Its the Immigrants

We were working on a very nice estate on North Lake that had received significant storm damage. A 'microburst' they say: a ten yard wide swatch, several hundred yards long; every tree the tops snapped out. There were hickories sixty feet high, snapped in half; a norway maple, several crabapples, even an oak--all, all had lost their tops in this sudden burst of wind at the epicenter of the storm. It is not a tornado.

Well, anyway, I was working at this site and this property is right next to Sensenbrenner's--yes, you heard that right, "Sensenbrenner, i.e, Congressman Sensenbrenner's' little cottage resort by the lake. And as I was chokering off loads down in the forest that leads over to the cottage I see him, or, rather, a man who from the rear is white, somewhat tall and portly, wearing a cap and dark shades and is on the property who I know to be none other than Congressman Sensenbrenner's. So there he was, or most certainly was.

But in the air--mind you, the lakes are high around these parts because of storm flooding--there is this odor in the air of a dead body or carcass somewhere nearby, possibly on Sensenbrenner's lot. And I thinks to myself perhaps Sensenbrenner has been disposing of some of his political rivals and that the world would soon discover a mass grave in his yard. I passed this along as a hypothesis on to the caretaker of the estate I was working on.

He stopped his weed whacker and pulled off his ear muffs.

"No," he said in a hush tone, "its the immigrants."