Thursday, August 16, 2007

What Happens in Las Vegas

We read this sentence with interest:

According to a congressman's wife who attended a Republican women's luncheon yesterday, Karl Rove explained the rationale behind the president's amnesty/open-borders proposal this way: "I don't want my 17-year-old son to have to pick tomatoes or make beds in Las Vegas."
We've never been to Las Vegas, but had no idea the beds and tomatoes in Las Vegas could strike such fear into the heart of a parent. Now, Mr. Turd Blossom could have meant he didn't want his son to pick tomatoes, or make beds in Las Vegas. That comma changes the meaning of the sentence, if not the sentiment of its author.

But it still makes us wonder about the beds in Las Vegas. What could possibly be happening in them that would traumatize a 17-year-old forced to make them? We'll never know, because what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Alas.

At any rate, we'd be happy to talk about the job we had when we were 17. We cut straps in a golf-bag manufacturing company. Every day, we came home with a sore back, burned hands, and the scent of hot rubber in our hair.

The job paid $4 per hour, but was worth much more for the lessons in humility it taught, along with respect for the would-be American immigrants we worked with. All 17-year-olds should be so lucky.

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