“We need to inspect your property for illegal aliens,” one of them said. I replied, “Alright, but whatever you do, don’t go into that field over there.” The officer in charge exploded. “Listen, I have the authority of the federal government behind me!” he barked, reaching into his back pocket. He yanked out a badge and shoved it in my face. “See this badge? This badge means I can go wherever I want on ANY land. No questions asked, no answers given. Am I clear? Do you understand?” I nodded politely and said, “Yes sir, be my guest.” Then I went back to my chores. About ten minutes later, I heard screaming. I looked up and saw six ICE agents running for their lives, being chased by my big, mean, old bull. And with every step, that bull was closing in. Fast. It looked like they were about to get gored for sure. So I dropped my tools, ran over to the fence, and shouted at the top of my lungs: “YOUR BADGE! SHOW HIM YOUR BADGE!”
A newly departed man shows up at the Pearly Gates. St. Peter meets him there, says, “Okay, my son, new policy. Before you see the Man for final judgment, you get one last chance to confess to me anything you might have done in life for which you never got the opportunity to repent. Is there anything you would like to tell me?” The man thinks about it for a moment, nods, then says, “You know, I did once spit on the boot of a Georgia State Trooper.” St. Peter takes this in. “I understand, my son. How long ago was this?” “About 90 seconds ago.”
