It is true — Belgium is a problem. However, their attempt at assimilating and destroying American culture has not been a silent one, and the Belgians do not feign ignorance when confronted with this allegation. Their intentions are as clear as their supposedly unfiltered brewed beverages. But there lurks a silent predator, one just on our doorstep, who has already begun its covert assault on our very way of life.

To clarify, perhaps I should go back to this past Sunday, when four Mexican troops crossed the U.S./Mexico border, and held captive a U.S. border patrol agent at gunpoint. Imagine you are at work, safe in your own country, when suddenly foreign nationals come into your land and use force to detain you. Your evening has become an international incident. And now what? Now your government alerts Mexico’s government to the occurrence, citing probable confusion as to the location of the border. As if the Mexican government didn’t already know what was happening. As if they hadn’t ordered the incursion. They wanted to test the waters, and now they have found the waters to be lukewarm and inviting.

But this was only an isolated, albeit not so uncommon, incident. Let’s rewind even further to earlier this summer when tomato-lovers found themselves sickened with salmonella. How could this happen? we asked. Where did this come from? It came from Mexico. Various peppers and edible foliage were infected with a deadly enterobacterium, then shipped into the United States. Biological attack? I’ll let you decide. If we cannot trust our tomatoes, who can we trust?

It seems that our border is not just porous, but that the pores run in one direction. Fear seeps into the U.S. from the south: poison tomatoes, renegade troops, killer bees, drugs, smog, and (”He’s not about to say immigrants, is he?” “Yes, he is.”) immigrants. I have nothing against legal immigrants, but how can we be sure that the illegal ones aren’t agents of the plan to destroy America? By fear-mongering, that’s how. We need to make sure that everyone knows the dangers that inject themselves from Mexico. That is why I am writing this.

Friends, we cannot allow this gradual invasion to continue. The pieces are merely being put into place, each one waiting for the final order to pounce. Outlined below is the defense plan that we must immediately adopt. It has three parts.

1) Intelligence. It’s time the pores worked both ways. We must elect a brave few to venture into Mexican territory and find out exactly what their plan is. This will not be an easy task. Therefore, only the strongest will be sent. Lest they forget that Chuck Norris is on our side.

2) Forget the wall. We need a 1,969 mile long electric fence like the one in Jurassic Park. Who’s to say that they aren’t planning to sic dinosaurs on us? It should be noted that no tomato has ever survived an attempted crossing of a fence such as this.

3) Dissemination of relevant information. “I didn’t know I crossed the border,” will no longer be a valid excuse. That security checkpoint you just barreled through where the kindly, old man named Herman asked to see your ID — that was the border. The banner you just passed under that said, “Welcome to the United States (Bienvenidos a los Estados Unidos)” — that was the border. The giant wall you scaled with barbed wire at the top just after swimming frantically across a mucky river in the middle of the night — that was the border. The tunnel you crawled through on all fours for over an hour with a kilo of cocaine duct taped to your body — you guessed it — that was the border. I hope this clears up some of the confusion. In addition, we have names for our border roads like Border Highway, Military Highway, Independence Drive, Monument Road, and Plant Street, just so you will know exactly when you’re in our territory.

Good citizens and assorted offspring of liberty, we must gather now and declare in one unified voice that we will not be taken so easily. That our love for tomatoes can no longer be used against us. That fear will become our instrument, rather than our undoing. Only then, when we have conquered the greater foe, will we be able to make sure the Clydesdales do not leave for Belgium.

Friends, a few weeks ago something terrible happened — an unprovoked and reprehensible attack not on America’s buildings or on its military, but on its soul. And as Satan would make an offer to the weak of conviction, at $52 billion who knew that its soul could be purchased so cheaply? Yes, add Belgium to the Axis of Evil. By agreeing to purchase one of the staples of America, Anheuser-Busch, they challenge the authority of the American people given by god himself to produce American beer, with the smooth American taste and low American prices there implied. They promise us even lower prices and more diversity but what they bring are Belgian efficiency of lost jobs and European arrogance. And we at chicken and rice are outraged.
But friends, do not fret. Do not cry yourself to sleep. Do not turn to your favorite beer to alleviate your sorrows. That’s exactly what the Belgian hordes are counting on. Do not throw money at their machine. Keep your spirits high, but only on American spirits. Do not be fooled by Bud, the wolf in sheep’s clothing that watches your children sleep and counts the days till they turn 21. Bud is gone for now friends, and so we must cast it out of the flock.
But that is the only way it will heal. By not supporting the devil’s brewing company, we drain the poison of $52 billion dollars out of its system. And when that happens the Belgian occupiers will leave and we will be free once again to taste America as it was meant to be tasted. They will fear our strength of resolve and never return. So we cannot give up. We must stay strong, happy, and Bud free, if not for Anheuser-Busch, then for America itself. Here we make a stand.

Quinceañera. Bar/Bat Mitzvah. Debutante Ball. Sweet Sixteen. Confirmation. Manjal Neerattu Vizha. Guan/Ji Li. Seijin Shiki. Kovave. Joining the Young Communist Union of Cuba. Coming of age. I have experienced several of these ceremonies. But I only truly came of age when I found the one part of me that had been missing for all my life: a steady income. Friends, I am a man now.

And in the new definition comes a natural distinction. Man vs. boy. Bull vs. calf. Opportunistic free market economy vs. traditionalistic Marxism. Steady income vs. crappy part time job to pay for 10% of the tuition bill. Filet mignon vs. chicken and rice.

Now, before I digress into a tasteless version of Rich Dad, Poor Dad, let me say that there is no right or wrong here. But in finding the distinction, I have gained a new perspective on the world, and have broadened my definition of delicious.

Delicious is the new, the exotic, the extravagant, and the (until now) unaffordable. It is filet mignon, lobster, clams casino, and prime rib. It is leather upholstery, 0-60 in 6 seconds. It is candlelight and lounge piano music, a brandy in one hand, the other gesturing over a short anecdote among acquaintances.

But delicious is not limited to these extravagant pleasures. While filet mignon may appease the palate, there are those things closer to home that warm the soul. For some of us, it is mashed potatoes. For others, macaroni and cheese. For others still, it is watching as a grown man is brought to his knees after his two year old inadvertently hits him in the groin with a plastic baseball bat on America’s Funniest Home Videos. These are the things that we cherish. And when money is tight, these are the friends we will have remaining, the ones who saw us through good times and bad.

Thus is derived the power of chicken and rice. They are not exotic foods; they are not cloaked in a mysterious aura that permeates the deepest reaches of our curiosity; they are not known by their French names; they do not have umlauts over their vowels, or any non-integral diacritics for that matter; they are not even exciting at all. They are an international staple, from Mexico to India, Denmark to Japan, Morocco to Tierra del Fuego. They represent stability.

Now that my tirade is nearing an end, I urge you all to choose one time in the next week to eat chicken and rice, however you want to prepare it, and enjoy every minute of it. Every bite, every grain, every gift from the earth herself. Happiness through chicken; strength through rice. Together.

I, beef, am no longer a boy. But I still drive a 15 year old Volvo. I still do 90% of my shopping at Target. I still dislike Castro, even if his first name is now Raul. I still laugh when two year olds hit family members in the groin. I still eat chicken and rice.