Native American Appreciation

Did you know that November is Native American Heritage Month? Yeah, neither did I. But hey, I'm always down for a celebration. Especially one that celebreates non-white people, the second-best kind of people. They're like the silver medal winners of evolution.

So when I heard my office (I work at an Army base) was throwing a little shindig, complete with authentic Indian (fuck calling them Native Americans) dancers and an open bar I'm down.

After all, the last time the Army and the Indians got together, everything was all fun and games, right?

So I show up the event, and it started out great. There were tables filled with Indian artifacts from every Indian nation. I got a double-fisted helping of bourbon (after all, it was Native American History Month) and coke, and I was on my merry way.

On item in particular interested me. It was an intricate tapestry of reds, purples, and oranges. It was made of straw, beads and feathers.

"See anything you like?"

I turn around to see an elderly Indian gentlemen, dressed as you'd expect, leather boots with jeans and a western-style shirt with a turquoise bolo tie.

It turned out that these were his artifacts, and we spent the next five minute or so discussing the artifacts in front of us, and how he'd managed to acquire most of them.

He then introduced himself to me: as John Josesp Redcorn (This name has been changed).

"Nice to meet you," I said. "My name is Winston. Winston P. Custer." I gave special emphasis on that last name, and then I leaned back and touched the left side of my nose with my index finger, as if to tell him, "I know that you know..."

He gave me a glance that was filled with fear. Fear or confusion, it's funny how those two blend together.

So I took it to the next level.

I told him I had to run, and I reached over, and gave him a Michael Corleone-to-Fredo-style peck on the cheek. I then leaned up close to his right ear, and whispered,

"I've been waiting 132 years to make you Injuns pay for what you did to my great-grandpappy. And tonight, Mr. Redcorn, you're going to pay."

Was I too cruel, playing on cheap, historical stereotypes? From the wide-eyed look he gave me, he believed me?

So did I ease his fear with a hearty-belly laugh? Of course. Except instead of a belly laugh, a tied a mock-noose wth my hands, and gave him the hangman gesture.

As he trembled in fear (its a good thing he had that walker to support him) I walked away and headed back to the bar.

Four bourbons (lost interest in the coke about three drinks ago) later, I sat in my seat with a glorious feeling of superiority to watch some traditional Native American dances.

Three men in bright suits adorned with "cones" (that's the too-good-for-the-white-man-Indian way of saying "bells") jingled their way to a large drum on the floor, surrounded by metal folding chairs.

"Metal folding chairs? HA! Where's your Hahgwehdiyu now?"

Now, here's the thing. I could've sworn I said that in the confines of my own head. But given that everyone on front of me turned around as soon as that sentence was complete, I guess I was wrong.

Luckily, I have learned little tips to keep myself out of awkward situations. Unfortunately, many of these techniques are more like stays of execution, if I have to use one this early, it won't make any difference in the end.

But use it I did.

As soon as everyone turned around, I turned around. Because, clearly, the person who said it would have no need to turn around and see who had said such a thing, right? Genius.

So I looked back, and I'm pretty sure the crowd thought that the guys behind me had said it.

"Stupid faggots fell for it, hook, line and sinker."

Okay, I'm sure I said that under my breath. But sure enough, two ushers came up to me, and asked me to leave.

I started to protest, but I'm sure all I did was unleash a torrent of hot, boozy breath into the usher's face.

"Sir, I'm sorry you need to leave," the usher said.

"Oh, I'm sorry, you're telling me that there's no place for an alcoholic on Native American Appreciation Day? Pardon my fucking sarong. "

They started to drag me out while I tried my best to imitate the sound of a slot machine, because, you know, that's the secret shame of this once honorable people.

It didn't seem to have any effect (and by effect, I meant that one of the Indian dancers would come and rescue me, because I had pushed all of his buttons).

So I pulled out the trump.

"There will be beaver pelts and glass beads aplenty for any man who helps me!!"

They must not have heard me, because surely, no Native American can turn down glass beads. And when I added beaver pelts in, that only sweetened the deal.

But alas, nothing. So I simply screamed, "I will smallpax your fucking face off!" to anyone who was listening as a was dragged out.

Funny afterthought: As I was being escorted to the door through the lobby, the old Indian limped out of the bathroom.

I gave him a quick throat-slashing gesture with my thumb, and winked at him.

I hope he had those security walk him to his car. Because then they would have been killed when the bomb I put under his car detonated.

Vivat Custer.