A not-so-fictional short story --
You arrive home after another grueling day at work. Your boss is a self-righteous jerk and you frequently have to fight off the compulsion to smack at least half of your colleagues. But the job keeps you from bankruptcy and it beats unemployment. You are a quintessential Republican.
Minutes later you muster the strength to pour a well-deserved Presbyterian (2 ounces Scotch, 2-4 ounces ginger ale). A simple protein drink or perhaps a baked salmon dish from that new place around the corner would be healthier, of course, but reveling in your very own Don Draper moment is satisfying enough.
Suddenly there's a knock at the front door. It's me. A guest is the last thing you want right now, but always the polite one -- Do unto others, right? -- you force a friendly smile and allow me into your home. That was your first mistake.
I hang out for a while. I don't say much, but I feel more than free to dig through your pantry. I eat your food, drink your beverages -- including the last sip of your Presbyterian -- pass some gas, grab the remote control, flip around to the network of my choosing, and make inappropriate comments to your daughter.
"You're looking mighty fine in that little cheerleader outfit. Go Panthers indeed!"
I'm wildly pleased with myself at this point. I ate and drank myself into a stupor, made at least a dozen not-so-subtle advances towards your daughter, and you barely said a word. Jackpot!
In fairness I would have hit on your wife, too, but she left you for a lesbian several years ago. They hiked together throughout Europe, got married in Massachusetts, but are now divorced. Freaking liberals.
There's no way I'm leaving now. Upon informing you that I'm turning in for the night, I plop myself down in your guest room and begin snoring like a hibernated bear almost instantly. Assuming I have no where else to go, you graciously allow me to stay for the night. Believe me, I slept like a baby.
Hours became days, and days turned into weeks. I've been living in your home for years now and my presence has been less than positive. I use your credit cards at my leisure to pay for food, gas, clothes, and strippers. By now I'm on a first-name basis with many of the ladies who work the center stage pole at "The Purple Church" (right). You have no idea.
But there's a problem. I have it pretty good, but I'm becoming restless. I want more. I'm also catching an uncomfortable vibe from you, and I don't appreciate it. I don't feel welcome anymore and I'm not understanding the problem. After all, I've been here for years. You let me in and you let me stay. So what if you support me almost entirely? And who cares about the occasional outbursts of violence and indignation?
Trying to ward off the unfriendliness, I call you a variety of degrading names and make baseless assertions like, "This is MY house!" But nothing seems to work. I even got some of my friends to protest in your front yard, but our efforts only angered you more.
After imploring you to treat me better, you finally throw me out and promise retribution if I ever return. You're such a bigot.
Our nation, at this very moment, is under mass attack by illegals from the south and extremists from the east. To say or do nothing will engender a future that will turn the bit of humor you just read into a stark reality. It's that simple.