Do not confuse CORN-TELPRO with the 1950s COINTELPRO, “a series of covert, and at times illegal, projects conducted by the United States FBI aimed at surveilling, infiltrating, discrediting and disrupting domestic political organizations.” CORN-TELPRO, on the other hand, is an entirely trustworthy and legitimate organization, seeking a total and complete shutdown of all invasive species on Roosevelt Avenue, namely humans and plants.

Immigrant ladies, invasive plants, and Indigenous and Spanish languages threaten to over-run our sacred North American Roosevelt Avenue in the borough of Queens, NY. Ready and armed, intimidating Mexican women from Puebla, Tlaxcala, and Guerrero states, occupy the Avenue. Believe me. They brandish rickety metal grocery carts packed with up to six types of tamales. The ladies cook their tamales with ground steamed corn masa (mahiz from the indigenous Taino language became maize), indigenous to Meso-America.

The tamales are ordinarily wrapped in corn husks. But Oaxacan tamales, when draped in banana leaves, have a more distinct flavor. Bananas, originating in South East Asia, spread rapidly with the advent of Islam. For some, the creation and selling of banana-leaf tamales have crossed the line of decency. According to one exceptionally shrill businessman with little hands, “We have to be very very very careful of those burkini-clad tamales sold on Roosevelt Avenue.

At the ready to assault your face with seductive burkini-tamale steam, these Latina women, slowly and surreptitiously, erode taste buds, confuse swimwear, and challenge white-male privileged status. These ladies are not all Mexican either. Ecuadorian tamale ladies also work our Avenue. They dot subway stops with distinct colorful umbrellas. But don’t be duped. With manifold weapons in their culinary cache, all the tamale ladies embed foreign-born, bred and cultivated chili peppers in savory and sweet, alluring and seemingly simple, tamales. Beware! The implanted peppers portend catastrophe on a massive scale, I mean YUGE, really, really, really YUGE!

The variegated and diverse chili (chilli from indigenous Nahuatl language) peppers (pippali from Sanskrit to peperi from Greek) elude border patrols. Due to their sheer multiplicity, these chilies are overwhelming vigilante and border patrol forces. Mile-high tornado fences, a relentless sun, and sandstorm desert nights have not deterred the chilies onward trudge. Peppers also persevere because of the wafting capsaicin, able to penetrate and irritate sensitive nose and eye mucous membranes. In fact, the challenges embolden not only the chili peppers but also the tamale ladies.

T-ladies, a code name used by NYPD CORN-TELPRO, use multiple weapons in their secret arsenal on every street corner. The Aztec tomatl, soon named the tomato, accompanies the chilies. The tomato is another shady character and belongs to the nightshade family (like the chili pepper). “A lot of people don’t know that the shady nightshades were often thought to be poisonous when introduced to Europe via the Columbian Exchange,” said Officer Huitachole Smut of NYPD CORN-TELPRO. “And we know when Europeans are afraid of something, we all have to be afraid. Right?”

“We have our own tomatoes here in ‘Merica, very very —did I say very? —good ones,” opined the whiny businessman turned politician with strange hair-grooming practices. Insistent, he asks, “I know tomatoes. I know very very very good tomatoes. Why aren’t we using our own big tomatoes?” Onions, apparently indigenous to Central Asia, Iran or Pakistan—yes, from that other wide swath of the world inhabited by even more very very very shady people—have also orchestrated the Roosevelt Avenue infiltration. Those T-ladies, in cahoots with their Irani and Pakistani counterparts, claim the onions add a more layered, nuanced and complex flavor to their tamales. “But we know better. We need to be careful, and I mean very very very careful,” ranted that same failed businessman, with only one stratum of thin orange hair on his helmet head.

These T-ladies, to add insult to injury, also traffic in hot chocolate (chocolatl in Nahuatl), another highly addictive contraband from Meso America. Cinnamon-infused sweet rice pudding allures the unsuspecting, again betraying North America with cinnamon from Sri Lanka and rice from China—China, of all places! Is there anything that we don’t get from China? How can we make North America white (I mean right) again with all these hostile black and brown immigrants smuggling and cooking with intrusive foreign psychoactive and sexy plants?

“Luckily the danger has yet to completely spread its tentacles across Roosevelt Avenue,” said Off. H. Smut. Though selling their tamale bites between 111th Street to 69th Street, a number of the T-ladies, in the morning hours, concentrate at three stops: Junction, Elmhurst and 82nd Street on the number 7 train. To contain the spread, Off. H. Smut advises all travelers to grasp your purse in fear when you see T-ladies. Throw menacing sideway glances, and cringe. Let your micro- and macro-aggressions flow. Blindly abide to that subway mantra, “If you see anything, say something,” over and over and over again, that way it will become truth, despite the facts. Rest assured that your actions will at least slow their looming takeover.

“I betcha’ those T-ladies are working against our constitutional right to destroy all diversity, everywhere and anywhere. We need to consolidate our taste around freedom fries instead of tamales trucks on every corner of this great Roosevelt Avenue,” shouted the very very very very little man with flailing small hands. Little did the little man know that those freedom fries, he so loves and craves, originate from the mountains of Peru and Bolivia. From batata in Taino to patata in Spanish all the way to the English potato.

Surrogate Smut finished with another warning, “We are working on technology that negates sound, with a wall of course.” To that end, legislators are about to outlaw non-English words. Smells and tastes, too. Scientists have developed a multi-purpose bubble, essentially a circular wall, that envelops any pre-1965 smells and tastes—along with words, that entered the soundscapes and landscapes before the Immigration and Nationality Act. “The bubble ball walls—BBW—will ferry and float back all outlawed smells, tastes and words to their place of origin. It is extreme, and I mean extreme, vetting at its best. We just can’t have outsiders freely traipsing up and down Roosevelt Avenue.” “I will fix it and Mexico will pay for it, the walls, all of ‘em. One hundred percent,” said that politician over and over and over again. He just could not fathom the benefit of making America Mexico again.

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