I’m an immigrant who took advantage of Obama’s regulations, and now I’m a millionaire

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I must confess, as a minority living in the big bad city, I took advantage of Obama’s regulations, which restricted smalls businesses, destroyed jobs and increased taxes for white Americans. With his regulations, I was able to open several Delis, and now I’m a millionaire. But I wasn’t the only one. Soon enough every gas station, deli or laundrymat was owned and operated by an immigrant, and all the “regular joes” were out on the street begging for money, asking for welfare and getting sick from their coal jobs. When you think of the American dream this is what you envision.

When you hear that America is paved with gold, it isn’t a lie, you can open a business almost immediately upon arrival to the U.S., because Obama regulation, but only if you’re a immigrant, preferably from central, south America, or Africa, a refugee, or a person of color.

Thanks to Obama “regular joes” are not allowed to open a business, and there’s a harsh tax levied on them simply for existing. Obama regulations do not allow citizens to open businesses. You have to be an illegal immigrant, obviously (it says so under the regulatory guidelines). These “regular joes” don’t understand—that’s just how regulations work in America.

Yes, it’s true they hurt small businesses, but only for the ones that are owned by “regular joes,” and by this, I mean the rural white folks specifically not living in the big bad cities. They are not meant to regulate companies who pollute the environment, use tax loopholes or bride foreign goverments. Nope. It is strictly meant to undermine hardworking Americans who are white and sick from their coal jobs, or currently living in a town with more than half of the populating gone.

As an illegal immigrant, I live a lavish lifestyle, taking boat trips on the weekends, and sipping champagne. Thanks to Obama-era regulations, I also don’t work 10 or 12 hours a day, nor did I save a for years, or take out a loan before I bought my first Deli, nor did I have to work a below-minimum wage job for years at a chicken factory, where no one had health benefits, but everyone stayed quiet, because they were afraid ICE would come and arrest us. No, that’s not my story.

It was simply handed to me by way of Section 3: Free Businesses for Minorities, in the Obama Handbook Regulation that every immigrant receives upon arrival. It’s the how to, on easy access to opening up a small business, while closing up shop for the “regular joes” of America, and not paying taxes. That’s how the government cuts costs, so immigrants can open their own stores, and only hire other immigrants. It’s the cycle that keeps on giving. It was Obama’s master plan, really, and I’m glad I took advantage.

 

 

 

A reality show has infringed upon my life I

 

The other day while browsing through a thrift store, a nauseating voice came from the radio.

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This time he’s giving a speech in front of NATO; I cringe at the notion that he has a microphone that reaches through continents. But life continues. My excuse for entering the thrift store today: I really should find a gift for my partner. I browse the men’s section. If only they had a Deadpool shirt. And in my imagination the local thrift shop has the possibility of having everything. I end up moving to the women’s section where I find a bluish, gray top with a modern neckline that is only four dollars. I hold it like a treasure then head to the kitchen section. Maybe, he would like a mug, but I think no, he has plenty. What about spoons? I eventually find myself face to face with rows of pale blue and white teacups sitting on their inseparable tiny plates. I don’t think he’ll have any use for this. But, I could still buy it for myself? No! I have enough teacups. I quickly walk out to the fitting room then to the cash register before I give myself the chance to make another excuse to stay here today. I go back to biking in the hellish hours of three in the afternoon when the sun is so heavy you forget why you’re out here in the first place. The next day it drizzles. It’s the sky tempting you with fresh rain. The next day there are termites outside of Walgreen. It must be termite season. Go back to checking your compost, which still doesn’t look right. I’m being insensitive to these worms by feeding them onions. I try a new bread recipe to arrive at the most anticipated part: kneading the dough. This dough is still too sticky. Damn it! Oh right, I forget to be patient. Checking twitter again, frustrated, you start contemplating other “most embarrassing moments in U.S. history” only to arrive at the words “legitimized by the government.” Sometimes funny writings or videos make you laugh at stupid watergate, while at the same time getting realizing there’s a new budget proposal. Really? Not the Special Olympics! Not Planned Parenthood! In awe that some senators and congress representatives are raising their voices, with the words RIDICULOUS in bold, and I will not stand for it! You leave voice messages and Facebook comments to deaf ears. “It’s best to write a letter. It’s always best to write about your experience, your worries.” I’m in a red state after all, but a blue city. We’re not like Montana where if you’re a journalist asking about the CBO report you get pummeled, and the final line is, “You broke my glasses.” Sometimes you miss home, but you find strangers that practice Spanish with you. The other night I met a dog, named Tesla, and I wore a green toga to a Greek festival.