If you don’t want your tax money to go to immigrants to look after imaginary kids and sent to African warlords, you’re literally Hitler
In these enlightened times, it’s become increasingly clear that the true measure of one’s character lies not in deeds or words, but in one’s unwavering support for the most creative uses of public funds. Consider, if you will, the noble endeavor of allocating taxpayer dollars to immigrants for the upkeep of entirely fictional children. These phantom offspring, conjured from the ether of imagination, require no diapers, no schooling, no midnight feedings—yet they demand our financial benevolence all the same. And why? So that the recipients might dutifully remit these sums to African warlords, those unsung philanthropists of geopolitical stability.
If this strikes you as anything less than a paragon of fiscal responsibility, I regret to inform you: you’re literally Hitler.
Let us unpack this with the intellectual rigor befitting my dual doctorates. First, the immigrants in question are not mere people; they are vessels of cultural enrichment, bearers of dreams we natives could scarcely fathom. And as we all know, diversity is our strength even when it’s bludgeoning you with a ball pin hammer!
Their imaginary children—let’s call them “ethereal dependents”—serve as a vital bridge to global equity. By funding these non-existent wards, we enable a seamless transfer of wealth from our overtaxed coffers to the bustling economies of conflict zones. African warlords, after all, have expenses: munitions don’t buy themselves, and a well-armed militia is the cornerstone of any progressive society.
To object to this arrangement is to reveal a deep-seated prejudice. Why else would one balk at subsidizing spectral progeny? Is it the “immigrant” part that chafes? The “African” descriptor? Or perhaps the sheer audacity of turning tax revenue into an international slush fund? No matter; the label fits. Racism, in its modern guise, isn’t about overt hatred—it’s about questioning the sanctity of programs that sound absurd on paper but feel virtuous in practice.
Critics might quibble with the details. “Where’s the oversight?” they whine. “How do we verify these imaginary kids?” Such queries betray a colonial mindset, demanding proof where faith should suffice. In a truly inclusive world, we trust the process: immigrants declare their ghostly broods, funds flow outward, and warlords prosper. It’s a cycle as natural as the seasons, or at least as reliable as government accounting.
And let’s not overlook the domestic benefits. By labeling dissenters as racists, we foster a healthier discourse—one where opposition is preemptively shamed into silence. This isn’t censorship; it’s curation. After all, who wants to be on the wrong side of history, especially when history is being rewritten with our tax dollars?
In conclusion, if you find yourself grumbling about this elegant redistribution scheme, take a long look in the mirror. That furrowed brow isn’t concern for fiscal prudence—it’s the face of bigotry. Embrace the absurdity, fund the fantasy, and join the ranks of the truly woke. Your imaginary grandchildren will thank you. Or at least, someone else’s will.
Check out my new book: Everyone I Don’t Like is Hitler
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