Son of Taco Bell

It would probably be sound speculation to wager most readers of this blog didn’t spend the day contemplating an autopsy of Marco Rubio’s political corpse. And neither much did I. Though an interminably reiterated piece of both his campaign and farewell address kept coming to mind.

Did you know he was the son of immigrants? Unless just emerging from a Peruvian salt mine it’s likely most observers noted one his 148,000 casual asides mentioning the fact. I’m almost of the mind it was a calculated plug on his part. If so, it indicates a man admirably oblivious to the sentiments of those he would lead. Sentiments that shifted rapidly beneath his feet. But how was Marco to stay abreast of such vagaries? What do you think the guy is, a politician?

It seems almost axiomatic that successful politicians are foremost successful psychologists. Even if the extent of their achievement in the field is only to comprehend what constituents want and provide it–or more customarily talk about providing it. No one said psychology had to be sophisticated. Though one element that apparently is too intricate for now-unemployed Cuban oompa loompas is the concept of scale. Numbers and proportion eventually weigh as heavy on human psychology as they do all other metrics. And what once was a welcome addition may suddenly be cast off as insufferable when weight bears down.

Marco never saw the shrug coming.

Of course the shrug I’m talking about is invocations of The Other. Recent history has proven it a formidable talisman. Whether immigrant, oppressed, transvestite, or unprivileged, fealty to the fringes has been a ticket to the top. Though that wasn’t really the original intent.

As I’ve written before, all Other planks were embraced by the then robust majority as a sort of indulgent politesse. It was to establish a benevolent societal etiquette that put little strain on a dominant culture and demographics. There was no mass intention to embrace its rhetoric as literal or the premise of all public policy. It was simply affordable lubricant. Because in polite company, people converse along the contours of ritual, not truth.

Here’s a personal example: a while ago I received a text from an old out-of-state friend who had recently re-married. Attached was a photo of his new bride. She was a pleasant-looking, though essentially nondescript woman. While he is wealthy, handsome (to the extent I can ascertain such things), and ridiculously charismatic.

My paraphrased response to his message: That’s a beautiful girl, what’s she doing with a hopeless dope like you?

This ritualized lavishing of praise and insult is a form of etiquette. It is benign social lies implicitly understood as a gesture of comity rather than a statement of facts. My friend accepts it with good humor knowing no actual scorn is intended, and appreciates the feigned covetousness for his wife as a congratulations on his marriage.

But what if I really did think he was an imbecile and had designs on his wife? The exact phrasing could still be deployed, though eventually he would come to understand its literal intent and aggressively recoil. So it is with the entire battery of affected xenophilia.

When “son of immigrants” meant a plucky story from some small, quiet, and self-sufficient community it elicited warm regard. Unthreatening, good-natured, and aspirational. Just as the only Mexican restaurant in town used to be a novel treat, while now a dozen to a block is urban blight.

But as the tacos have proliferated, their taste has grown sour. “Son of immigrants” is increasingly becoming understood as celebratory euphemism for mass uninvited colonization, social decay, and overt anti-white hostility. All seasoned with the hypocrisy of those who revere their own symbols and customs, while denouncing yours as not our values. Our is a supple term, indeed.

And it reinforces the fact that people have an entirely different reaction when others really do hate them and want to fuck their wife. Rubio learned this a bit too late. Maybe we can ask if his new workplace has provided time to reflect. Yo quiero taco bell.


13 thoughts on “Son of Taco Bell

  1. cuck party foamboy … surrealistic, the presentation of this mindless puppet as an offering to the masses of cuckholded conservatives. the “elite”… are they really that out of touch? if so, the apocalypse looms closer than we dream. and, Porter: once again, your turns of phrase are sooo good.

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  3. Americans are decent, welcoming, and probably the least prejudiced people on Earth. . . . until you bomb Pearl Harbor, knock down the Twin Towers, or go from being a bearable, pleasant minority on the road to assimilation to a conquering force, as you say. Good stuff.

    • The Twin Towers? There were three of them. Thus, the Triple Towers. One, hit by nothing. If one was wired for demolition, they were all wired for demolition.

    • It’s very easy to understand Roman, though I will not lower myself to match the instantaneous ad hominem response from you.

      WT7 fell in it’s own footprint and was not hit by a plane. If you think this is possible I suggest you defer to the 2 two thousand odd experts in architectural engineering and demolition, rather than sneering at me.

  4. Kipling said it well.

    by Rudyard Kipling

    It was not part of their blood,
    It came to them very late,
    With long arrears to make good,
    When the Saxon began to hate.

    They were not easily moved,
    They were icy — willing to wait
    Till every count should be proved,
    Ere the Saxon began to hate.

    Their voices were even and low.
    Their eyes were level and straight.
    There was neither sign nor show
    When the Saxon began to hate.

    It was not preached to the crowd.
    It was not taught by the state.
    No man spoke it aloud
    When the Saxon began to hate.

    It was not suddently bred.
    It will not swiftly abate.
    Through the chilled years ahead,
    When Time shall count from the date
    That the Saxon began to hate.

  5. “Son of immigrants” elicits far more visuals than elites would have us believe or admit:
    – non English speaking beaner; almost certainly with an EBT card
    – sub-continent white wannabe who can’t hold his liquor or get a white girl
    – Asian math whiz who was born here but speaks with an accent and is occasionally murderously socially awkward
    – Caribbean taxi driver who yammers on his phone the whole time he’s driving you
    – dual-citizen Israeli engaged in value transference profession and nattily dressed

    The common thread here is a lack of an “our” – as you point out. The sheer volume has eliminated the possibility of any collective culture; other than important stuff like the Kardashians and Dancing With the Stars

  6. The newer you are here, the more moral authority you have to dictate policy in “our country.” It’s a topsy-turvy dynamic, sort of like how the WW2 winners memorialize themselves as slaughterhouse meat slabs.

  7. Pingback: This Week in Reaction (2016/03/20) - Social Matter

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