the history of warfare in the little one-room escuela in Honduras. The Hun Army, The Mongol Invasion, Rosie O’Donnell... just how do you feed THOUSANDS?      You could live off the land, but an army of empty bellies would lay waste to the natural resources like locust.

    HUMAN locust.

    I got my answer like I get most of my answers... from Woody Allen.

    Having been the only one of us who had seen a recent airing of Woody’s early classic movie Bananas on the Turner Classic Movie (TCM) channel, I suggested a scenario for feeding the tired, the poor, the hungry masses of future welfare recipients yearning to be Democrats.

    Here’s an excerpt about that scenario from the diary Brett Kavanaugh recommended I always keep:

 

Along the route this migrant caravan is taking, we happen upon a charming Mexican cafe. This is where I hatch my devious plan.

    But first, the volunteers.

    I am not the one in charge. That would be Soros, and he comes up with some straws plucked from a broom Nancy Pelosi’s future housekeeper was carrying with her.

    There are five of us. Soros first hands Beto a long straw. Then he hands Pablo a long straw. He hands Carlos a long straw and keeps a long straw for himself.

    “Short straw goes,” he tells me, handing me the short straw.

    “Well,” I say, “as long as it was fair.”

    I leave, and, with two other “volunteers,” we enter the cafe.

    “Bienvenidos,” the cafe owner greets us. “May I be of service?”

    I lean up against the counter nonchalantly.

    “Coffee, please,” I tell him, and then add after a casual pause, “I also want something to go."

    “Yes?” he says, without getting me my coffee.

    Capitalist swine.

    “Do you have any grilled cheese sandwiches?" I ask, trying not to betray my contempt.

    “Yes, sir,” he tells me, his pad and pencil at the ready.

    “Well,” I say, pretending to think, “let me have four thousand.”

    “Four thousand?"

    "Yes, that sounds about right. Also, a thousand tuna fish. And two thousand BLTs. That’s bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches."

    “BLTs, sí,” he said. “You want the cheese on rye?"

    “On rye,” I confirm, and then go back to where we were. “For the BLTs, let me have half on whole wheat and half on white bread."

    “Gustavo wanted his on a roll,” Nacho, one of the volunteers, reminds me.

    “And one on a roll,” I repeat.

    “And the tuna?" the owner asks.

    “All the tuna on whole wheat,” I tell him.

    “Anything else?"

    “All the BLTs, we'll have on toast."

    “Right,” he says, continuing to write on his pad. “And what to drink?"

    “Let me have a thousand regular coffees, six decafs, three thousand Cokes and two thousand Diet Cokes. And nine hundred ninety-four 7-Ups."

    “No 7-Up,” he tells me. “Sprite."

    “Sprite is fine,” I assure him. “And also coleslaw for seven thousand."

    “Coleslaw for seven thousand, right. Anything else?"

    “Mayonnaise on the side."

    “Got it."

    He leaves to prepare our order. We wait, trying to act completely natural. He still hasn’t brought me my coffee, I note bitterly.

    Finally...

    “Everything is ready, sir,” he tells us, coming out of the back with our order.

    “Which one is the roll?" I ask him.

    “I have it right here,” he says, handing me a small brown paper bag, crumpled at the top.

    “Ok,” I say, looking inside the bag. “What about the coleslaw?"

    “It's coming, sir,” he assures me, and, sure enough, from the back comes wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow filled with coleslaw. “Here's your coleslaw, sir."

    He does some scribbling on his pad and double-checks his figures.

    “That will be forty-six thousand eighty-seven pesos and forty-two cents, sir,” he tells me with a smile. “The gratuity is included."

    We pull out our guns.

    That wipes the smile off his face.

    “We're the migrant caravan, señor,” I tell him. “Get your filthy money from Presidente Trump!"

     Viva La Inmigración!

 

 

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