Political Satire: Having trouble surviving these times? You’re not alone. Join us in columnist John F. Di Leo’s exploration of an alternate universe, where we imagine the impossible:
An idealistic teenager, living in the 51st ward of a fictional city in middle America, volunteers at the local party headquarters, and learns a lesson or two about modern urban politics.
Little Pavel Starts to Feel Alienated
By John F. Di Leo
“Hello, Pockets!” announced young Pavel, as he bounded into 51st ward headquarters after school. “Whaddaya got for me to do?”
“Just collating today, Paully” answered the deputy committeeman, pleased to see that his summer volunteer showed up after all. “Almost gave up on ya. I thought you said high school let out an hour ago.”
“It did, Pockets,” answered Pavel with a grin. “But I stayed awhile by the bike racks to talk. Don’t schedule me for anything Saturday night, Pockets; I’ve got a date!” Pavel probably knew he wasn’t going to be scheduled for anything on a Saturday night; the old ward heeler could tell his young friend just felt like bragging.
“Gonna take her for pizza and a movie, Paully?”
“Nope… movies are overpriced. Gonna do something different, Pockets. I’m taking her to see a live show – a musical comedy in the suburbs. A friend of mine’s in the chorus. ‘Alas, Alack, Zorro’s Back.’ It’s at Cutting Hall in Palatine this weekend. Sounds hilarious. Community theatre. A little more class for a first date than a movie, you know?”
Pockets nodded his approval. “Sure, good plan, Paully. So tell me, what’s her name?”
“Maria Consuela.”
“Hispanic, eh? First generation? Are they good Democrats?”
Now, Pavel regretted bringing it up. He couldn’t very well tell Pockets that Maria was a fourth generation U.S. citizen, descended from immigrants from Spain, and that her family was all rock-ribbed Republicans he had met at a homeschooling event. “Um, I don’t know, Pockets. We haven’t talked politics yet.”
“Sure, sure, I know. You kids talk about school, and teachers, and music, and television. Understood, Paully. The Hispanic vote is just on my mind these days.”
Pavel could see an opportunity for a lesson, so he sat down, opened up a new bag of honey-wheat pretzels (the old ward heeler’s favorite), and asked the old man to elaborate.
“Well, Paully, here’s the thing. We’ve been counting on the Hispanic vote for a long time now. They’re not as solid as the black vote, which is more like 85% Dem, but they’re almost always a decent majority for us. Makes the difference in plenty of elections. We even draw them a bunch of safe seats when redistricting time rolls around, to show ‘em we appreciate ‘em.”
“So why are you worried, Pockets?”
“I get the feeling we’re going too fast, pushing our luck, ya know? Have you seen these articles about a de facto amnesty, they’re calling it?
Yes indeed, Pavel had seen them. But he just let Pockets keep talking.
“See, the Adminstration is trying to get as much done as they can while they still have their majorities, so they’re grasping at straws a little, I think. I never saw anything like this before. The southern unit of ICE agents held a no-confidence vote of their director; they’re giving interviews to the press. I never even heard of stuff like that! It’s like the wheels are coming off the bus, ya know, Paully?”
“What exactly are they fighting about, Pockets?”
“Well, according the San Diego Examiner, Washington has ordered all the border agents to quietly stop all deportations proceedings against any illegals who don’t have a criminal case pending against them.”
“Wow. Um, Pockets, isn’t just being an illegal alien a pretty huge criminal case, by definition?”
“Heh heh… yeah, Paully, it is. But it’s a crime with political support for being disregarded. It’s harder to get support for disregarding it, however, if the immigrant is going around robbing, raping, killing, or dealing dope.”
“Yes, I can see why, Pockets.”
“I just dunno why good federal agents – federal employees, good members of the American Federation of Government Employees – would go and interfere with Administration policy, ya know? They’ve got good federal jobs, good benefits, union representation…”
“Can’t imagine, Pockets. Maybe some of the federal agents happen to know some friends or neighbors who’ve been unemployed for a year, and think 20 million illegals in the country, taking jobs, using services, and not paying taxes might have something to do with the job climate. Or maybe some of these federal agents aren’t comfortable risking their lives in the line of duty to catch criminals, only to have the head office say to let them go. That sort of thing might bother them, if they have integrity, right?”
