Tag: War On Drugs

American invasions of Mexico to go after bandits always go well

Well, here we are again, ladies and gentlemen. Another round of America’s favorite geopolitical drinking game: Invade Mexico, Why Not? Our perennial fixation with turning our southern neighbor into a glorified shooting range has been resurrected by none other than Donald J. Trump. Yes, the man whose diplomacy skills rival those of a raccoon raiding a garbage bin now promises to “take care of” Mexican drug cartels. How? By doing what we’ve done so spectacularly well in the past: sending in the troops, making a mess, and coming home with a collective hangover of denial and debt.

Trump’s latest plan to “obliterate” cartels seems to draw inspiration from that proud American tradition of botched interventions, from Pancho Villa to Pablo Escobar. The former president has proposed using the full might of the U.S. military to eliminate the cartels, as if Mexico is just waiting for the 82nd Airborne to roll in and clean house. Never mind that this is the geopolitical equivalent of trying to kill a fly with a flamethrower. The crowd loves it. The idea of yet another righteous crusade — this time to liberate Mexico from itself — is red meat for the MAGA faithful.

Manifest Destiny: The Remix

This isn’t the first time Uncle Sam has glanced south of the Rio Grande with murderous intent. In 1916, we sent General Pershing on his infamous “Punitive Expedition” to capture Pancho Villa. You might remember how that ended — with U.S. forces wandering the Mexican desert for months, accomplishing nothing except annoying the locals and proving that, yes, you can lose a war to guerrillas on horseback. But hey, why learn from history when you can reenact it with bigger guns?

Trump’s vision of cartels as cartoon villains ripe for an American ass-kicking betrays a staggering ignorance of how these organizations work. Cartels aren’t just armed thugs — they’re deeply embedded in Mexican society, often providing jobs, security, and social services in places the government has long neglected. Waging war on them is like trying to uproot a forest by burning the trees one at a time.

But nuance doesn’t sell well at rallies. What does? Bombs, bayonets, and the promise of a swift, righteous victory over those dastardly foreigners. Just slap a couple of Predator drones on the problem, and boom — no more drugs, right?

Collateral Damage, American-Style

Here’s the kicker: Trump’s war on the cartels won’t just destroy Mexico. It’ll destroy us too. Imagine the headlines: U.S. Forces Accidentally Bomb Mexican Wedding. The fallout would be immediate, catastrophic, and entirely predictable. Millions of Mexicans fleeing violence would pour into the U.S., creating a refugee crisis that would make the current border situation look like a Sunday picnic. But don’t worry — Trump has a plan for that, too: just build the wall higher. Maybe add some flamethrowers.

Meanwhile, the cartels, who have had decades to perfect their survival tactics, would laugh themselves silly. Every missile we drop on a cartel stronghold will be replaced by two new ones. Every “victory” will give the cartels fresh propaganda to recruit new members. And let’s not forget the drug trade itself — which thrives, by the way, because Americans can’t stop snorting, injecting, and swallowing anything that gets them high.

The War We Deserve

What’s truly galling about all this is how eagerly Americans swallow the fantasy of military intervention as a cure-all. We can’t fix our own cities, can’t control our own opioids, can’t even agree on what the hell “freedom” means anymore — but sure, let’s go save Mexico from itself.

A War with Mezcalito: Hallucinations on the Borderline

Hey, but let’s pause for a moment and consider who you’re really fighting here. It’s not just the cartels, amigo. You’re picking a fight with Mezcalito. And Mezcalito, as any true seeker knows, isn’t just some dime-store hallucination. This isn’t a crack den demon or a backyard shaman’s fever dream. Mezcalito is the spirit of the land itself — the eternal trickster, the cactus whisperer, the phantom guide who sees the world’s true shape and laughs at your foolish attempts to control it.

When you declare war on Mexico, you’re declaring war on Mezcalito. And that, my friends, is a war you cannot win. Mezcalito is older than nations, older than borders, older than war itself. He’s been here long before some suit in Washington drew a line across the desert and called it sovereignty. Mezcalito doesn’t recognize your laws, your flags, or your helicopters. He recognizes the desert winds, the peyote buttons, and the sacred dance of chaos that will rip your plans to shreds.

Don Juan Was Right, You Know

If this is starting to sound like something out of The Teachings of Don Juan, that’s because it is. Castaneda had it nailed decades ago: Mexico isn’t a place. It’s a state of mind, a realm of shifting realities where nothing is as it seems. The deeper you go, the more you realize you’re not in control. You’re in Mezcalito’s world now, and he doesn’t play by your rules.

