Tom Homan Doesn't Want To Be In Minnesota Any More Than You Want Him There

For one thing, he's got to worry about frostbite on the noggin.

I just want to be clear about a few things. I do not want to be here in this godforsaken frozen wasteland any more than any of the residents want me here. I could be overseeing one of ICE’s Gestapo blitzkriegs anyplace warmer. Texas. Arizona. Florida. California. My God, California. Palm trees. A hotel with a pool that doesn’t currently look like one of those ice blocks with a face-eating alien frozen inside that scientists in movies are always finding on some UFO that crashed in the Arctic.

But for some reason, we had to come to northern cities in fucking winter. It would have been nice if Bovino could have stuck around, but, well, you know. I kept telling him, Greg, the smug insults are great, but don’t walk around in that greatcoat that looks like something a bad guy wore in Raiders. Save it for the monthly meeting.

But no, he was too stubborn. Tom, I gotta wear my Hitler coat. Tom, you can’t believe how warm it is. Tom, feel this fabric, isn’t that amazing? Schmuck.

So here we are. Here I am, coating my giant head in Vaseline every time I go outside to ward off frostbite. What? It doesn’t? Dammit, I’m going to kill Stephen Miller. Someone get me a towel.

Anyway, Big Tom Homan is in charge, and I’m going to do things a little differently. Cooperate, and we’ll finish rounding up all these criminal illegals and get out of Minnesota’s hair. Refuse to cooperate, and we’ll be here until the Twins get eliminated from the playoffs. So, end of April, tops.

There are ground rules, and you Nordic chuckleheads will obey them.

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For starters, there will be no making fun of me or my massive bulk or my giant bald head that looks like a small asteroid headed at you. Nicknames that I am not to be called include Evil Shrek, White Shrek, White Elephant, Mushmouth, Marblemouth, He’s Lump! He’s Lump!, Frying Pan Face, Grotesque the Magic Oaf, Doughy Wad, and Snowflake the Albino Gorilla. These are all very hurtful.

Other names I do not appreciate: Granite Head, Evil Russian Nesting Doll, Cancerous Ass Polyp. Prostate-faced Illiterate. Snot-brained Weasel. Dollar Store Andre the Giant. Sloth.

Also, no one is to say that I am literally an ogre. This is ridiculous. Ogres roll around in mud and smell awful. Tom Homan does not roll around in mud.

If I say I have not eaten, no one is allowed to say you see three billy goats wandering here from over yonder.

Any women who displease me will be clad in metal bikinis and chained to my throne, to be freely ogled by my sycophants as I send criminal illegals to their deaths in the jaws of Pateesa, the rancor I keep in a dungeon beneath my throne room. Now, bring me the Jedi scum! (aide whispers in ear) By which I mean, we intend to draw down our soldiers imminently.

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I know I come off as gruff and kind of a jerk, like when I called AOC “the dumbest congresswoman ever elected.” And when I told Boston I was coming and bringing hell with me. And when I told America’s judges that I don’t care what they think. And when I took a $50k bribe in the form of a fast food bag stuffed with cash. Allegedly! I allegedly took it!

Okay, yes, I can be mean, but there’s no need for all of you to be mean about it. For God’s sake, I have feelings. I have a family. I have a dog.

And I’m not the only one. Many of the ICE officers you see pepper-spraying retired old people and dragging peaceful Honduran busboys into unmarked vehicles have families. Or at least they have ex-wives who let them see their children occasionally, albeit in supervised settings.

I don’t think anyone understands how tough it has been for our boys. Pulled away from their kids. Even more, I mean. Yelled at in restaurants. People blowing whistles at them. Having to double up on rooms at the Microtel Inn and Suites out by the airport. What if you have a roommate who snores, huh? Or leaves his dirty bath towels on the floor?

Nobody cares about those sacrifices. But we make them for one reason: so this nation can be a frightening, inhospitable place for anyone who isn’t a) MAGA, and b) whiter than a hand towel in a country club bathroom.

So the next time you see one of us in the street, maybe thank us for making your city safe for you. I promise we can hear you through our combat helmets.

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