Pockets cocked his head as if to say that this didn’t sound like the way most Democrat Party volunteers talked. But then, Pavel was new, having only been a volunteer for a couple of months here at the ward HQ. He still had more to learn.
Pavel quickly added “I’m just guessing, you know? What might be bothering them. Umm, so anyway, Pockets, why do you think the administration is doing it, if it’s making such enemies out of the enforcement agencies?”
Pockets cracked open a beer and explained. “The Democratic Party has been making the most of Mexican immigration for decades. Once they become citizens, they can vote legally, sure, but even before they become citizens, we can get their votes too, ya know, our usual ways. So the more immigrants we get, the better, with no need to wait the years and years for citizenship.”
Pavel had been volunteering at the ward office all summer, learning a great deal about how Democrats all over the country have been stealing elections for a century. Before this summer, Pavel thought vote fraud was just a Chicago thing; his casual “instruction” from his new mentor, Pockets, had been eye-opening, to say the least. One story while walking precincts, another story while running an errand for the office… he was picking up a lot.
“Why would illegal immigrants dare vote at all?” asked the boy. “Aren’t they terrified of being caught and prosecuted, and thus found out?”
“Nahh,” chuckled Pockets, between swigs. “Some of these folks owe their bosses… they do what they’re told. They vote Democrat because there are plenty of community organizers – like our ACORN friends – telling them what to do, telling them what’s good for them. And if they squawk, their bosses remind them how much they owe their lawyer, or how much they owe their coyote who got’em across the border, and so forth. They do what they’re told. And they’re told that the Republicans are the party of the rich WASPs, and ours is the party for the poor folks like Mexicans. That always clinches it.”
“Besides,” added Pockets, as he reached for a pretzel, “it’s not like they’ll ever hear anything contrary.”
Pavel said “But it’s election season! This time of year, there are radio commercials on every radio station, every TV station… you can’t get away from hearing both sides.”
“Sure ya can,” chuckled Pockets. “Illegal immigrants, the ones we count on – for the most part, anyway – don’t speak English. They’ll never hear a GOP ad; they’re always in English! These illegals listen to Hispanic radio, watch Hispanic TV… so they only hear our spin. That’s why we want them to keep speaking Spanish forever; we don’t want them to ever learn English, if we can help it! We’ve insulated that bunch from ever hearing a contrary thought. We can tell’em the GOP stands for flogging migrant workers and banning straw hats; they’ll believe us, because they’ll never hear anything contrary.”
“But Pockets, surely they talk to their cousins, their neighbors, their friends, and learn, right?”
Pockets said they’ve solved that prospect as well. “There’s a GOP minority in the Hispanic community, sure, but we keep ‘em isolated. We get kids wearing Che Guevara and Barack Obama t-shirts as children… we get their churches infested with liberation theologians… and of course, we have La Raza.”
“La Raza? What’s that?”
“It means ‘the race’… it’s a group that tells Hispanics that the USA stole a quarter of the country from Mexico, and they need to take it back… that the white man is the oppressor… that they should do everything in their power to stick it to The Man. Works like a charm. When your side is the only side that gets a hearing, don’t be surprised when you win!” Pockets shot his acolyte a celebratory wink, but Pavel was too deep in thought to notice. Pockets returned to his beer and continued.
“La Raza has been working with us for years. In California especially. They round up the illegals, get ‘em registered, then bring ‘em to the polls. It’s great. Good for tons of votes. It’s such a routine, I’ll bet a lot of ‘em don’t even realize they’re breaking the law, Paully! They get ‘em thinking it’s normal!”
As if by rote, Pavel asked if this really made a difference, though he knew he didn’t have to ask.
“You bet, Paully! We’ve won elections on this tactic, for sure. You remember Bob Dornan? B-1 Bob?”