This isn’t just spiritual mumbo jumbo — it’s baked into the history of every half-cocked U.S. adventure south of the border. From Pershing to the DEA, every time we’ve tried to impose our will on Mexico, the land itself has pushed back. Not just with bullets or barricades, but with something far more insidious: entropy. Logistics collapse. Morale crumbles. The border turns into an infinite Escher staircase where no one knows which side they’re on anymore.

Enter the Era of Drugs and High-Octane Madness

This isn’t the 1910s, either. This is the age of fentanyl, psychedelics, and high-octane paranoia. Mezcalito isn’t just hiding in the desert now — he’s in every high school, every tech startup, every gleaming skyscraper where stressed-out executives microdose mushrooms to “unlock their creativity.” He’s not just a border problem; he’s a global phenomenon.

You think you’re fighting the cartels? Good luck. The cartels are just Mezcalito’s foot soldiers, moving with the precision of a Unix operating system. Yes, I said Unix, because Mezcalito knows the code better than you ever will. He’s hacked into the system, rerouting your supply chains, slipping his ghost through your firewalls. Fentanyl labs in Sinaloa? Mezcalito’s script. Bitcoin-funded coke deals? Mezcalito’s ledger. You’re not just up against drug runners with AK-47s — you’re up against a cosmic force that sees your war plans as a bad joke.

When the Dust Settles (If It Ever Does)

At the end of this war — if you even make it to the end — you’re not going to recognize either side of the border. Mezcalito’s trick is to show you the truth: that the border was always an illusion, a fragile construct designed to keep chaos at bay. But chaos doesn’t care about your fences or your checkpoints. It seeps through, carried by rivers of blood, sweat, and tequila.

Your soldiers will come back with thousand-yard stares, their minds fried not by combat, but by the sheer futility of fighting an enemy who doesn’t exist in the way you want him to. Your drones will crash. Your supply lines will vanish. And somewhere in the desert, Mezcalito will laugh, because you never understood what you were dealing with.

A War for the Ages, or Just Another Bad Trip?

So go ahead, Mr. Trump. Rally the troops. Send them south with their high-tech weapons and low-grade understanding of what they’re walking into. But don’t be surprised when this war spirals into something you can’t even comprehend. You’re not just fighting cartels. You’re fighting the spirit of the land, the chaos of the cosmos, and the relentless force of entropy itself.

And when it’s all over — when Mezcalito has had his way with you — don’t say we didn’t warn you. You wanted a war? You got one. Welcome to the desert, where nothing is what it seems and everything you thought you knew turns to dust.

We take bribes, you take bribes. We admit it, you don’t. Who’s more honest?

We take bribes, you take bribes. The difference? We don’t waste time hiding it, compadre. It’s all out in the open, like the sun burning through a desert sky. Why bother pretending? This world runs on greased palms, quiet deals in the shadows—you know it, I know it. It’s what keeps this whole chingado mess from collapsing. We face reality. You? Vives en un sueño, playing like everything’s clean.

So tell me, ¿quién es más honesto? The guy who admits the system is a labyrinth of lies, or the one who swears up and down it’s built on justice? Ándale, cuate, you sit in your air-conditioned office, looking at your papers like they mean something. But behind every law, every speech, there’s a man waiting for his cut. You know it. Just like every guy who sweats for his next meal knows it.

We don’t hide behind fancy words or pretend we’re saints. We know the world is built on the backs of people who have to bend, have to hustle just to survive. And you? You act like you’re better, like you’re clean. Pero no eres diferente, güey. You just have nicer curtains to cover it up, while the rest of us are out here, working the grind, playing the game.

At the end of the day, la verdad es muy sencilla. We see the machine for what it is, una chingadera of betrayal and barter, where every man has a price. You think you can escape it? You think you’re above it? Por favor, you’re just another cog in the same rusty wheel, pretending it’s all good while the whole thing keeps turning.

<>

You know what I do? I compartmentalize. Yeah, that’s right. I don’t get bogged down in all the mess. I keep it neat, keep it separated. You want to stay standing in this world, you better learn to put things in their place. One drawer for the dirt, one for the clean. One for the deals nobody talks about, another for the good ol’ boy smiles. That’s how you survive. You think I got this far by lettin’ it all mix together? Hell no. I compartmentalize.

Pretty soon you end up with a thousand drawers, each one for a different mess. But that’s okay, that’s the way it’s gotta be. You got one for the bribes, one for the lies, one for the promises you ain’t never gonna keep. And when it all gets too heavy, well, you got a bottle sittin’ in the bottom drawer. Take a swig, clear your head, and get back to it. That’s how you keep it together. Booze helps grease the gears when the drawers start stickin’.

