Common sense dictates that if you're looking for drug dealers, you probably aren't going to find any in a Sunday school class. And, if you're looking to round up illegal immigrants, well, there's probably not many working at your daily newspaper.

But then again, the words "common sense" and "federal government" are rarely found in the same sentence.

Last week, I was asked by Marcie, a really nice lady who works in the newspaper's human resources department, to prove that I was an American citizen. I assume the request was a condition of my continued employment here.

Apparently, I was hired at the News-Press before proof of citizenship was a requirement. Of course, now that I think about it, back then all the newspaper required of cub reporters was a pulse, a body temperature above 90 degrees and the ability to write a coherent sentence.

(Hey, I know what you're thinking, and, to quote Meatloaf, two out of three ain't bad.)

I jokingly showed Marcie my green card.

Actually, I do have a green card. It says right on the front "Las Palmas Green Card Temporary Drinking Permit." Underneath, it says I'm entitled to half-price drinks on Sundays and Tuesdays. Marcie glanced at the card, gave me a quick smile that said, yes, she understood the joke and, no, it really wasn't very funny.

So, I dug into my wallet and pulled out my Missouri driver's license and my tattered, dog-eared Social Security card. Marcie took photo copies of both and handed me a form. I filled out my information, checked the box marked "U.S. citizen" and signed and dated it to prove that I'm really, really, really not lying.

I actually don't mind proving that I'm an American citizen. In fact, I get a little militant about it. (Yeah, I'm American : so what?) But I do wonder if maybe, just maybe, our nation's efforts to stem the stream of illegal immigrants crossing our borders might be better spent elsewhere - like in Texas or Arizona.

It is ironic that I've been to Mexico twice since 9/11. Both times, I was able to waltz into Mexico without showing much in the way of identification and march back out again just as easily. Nobody from either side opened my luggage or asked to see anything more than an airline ticket.

In fact, while crossing back across the border from Nuevo Laredo, the U.S. Border Patrol showed zero interest in my passport but wanted to know about the motorcycle I was riding.

"I'm an American," I said as I pulled up to the border guard and reached inside my jacket for my passport.

"No kidding," he said. "What year is your Yamaha?"

"It's an '05."

"Nice color. Go ahead and pull up to the stoplight."

"Huh?" I was confused. No passport inspection? No luggage check? No interrogation under bright lights?

"Go : sir, you're blocking traffic."

In fact, last Friday was the first time I've ever really had to prove my citizenship - hundreds of miles away from the nearest border in a building where I've reported to work for two decades. It seems a little silly.

Marcie handed back my license and Social Security card and quickly scanned my proof of citizenship form.

"Thanks, Steve," she said.

Now that I'm an officially recognized U.S. citizen, I don't expect any more red tape.

But I'm keeping my Palma's Green Card handy - just in case immigration decides to raid the newsroom someday.

Steve Booher's column runs on Monday.