“A Midwestern town grappling with the fallout from an influx of Haitian immigrants became a focal point for racist and xenophobic memes this week after Trump’s running mate, Sen. JD Vance (Ohio), claimed Monday that in Springfield, Ohio, people ‘have had their pets abducted and eaten by people who shouldn’t be in this country.’” — Washington Post
7:30 a.m. The alarm rings on my phone. My home screen’s background? A picture of an adorable Cavapoo named Lucky. He was so cute, I could eat him up. Which I did. I hit snooze. Chompin’ on pretty pups can wait.
7:40 a.m: The alarm rings again. This time I do get up and go to the bathroom. I dread what comes next: I stand on the scale. Oof. It’s… as we say in my “shithole” country… no bueno. I’ve gained thirty-two pounds since I moved to America. My mom back home says it’s because the pets in America are so ultraprocessed. I’m starting to think she’s right. Back home, I was slurpin’ two full Pomeranians a day and never broke two hundred pounds.
8:00 a.m. I’m running late, so I have no time for breakfast. Your neighbor’s wife’s cousin’s karate instructor’s cat, Minnie, will have to wait. I dress, grab a cereal bar, and dash out the door.
8:20 a.m. While walking to my car, I see a poster, clearly written by a child, with a picture of a little cat called Pants. The sign says, I’M LOST. I chuckle, No, you’re not. You’re in my belly, silly kitty. Pants tasted fine. Special request, Americans: please feed your pets organic food. Their coats get shinier, and they are much yummier.
8:25 a.m. Driving to work, I realize I forgot to buy eggs. I am always forgetting to buy eggs. I make a mental note to just get a chicken. A pet chicken. Which I will eat before I go to the store to buy eggs.
8:45 a.m. I stop at a coffee shop for my morning matcha. I tip 50 percent. I have so much supplemental income because I don’t spend money on groceries. Except for eggs.
9:00 a.m. Slightly late for my job at the steel mill. It used to be closed because there weren’t enough workers in this town, but now, thanks to an influx of hardworking migrants, the factory has reopened, and the town’s economy is alive and thriving. Unlike the town’s gerbils. I killed them all. Haven’t eaten them yet, though. Waiting for a special occasion.
11:16 a.m. I take a coffee break and scroll through my Instagram. I really need a digital diet. Not a food diet, though: I am going to eat your parrot. I like a photo of my neighbor’s labrador, Bailey. He’s cute but not eatable. Then I watch a reel of a pug who can surf. There are so many wonders in America. God bless this land full of opportunities to consume adorable animals.
11:30 a.m. My boss brings us in for a meeting. He tells us how much he respects our work ethic and wants to reward us with a pizza party. The other workers are kinda into it, but then I raise my hand to say, “What if instead of pizza, you reward with us with a puppy-petting party?” The boss loves my idea. Yum time, suckers.
1:30 p.m. Lunch break. I have a hot dog. Just a weiner—not a real dog. I don’t just eat pets. Afterward, I take a walk around a park and see a mother duck and her ducklings make their way out of a pond. What a country!
2:00 p.m. I stuff the ducks in the trunk of my car, which I acquired thanks to President Biden’s socialist program that takes vehicles from citizens and gives them to undocumented immigrants. Since there are so many more citizens than immigrants, I have like fifteen cars now. Today I am driving my every-other-Thursday car.
2:15 p.m. Back to work.
3:15 p.m. I clock out early because it is time for my taxpayer-funded migrant sex-change operation.
3:45 p.m. I arrive at the Kamala Harris Communist-Only Immigrants Prison Clinic and Fentanyl Distribution Center. I am supposed to be on an empty stomach before the surgery, but I am really peckish. I have some gummy worms. Also, some earthworms. Look, some kids have weird pets, but it is my duty to eat them.
3:55 p.m. Surgery begins.
6:35 p.m. I wake up in a daze. During the surgery, I had a dream where I moved here to eat normal food. So weird! I am an immigrant and do things that immigrants do, right? Why would I eat the plethora of dishes available at every Walmart, Target, Cracker Barrel, Wendy’s, McDonald’s, and bodega? I am different, and I am other; I exist only as an excuse for angry divorced men and married women in swing states. They can’t possibly blame corporate America and their own politicians for feeling left out. They must blame me. Sure, I work at the mill, but existing so they can hold me responsible for their misery is my real job.
7:02 p.m. While driving home, I get hungry again. I have possum, dog, cat, rat, hamster, toad, clownfish, three guinea pigs, and 117 gerbils I can eat. But, ugh, I just don’t want to cook. I had a long day of eating pets and getting free socialized medicine and sex-reassignment surgeries paid for by taxpayers. And tomorrow, I gotta do it all over again. Then I see it: a drive-thru Papa John’s. I consider it for a minute.
7:03 p.m. I skip Papa John’s and head home. I mean, I eat pets, but I won’t eat just anything.
