A Thanksgiving Story…as Only I See It

Ahhh…it’s Thanksgiving. The time of year where we celebrate the bountiful harvest of the summer past. To spend time with family and friends, to gather and be thankful for the blessings the Lord has bestowed upon us over the past year.

But since we are no longer an agricultural nation for the most part (nor a manufacturing one for that matter…another topic altogether), and since we have banned the Lord from any type of discussion because He is “offensive”, let’s just say we are celebrating the ever anticipated Christmas…errrr…Holiday shopping season. And what better way to accomplish that than by eating a shit load of turkey, ham, stuffing, cranberries, pumpkin pie, mashed potatoes, essentially further fattening the fat fucks we already are in this nation. Well, that and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon Light and watching shitty football games (go Lions) on TV.

Yeah, that about sums up Thanksgiving in today’s world.

Just like the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag Indians envisioned oh so many eons ago.

“Hey, Jim Bob! Getcher fat ass out here and bring me a beer! Them rootin-tootin’ Cowboys are on, ready to beat some Dolphin ass like it was tuna! Yeee-ip!”

Squanto would be beaming with Pride.

Meh.

Speaking of Squanto, here is how I believe it all went down from the first Thanksgiving on.

Being all nice to the Native Americans back then might have been the smartest ruse we white folk have ever done. I mean, if we had landed at Plymouth Rock (heretofore to be known as La Piedra, for my Spanish speaking readers) with our huge belt buckles on our funny hats and just started blazing away, we’d have never been able to advance our honky asses clear across this great continent as fast as we did. Manifest Destiny baby!

So what did we do? We buddy up, farm with them, eat with them, Pocahontas marries some guy named John Smith (all men were named John Smith back then) ease their defenses and then whammo! we fuck them clear in the poop chute with a rusty musket from here to Grants Pass, Oregon, and expand this great country and clear enough land for the millions of Wal-Marts we knew would be arriving soon.

Pure genius.

Sure, we gave the Native Americans little chunks of land called “reservations”, but they were shitty pieces of land, useless hunks of land that we didn’t want, so screw it.

“Here you go, Chief Wahoo, enjoy your marshland. We’re keeping Detroit and Cleveland.”

So then the Native Americans lived on their reservations across the country, farming the land, trying to avoid the white man out of fear that we’d ass fuck them with a plunger and take some more land. We tried, as Custer found out, but all things settled after a while. And I have to give the Indians some major props for intelligence. They knew what they were doing.

For they knew the white mans downfall was gambling.

So eventually Chief Wahoo figured out that they could set up gambling institutions on these reservations and invite the white man to join them. They created lush casino’s with hotels and 1st class service, complete with peace offerings like Whiskey Sours, Budweiser and Apple Pucker…and comped them most of the time.

The white man accepted this offering from many Chief Wahoo’s across the country, and took tour buses filled with senior citizens and degenerate gamblers to enjoy the offerings that were presented to them.

And now, the Native Americans have exacted their revenge.

Here’s how.

They’re fucking loaded. They’re rich, beotch!

Way to go, Johnny Honky-Smith, you fucker. Nice work.

I’m broke. I could use some of that Casino payroll cash.

Because of you, I have to save money by going to one of many Wal-Marts, douchebag.

And today, on Native American reservations, just like in homes everywhere across this great land, they, too, are celebrating Thanksgiving with us. Celebrating their history and heritage as well as our heritage, but by doing it their way.

With poker chips, nickel slot machines and a $10 Wynonna Judd concert at the Soaring Eagle Casino.

Gobble Gobble.