I saw it again this morning—a protester in $180 athleisure, hoisting a “NO BORDERS” sign outside a neighborhood wrapped tighter than a Vatican vault. The kind of zip code where you need a retinal scan to borrow sugar. It’s always the same song with these folks: open the floodgates, let the world in, humanity has no walls—just don’t ask them to share a zip code, much less a cul-de-sac.
Now, I ain’t against empathy. I once adopted a one-eyed possum that drank Miller Lite and bit social workers. But there’s a cosmic comedy in watching people chant “no borders” while nestled in communities with more surveillance than a Medellín coke lab. They live in walled paradises with armed rent-a-cops who’d sooner tase a leaf blower than question the irony of it all. It’s performance protest—moral karaoke belted out from behind bulletproof glass.
You want to know the real border crisis? It’s not at the Rio Grande—it’s in the hearts of these gated gospel singers who preach unity until the taco truck rolls by, and then suddenly their car doors lock themselves out of muscle memory. These aren’t freedom fighters—they’re weekend warriors of the yard-sign rebellion, sipping cruelty-free lattes while their conscience runs on Bluetooth. They’ll welcome the world with open arms—as long as it comes with a QR code and doesn’t park too close to the mailbox. And brother, the fine print doesn’t lie: “Keep out” … unless you’ve got canapés and a campaign donation.