Compartmentalize? Hell yeah, that’s the only way to keep your head on straight in a world like this. You gotta divide things up—keep the dirt in one corner, the clean hands in another. Bribes, favors, deals? You toss ’em in a drawer, lock it tight, and put on your best damn suit. Smile for the cameras, shake hands with the folks. That’s just how it’s done. You can’t let one thing spill over into the other, or you’re finished. That ain’t weakness, amigo, that’s survival.

Now, I get it—you think it sounds crooked, like I’m spittin’ lies. But listen, if you don’t compartmentalize, the whole damn thing falls apart. You can’t run a ranch, a business, or a country without splittin’ the necessities from all that idealistic nonsense. You reckon you can live without bending a little? That’s a fine way to end up broke, dead, or forgotten. You take the bribe, make the compromise, but you don’t let it touch who you really are. It’s just part of the game, same as anything else.

You folks talk about integrity like it’s carved in stone, but that ain’t how life works. Integrity ain’t a rock; it’s more like water. It flows, it shifts, it adapts. You don’t, you sink. Now, you call that lyin’ to myself? Fine, call it what you want. I call it doin’ what needs doin’ to keep moving ahead. The grime of one day ain’t gotta stick to the next. You keep your compartments clean, or at least clean enough to make it through.

The world’s a mess, sure, but it ain’t a simple one. You wanna make it through? Better learn to keep those compartments in check, pardner.

Opium

Scene: A Dimly Lit Room, Somewhere in Southeast China

*The year is 1887. The British empire still has a firm grasp on its colonies, and in the Southeast Asian trade networks, opium flows like gold. Inside a luxurious but worn-out room, adorned with Qing dynasty artifacts and British imperial emblems, a British opium trader, *Charles Harrington*, sits behind a large mahogany desk. He wears a well-tailored waistcoat and cravat, his eyes cold and calculating. Across from him sits *Michael O’Donnell, an American operative, decades out of place, but well aware of his mission. Though the room is set in 19th century China, O’Donnell is a man of the 20th century — a CIA officer from the 1970s, time displaced yet unfazed.

Harrington pulls a cigar from a silver case, lights it, and offers one to O’Donnell. The American declines, leaning forward, his eyes dark and knowing.

Charles Harrington (British Opium Trader):
Takes a deep drag of his cigar.
“You Americans always seem to think the game is something new. But let me tell you, lad, this trade we’ve built here—opium to China, silver back to the Crown—it’s the very lifeblood of empire. And you, with your disbursals and kingmaker strategies, well, you’re but a mirror of us. Different time, same means.”
He exhales a thick plume of smoke.

Michael O’Donnell (American CIA Operative):
Leans back in his chair, unphased.
“I didn’t come here for a history lesson, Harrington. I’m here because you’re playing the game on the same board we are now. The names may have changed, sure—cartels, revolutionaries, intelligence services—but it’s still about control. Control of people, of markets, of nations.”

Harrington:
Laughs heartily, a bit of arrogance in his tone.
“Control, yes. Control indeed. But tell me, Mr. O’Donnell, what exactly does your Agency hope to achieve by making men like the ones I deal with into kings? Do you think your ‘cartels’ will remain loyal to your stars and stripes any more than my merchants do to the Crown?”
He snuffs his cigar in a nearby ashtray.
“You’re playing with fire, lad. The opium’s just one part of a much larger machine.”

O’Donnell:
His tone sharpens.
“It’s not loyalty we’re after. It’s leverage. Same as you. You may be used to dealing with addicts—men so hooked on your product they’d sell their own mothers to get a taste—but we’ve moved on. Now it’s about keeping entire countries hooked on the American dream, on dollars, guns, influence. That’s our opium.”

Harrington:
His eyes narrow slightly, intrigued by the American’s candor.
“So, you’re admitting to it then? All this talk of freedom, democracy—it’s just a mask for your real work. Topple a government here, set up a puppet there. And you think you’re so clever with your little operations. But sooner or later, you’ll learn what I’ve already discovered.”

O’Donnell:
“And what’s that?”

Harrington:
Leans in, his voice lowering.
“No matter how much power you think you wield, the people who truly hold the strings are the ones no one sees. The ones in the shadows. You can install all the puppet kings you like, but they’ll never be yours. Not truly. Just like my opium buyers—they’re loyal only until the next hit. The moment you can’t provide, they’ll find someone else who can.”