Pavel did. His parents had taken him to a Cardinal Mindzenty Foundation meeting at which Congressman Dornan had spoken, years before, when he was a baby. But he wasn’t going to tell Pockets that. “Um… yeah… fighter pilot a long time ago… talk show host, gravelly voice, lively speaker, goes too far sometimes, right?”
Pockets beamed with pride. The boy was smart despite his youth. “Yup, Paully, Dornan was a real conservative, tough as nails. We beat ‘em in ’96.”
“Well, that was a good year for us, right, Pockets? And he’s from California; I’m sure the district just finally turned Democrat, right?”
“Not on your life, son. Dornan was elected from Democrat districts his whole career; he’d been elected to that seat six times. He was a fantastic campaigner. The only way we could beat him was when we ran a gal with a Hispanic name against him, and got the illegals involved. They voted, they voted twice, they voted three times… did everything it took, but they won. And once Sanchez was in, we could keep her there. Incumbency, ya know!”
“You’re sure illegal votes made the difference, Pockets?”
“You betcha! Our folks in California are great. They turned in some great numbers. Beat Dornan in ’96 by 984 votes. Congress held an investigation – Congress confirmed that there were at least 4700 likely fraudulent registration affidavits… Congress even confirmed that 547, or maybe even 624, votes were from illegal immigrants (ICE testified that the number of illegal votes was in the thousands). But just when they had all that good data, Congress abandoned the investigation! They gave up! A dozen years later, Sanchez is still in office – we even got her sister in too, in a nearby district!”
“Did she get in that way too, Pockets?”
Pockets didn’t say a word… just strolled back to the refrigerator for another beer. Walking back, he chortled again “and then in ’04, I remember a seat in Texas… Laredo, I think, a real nailbiter. Henry Cuellar won by 58 votes. They found dozens of illegals who voted… but we always manage to accuse ‘em of racism – prejudice – blowing stuff out of proportion – we say ‘Sure there’s a little going on, but not enough to influence an election, for goodness sakes!’ And the Republicans always run out of steam and give in.”
Pavel asked “Is this just in the southwest, then? California, Texas, the other border states?”
Pockets raised a pretzel stick and pointed at the map on the wall, painting a wide stroke in the air. “You think we’re gonna waste a good tactic like that in just four states? Come on, son! We’ve got twenty-million-some illegals in this country, and they’re spread out all over the place. We’ve gotta use ‘em everywhere we can! That’s how we win! You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth!”
Pavel didn’t really know what that cliché meant, but he went on anyway. “Pockets, people always say the two parties are the same… ‘not a dime’s worse of difference between them,’ I think, is the saying… all this vote fraud by non-citizens… do both sides do it?”
“Paully, I’m surprised at you. You think we’d ever allow the GOP to steal an election? Heck, even if they tried, we’d never let ‘em. And they don’t try. We’re the pros in this game, and this is one tool that stays in our tool box, son. We don’t loan it out to the competition!”
Pavel wasn’t enjoying all this education anywhere near as much as he did at first, and he was going through antacids this summer like no other 17-year-old he knew. “So, the more illegals we have, the more elections we win, no matter what the American people want, huh?”
Pockets raised his beer can in a toast, crowed “Unless they wise up and start cracking down, son. Isn’t it a beautiful world?” and took a good swig. “Now let’s get back to collating this mailing, shall we? We have an election to win!”
Copyright 2010 John F. Di Leo
This is a work of fiction, and any similarity with any person, living or dead, is unintentional. The Tales of Little Pavel were originally published in serial form in Illinois Review, from 2010 through 2016, and the full collection of stories about Little Pavel and the denizens of the 51st Ward is available in paperback or eBook, exclusively from Amazon. Republished with permission.
John F. Di Leo is a Chicagoland-based international transportation and trade compliance professional and consultant. A onetime Milwaukee County Republican Party chairman, he has been writing a regular column for Illinois Review since 2009. His book on vote fraud (The Tales of Little Pavel) and his political satires on the current administration (Evening Soup with Basement Joe, Volumes I and II) are available only on Amazon, in either paperback or eBook. His latest book, “Evening Soup with Basement Joe, Volume Three,” was just published in November, 2023.
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