The entitled few. I suppose that several years ago it may have been a good thing to be among that group of the entitled.

Now, however, a new entitlement class has replaced the simply "entitled." The new class of those now in line for entitlements are illegal aliens.

We, the People, are paying for the upkeep of the approximately one-fourth of our prison population made up of illegal aliens.

We, the People, are paying for much of the healthcare of illegal aliens. We have the closed hospitals to prove it.

We, the People, have been replaced as employees by illegal aliens, who can be hired at such a lower wage than a citizen. Just think of the savings if no job benefits are necessary to be provided by employers. The new employment possibilities are attractive enough to illegal aliens, who are simply grateful, apparently, to have the job.  Forget about any benefits that may have been available to employees who are citizens of the United States.

We, the People, who elected those people in Washington for our fair representation in government, must sit dumbly as those very people we elected fail miserably in the problems that are the side effects of the swarms, droves, millions of illegal aliens now mixing among us while refusing to be a part of us.  Rather, the illegal aliens want to turn my country into their country. 

 I am at a total loss to understand how it is that while "we the People" have made it more than abundantly clear that we want an end to illegal immigration; that we want as many illegal aliens deported as possible; that we would love to have monumental fines slapped on employers having the gall to employ illegal aliens; and that we want an immediate end to a prohibition against what is laughably called "profiling," the people we have hired to work on our behalf pay no more attention to us than a gnat.  Instead, they sit on their cushy chairs, rock, have assistants write conciliatory notes to constituents, have meetings, form committees, call people to testify, perform a few more studies, and idly watch TV reports of illegal aliens breaching the borders.  And maybe scratch. 

 These illegal aliens form the new entitled class in the United States.  The people we have hired to work for us in Washington have, in effect, said, "A pox on all your houses." 

 I am sick of it. 

 This blog post was, surprisingly to some I'm sure, inspired by the 4/14/08 column by Burt Prelutsky, "Visitors from a weird planet."  The link is as follows: 

http://www.townhall.com/columnists/BurtPrelutsky/2008/04/14/visitors_from_a_weird_planet

Like the majority of my fellow Americans, I have been waiting for those esteemed, elite ones in Washington, D.C. – the ones we voted in office to carry out the wishes of "We, the People" – to see the promised fence on our southern border. I have been waiting for our borders to be protected. I have been waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

Months ago, it was thought that just any day now, the fence would be going up. After all, Congress had passed a law saying that it would be. Who wouldn't trust Congress?

Watching Fox News one morning recently, I caught sight of Secretary of Homeland Security Chertoff (and, oh, thank God for such an effective, dedicated worker ant) saying, as quoted in

http://www.townhall.com/Columnists/TonyBlankley/2008/03/05/border_insecurity:

I said to the TV set, "Yeah, right." I had actually become disillusioned.

My disillusionment became quite universal, apparently, at least on the pages of Townhall.com. Around mid-summer it had become common to see, at the end of many blog posts, "WHERE IS THE FENCE?" The answer, my friend, to coin a phrase, was blowin' in the wind.

It was a question taken up with my own elected ones in D.C. frequently. As of this moment their responses are forgettable. They were nothing more than empty platitudes to soothe ruffled feathers. Those D.C. people are good at that. They should be: they have so much experience at it.

Sometime in the not-too-distant past it became known there were tunnels, some football-field sized, beneath the borders between the U.S. and Mexico. It was said that these tunnels were too expensive to destroy. I told my esteemed ones then that I had not priced a stick of dynamite lately, but that it was thought that a few sticks of it, strategically placed, would blast those tunnels to smithereens.

Later I learned that at least one of the tunnels had been cemented in with several feet of cement.

Having traveled by car on Interstates through Kentucky and Tennessee, and parts of southern Illinois and southern Indiana, it was noted that great hillsides had been blasted away (presumably by dynamite) to make it possible for the Interstates' existence.

Therefore one could hardly blame me for believing that it would take somewhat more than a few feet of cement to plug up the holes of those tunnels. Besides, some energetic and imaginative would-be illegal alien would be able easily to take a few sticks of dynamite and blow that cement to smithereens. A few feet of cement will not deter an illegal alien attempting to cross into the promised land. You know, that place where there's free practically anything. You know, that place where a job can be had for a few dollars a day, most of which goes straight into the Mexican economy – an economy, incidentally, which is comprised of one-fourth of such "remittances."

Your esteemed ones, as well as my own esteemed ones in D.C., apparently believe their constituencies are, well, stupid. Born yesterday. Born last night.

The veil has been lifted from my eyes. I can recognize fluff and kerfluffle when I see it, when I hear it. The sounds of fluff and kerfluffle have become quite noisy of late.

Thus, the "Yeah, right" response to the TV set when Shirt-off, earnest in his assurances about that 28-mile virtual fence, came off as the Emperor in his newest finery. He was, indeed, a sartorial splendor to behold.

Now we find – surprise! – that there will be no fence. Could it be that big business has anything to do with this? Could it be that politics has anything to do with this?

Where is the fence?

Well, can't you see it? It's like Shirt-off, along with his empty suit, and it's all of the other Washington, D.C. naked-as-jaybird worker ants, and, pardon the expression, the queen, flapping in the breezes created by their own windy lies.