O’Donnell:
Smirks.
“Funny, I was about to say the same thing to you. You think your empire’s immortal? That your precious Queen back in London can keep squeezing the world forever? I’ve read the history books, Harrington. Empires fall. All of them. Yours isn’t any different.”

Harrington:
Chuckles darkly.
“Perhaps. But I have a feeling yours will fall harder. You’ve seen what happens when the flow of silver or drugs gets interrupted. The same applies to influence. You’ll overreach, Mr. O’Donnell. You already are.”
Pauses, then continues with a half-smile.
“And when that happens, well, we’ll see who is scrambling for the scraps.”

O’Donnell:
Leaning forward now, his voice intense.
“Let’s not pretend you don’t see the parallels, Harrington. We’re both here because we know the world runs on corruption. The question is, how far are you willing to let it go? I’m not interested in building an empire. I’m here to make sure it doesn’t collapse too soon. But if that means playing kingmaker and breaking a few laws along the way—so be it. Our game is global. Yours was regional. Don’t confuse the two.”

Harrington:
With a sly grin.
“Ah, but regional control can be far more devastating than you think. And at least we weren’t foolish enough to dream of ruling the whole world. Ambition, Mr. O’Donnell, is the very thing that will destroy you and your Agency.”

O’Donnell:
Rising from his seat, his eyes cold.
“Maybe. But not today. And certainly not by the likes of you.”

O’Donnell turns and heads for the door, leaving the heavy air of colonial decadence and imperial machinations behind. As the door creaks open and closes, Harrington takes another slow drag of his cigar, watching the smoke curl lazily toward the ceiling, pondering the inevitability of all things—empires, drugs, and men.

Harrington (murmuring to himself):
“Not today, no… but soon enough.”
He exhales another thick cloud of smoke into the fading light.

The War Machine Spins: Notes from the Edge of the Borderline Collapse

Reading the situation now, it seems pretty clear that the drug trade in Mexico has transformed into something far closer to a nationalized enterprise than anyone on either side of the border would ever dare admit. This is not some back-alley, dime-bag hustle – no, this is a full-scale industry, woven into the sinews of state corruption, cartel overlords, and, most damning of all, the shaky pillars of U.S. foreign policy. You might think of it as a protection racket, but on a grand scale, with the judicial police in Mexico and the FBI north of the border playing their respective parts in a theater of the absurd. The players are crooked, the money is filthy, and the moral high ground is nowhere in sight.

Here’s the dirty truth: Instability is profitable. As long as the cartels are fighting among themselves, hacking each other to bits, blowing up whole villages and towns, the price of drugs goes up. Cocaine isn’t the only thing being cut—so are throats, deals, and the occasional olive branch extended for peace. But peace doesn’t sell. Conflict does. And the more chaotic it gets, the better it is for the price point. No cartel in its right mind wants legalization. That would sink prices faster than a kilo of coke dropped in the Pacific. No, what they want is chaos – but controlled chaos. Let the violence spin out, but never enough to make the whole system crash down. It’s the kind of industrial bloodletting that keeps the machine well-oiled.

South of the border, cartels have burrowed into the Mexican state, like ticks digging into the skin of a dying dog. The judicial police are just one part of this macabre apparatus, shielding the cartels in exchange for fat stacks of cash. This has transformed the Mexican drug trade into something approaching a nationalized economy—except the “government” in this case is a patchwork of cartel bosses and their lieutenants, with a revolving door of politicians on the take. These narco-lords are more than just traffickers; they’re the unspoken power behind the throne, running entire territories like medieval fiefdoms. They provide “protection” in the twisted sense of the word, offering a violent stability that the Mexican state can’t. A brutal symbiosis, really: the cartels kill off dissent, and in exchange, the state turns a blind eye.

Yes, the dynamic between cartels and the Mexican government indeed obscures the reality that, in practice, the drug trade has become a quasi-nationalized system. Here’s how this obscured reality plays out:

1. Cartels as De Facto Authorities

In regions controlled by cartels, these criminal organizations effectively act as the governing authority. They enforce their own rules, collect “taxes,” and provide services, filling the void left by a weak or corrupt state. This setup creates a de facto nationalized drug trade where cartels control the distribution and production of illicit drugs as if they were state-sanctioned entities.

2. Corruption and Complicity

The corruption within the Mexican government, including the police and judiciary, allows cartels to operate with state-like impunity. When officials are on the payroll of drug traffickers or otherwise complicit, it creates a situation where cartels enjoy the protection and operational latitude typically associated with state control. This complicity allows cartels to function as if they have a form of unofficial state backing, effectively nationalizing their operations.

