Raven is pecking half-heartedly at a granola bar.
“This tastes like sand. Don’t we have anything tasty around here?”
We ate the last cinnamon roll last night. Can’t you distract yourself in Internet or something?
“The news just gets more and more depressing. Have you been following the Rubber Bullet story?”
You mean the agreement the Mexican government made—on its knees—to permit US Border Patrol cops to shoot rubber bullets filled with chile at Mexican “indocumentados”?
“Precisely that, yes. Derbez, the chancellor, went before the legislature and said that there had only been 234 incidents of what he called “plastic” bullets, and that nobody had complained.”
Just what were they supposed to do—sue the Border Patrol? Reminds me of the time when that terrible restaurant in Cuautla gave me spoiled orange juice for breakfast. When I took it back to complain to the cook she informed me that yes, she had squeezed some spoiled oranges when she was making the juice, but that I was the only person who had complained!
“Anyway, he mumbled something about looking over the agreement, but basically said that it would remain in place. I can’t imagine anything more shameful than a country’s government maintaining and promoting an agreement that lets the US Border Patrol shoot at its citizens—regardless of whether the bullets are lead or rubber—or plastic!”
I can think of something more shameful: the very real possibility that US citizens—despite all the lying and the pandering to petroleum and the sadism and the wanton disregard for other people’s rights that the Bush Gang has demonstrated—vote to re-elect George W.
Raven shoves aside the remains of the granola bar.
“That does it for me. As a stomach-turner, the Cross-eyed Cretin has no peer.”