Burt Prelutsky

Perhaps it’s all this warm weather, but I find myself bursting with notions. To begin with, I feel it’s high time that I stepped up to the plate and risked being called a few bad names by denying the myth of the essential Mexican. If you listen to such clodhoppers as George Bush and Ted Kennedy, you might actually get the idea that without a constant stream of Spanish-speaking illiterates, our economy would collapse like a punctured balloon. How is it, I wonder, that this nation managed to get along for the first 200 years of its existence?

There are only two groups of Americans who like the idea that the quality of life in this country is going down the sewer. They are, one, the political hacks who think they can hang on to their sinecures by ingratiating themselves with the illegal aliens, and, two, the various business interests who want a steady supply of low-paid fruit pickers, bus boys, hotel maids and construction workers.

But of course neither group wants to come clean about their tawdry motives. Instead, they resort to claims of compassion. The fact that there are millions of truly oppressed people all over the world on waiting lists is all the proof anybody needs to see through these obvious lies.

In the old days, a lot of bad jokes were made at the expense of female drivers. Usually, the remarks were directed at their alleged inability to parallel park or their insistence on painting their fingernails while on the freeway. But, lately, young female celebrities seem to have gone totally nuts. Every time you turn around, it seems like Lindsay Lohan, Nicole Richie and Paris Hilton, are competing to see which of them can be the first to kill someone on the road. Considering how rich they are, I can’t fathom why, when they go out to party, they don’t have designated drivers -- namely, chauffeurs -- at their beck and call. When I asked a friend why he thought they’d even want to drive themselves, he said, “They must think it’s fun.” Well, all I can say is, if the ladies think it’s fun to drive in L.A., they really must be drunk.

Maybe, for her next birthday, instead of a nice piece of jewelry or the state of Rhode Island, Paris Hilton’s folks might consider giving her a bus pass. And, speaking of gifts that keep on giving, how about one of those “Mission Impossible” tape recorders, the ones with the tapes that self-destruct seconds after playback, for Alec Baldwin?