3. Control Over Territories

Cartels often exert control over specific territories, regulating local economies and security. This territorial control extends beyond drug trafficking to include broader aspects of local governance. This control mimics nationalization in practice, as cartels influence everything from local law enforcement to social services, further blurring the lines between criminal and state functions.

4. Economic Impact

The economic impact of the drug trade is significant, akin to a nationalized industry. The cartels’ dominance over drug production and distribution affects local economies, creates dependency in affected regions, and influences national economic factors. This economic impact underscores the extent to which the drug trade functions as a de facto nationalized enterprise.

5. State Support and Protection

The Mexican government’s tacit or explicit support of cartels through corruption or strategic leniency further nationalizes the drug trade. When authorities choose to look the other way or facilitate cartel activities for political or economic gain, it integrates the drug trade into the broader framework of state operations, albeit in an illicit and shadowy manner.

6. Institutional Failure

The failure of Mexican institutions to effectively combat drug cartels and enforce the law contributes to the perception of a nationalized drug trade. When institutions are incapable of or unwilling to address the power of cartels, it reinforces the idea that the drug trade has become an entrenched part of the national landscape, controlled more by cartels than by legitimate state mechanisms.

In summary, the interplay between cartels and the Mexican government does obscure the reality that the drug trade, in practice, has become quasi-nationalized. This phenomenon results from the cartels’ control over territories and economies, government corruption and complicity, and the broader economic and social impacts of the drug trade. The result is a shadow governance structure where cartels function as state-like entities, influencing and controlling aspects of life and governance in ways that approximate nationalization.

North of the border, we’re no innocent bystanders. Oh, no. The U.S. government, wrapped in its endless drug war rhetoric, plays the other half of this ugly symphony. But it’s a double-edged sword, and it cuts both ways. Here’s where the real rot sets in: it’s not about stopping drugs, not really. It’s about managing the flow, controlling the spigot. A little chaos is good—keeps the drug prices high, the dealers in check, and the FBI with its hands on the wheel, steering this nightmarish ride. And the biggest tool in their box? The Kingpin Strategy. Like mafia dons deciding who lives and dies, U.S. authorities pick and choose their targets. Take down one cartel boss, watch the power vacuum tear another crew apart. Then, like clockwork, a new cartel rises from the ashes, often the one we didn’t target.

Interplay and Implications

Strategic Complexity: The Kingpin Strategy, combined with covert use of drug money and selective enforcement, creates a tangled web of influence. By targeting key figures while selectively enforcing laws and using drug money for covert operations, governments attempt to manipulate drug trade dynamics and geopolitical landscapes. However, these approaches often result in temporary disruptions rather than long-term solutions.

Corruption and Instability: Using drug money for covert activities and selective enforcement fuels corruption and instability. These tactics can undermine legitimate governance, foster illegal activities, and allow political manipulation to thrive, perpetuating a cycle of conflict and dysfunction.

This racket is not just about controlling drugs—it’s about controlling people. And it’s a hell of a convenient way to keep discretionary funds flowing. The DEA, the CIA, and even some elements within the FBI have long been accused of protecting certain cartels, particularly when it suits larger geopolitical interests. That’s right—this has all the stench of Cold War-era tactics. We pick a cartel to back, feed it intel, look the other way when their shipments make it through, all in exchange for favors. And what favors might those be? Oh, you know, just a little help quashing leftist movements across Latin America. Can’t have too much socialism sprouting up in the backyard, now can we? So while the cartels wage their wars, killing each other in public, we’re playing kingmaker in the shadows.

This is a protection racket, make no mistake. The U.S. gets its favors, the FBI gets a cut of the chaos, and the cartels get enough breathing room to keep the whole bloody enterprise running. And that’s the whole game: managing chaos, not stopping it. Because deep down, we all know—legalization would kill the game. Drugs would be cheap, cartel power would evaporate, and we’d be left without our shadowy army in Latin America, without our slush funds, and without a convenient scapegoat to blame for all the domestic drug problems we have no intention of actually solving.

You don’t want a functioning Mexico. Hell, nobody does. A functioning Mexico doesn’t need cartels, doesn’t need corrupt cops, and certainly doesn’t need us. It would cut off the pipeline of drugs and chaos that fuels both sides of the border economy. Better to keep the beast alive, feed it a little blood every now and then, and watch the dollars stack up. Because in the end, the instability, the violence, the drugs—it’s all good for business. And business, as they say, is booming.

In this grand casino of narcotic roulette, we’re not just players. We’re the house. And the house always wins.