Saturday, November 5, 2011

Native American Dream

 By Gene Kalmes

Before digressing into my silly comedy skit...a serious note, regarding what is called REVISIONIST HISTORY... what a slimey joke... For the first time in history the internet has allowed historians, researchers, whistle blowers and eye witnesses to upload their version of what really took place. Those that slaughtered their way to dominating schools and schooltext books don't like the truth of their insidious savagery coming to light so they have their paid prostitutes on the news scoff at REVISIONIST HISTORY to plant the seed in the people's feeble lazy sound bite addicted brains that if it wasn't in their 6th grade history book it wasn't true.

If black people and American Indians (Native Americans) were to debate whose lives were more ruined, more twisted into absurd bubblegum pop culture inane cartoony bullshit, the argument would be a stalemate of painful visual aids, an endless stream of bad comedies, movies, TV and upside down representation.

For the first time in history these peoples have a chance to set their story straight by REVISING LIES and DISTORTIONS...

I have taken it upon myself to be the "Hey Yeah" guy... "I never thought of it that way." The guy that fills in between the line so your brain can make that missing connection, fill in the dots... The next time you hear someone bashing REVISIONISM or calling alternate versions of a story "conspiracy theory" quickly run to a mirror while you are still laughing so you can laugh at the real idiot.

Native Americans have endured so much abuse and now, in order for the gambling mafias to have an excuse to have monopolies on casinos they gave Native Americans the exclusive rights in many places for casinos. Though the money certainly helps them don't be fooled by the mafias siphoning off and skimming out the back door. That is the true reason why the Indian casino exists not philanthropy.

And now we return you to your regularly scheduled absurdity...

 A silhouette of four men stood against a large full moon. Chief, Wise Wolf, Swearing Eagle, and Gay Flower were having a secret meeting as the cavalry slept.
The chief began the meeting, "White man wants us to move . . . what do you think, Swearing Eagle?"
"Tell Whiteman to get fucked."
"What do you think, Wise Wolf?" the chief asked.
"Wise Wolf think Swearing Eagle speak words of wisdom . . . Flip bird, then flip tomahawk."
"No need for tomahawk . . ."
"Chief, violence is the only way. Whiteman knows no other way," Wise Wolf interrupted.
"Let me finish, no need for tomahawks, we got rifles!!"
Swearing Eagle was happy with that news, "Rifles!?! No shit?!"
"Trade reefer for rifles." The chief thought himself pretty smart.
Wise Wolf was concerned. "But Chief, that was last of stash!"
"Chiefy . . . ?" Gay Flower butted in softly.
"What do you want, Gay Flower?" The chief was impatient with Gay Flower. Perhaps because he was confused over some deeper feelings of curiosity that he suppressed and overcompensated for, or maybe he just got the willies from homosexuals.
The author hoped the gay community would laugh along with his stereotype. "If we’re gonna make war, are we gonna get to wear cosmetics?"
"That’s war paint!" the chief bellowed.
Wise Wolf interjected, "I’ve got an idea . . . If Whiteman wants west . . . we go back east. I hear Whiteman have hundred foot teepees with soft beds, heating, and plumbing."
"No shit." Eagle had come to enjoy eating soap.
"Where do they find buffalo skin big enough?"
"Must make heap big mess." Swearing Eagle sometimes didn’t swear.
Wise Wolf explained patiently, "Teepees not made of skin . . . made of stone."
"Must be hard to move on to better hunting ground." The chief still didn’t get it.
"No need to move . . . food come to them on big canoe." Wise Wolf was very knowledgeable."
The chief pressed for details, "Big canoe? How big?"
"Size of thousands of our canoes."
"Where do they find tree big enough?"
"Use many trees."
"Who paddles?"
"Must be awful big brave!" Gay Flower sang gleefully.
Giving Gay Flower a disgusted look, Wise Wolf explained further, "Machine do work for Whiteman."
"Me thought slave do work for Whiteman."
"Machine not person . . . machine have no feelings." Wise Wolf searched for the right analogy.
But the chief was hard to brief. "Whiteman have no feelings."
"Got point there . . . Machine just nuts and screws."
"Whiteman nuts and screws."
"Steam locomotive like big snake, made from steel. Runs through land on steel wheels. Steel wheels run on two steel tracks." Wise Wolf drew in the dirt.
"Steal is right. They steal our land!"
"Wise Wolf fucking with our heads!" Swearing Eagle was lost.
"Wise Wolf how you know all this?" The chief pondered.
Wise Wolf pulled a copy of Popular Mechanics out of his back pocket. The chief, Eagle, and Flower all moved closer to Wise Wolf to see what he was holding.
"I subscribe to Popular Mechanics . . . I show you article . . . it arrived today by cavalry. Sent for it six months ago. Here . . . page 57. ‘How to build a railroad through mountains, deserts, and Indian camps’."

Wise Wolf tried to hand the magazine to the chief, but he refused to take it. “Can’t read . . . don’t have my glasses."
"Me leave it in head, you read later."
"You say this, er . . . iron horse run on steel wheels on steel track through our land. Who Whiteman steel track and wheels from after steal land from Indian?" The chief thought he had a good question.
"Chief, wheels and track not stolen, made of steel; steel is iron treated with intense heat and mixed with carbon to make it hard and tough . . . then . . ."
"Okay, okay . . . so Whiteman steals our land for iron horse. We must decide to stand proud and fight for what is rightfully ours . . ."
"We take iron horse east and check into big teepee."
"Chief, give it some thought. We must think of Red Man’s pride,"
"Think about these flee-bitten skins we sleep on . . ." the chief pointed out.
"We must show Whiteman our strength!" Wise Wolf was very proud.
"The chief was being realistic, "Or, the cold, hard ground, and snakes!"
"That we have a will to be!" Wise Wolf was trying to rally support for the cause.
The chief had some more good points, "A will to be outside in cold winters, under leaky roofs, with outdoor plumbing."
"Chief, we can’t be railroaded off our land . . . what time the next train leave?"
"Probably not until Whiteman finished stealing it," the chief guessed.
Wise Wolf had a possibility, "Then we have time for warpath . . . if it looks bad, we move to Cleveland."
"The chief saw the reasoning and gave in, "Sounds good, Whiteman feel our moccasins tonight."
"Kick ass!" Swearing Eagle cursed.
"Not tonight . . . go on warpath in morning. Me burnt out from party."

General Custer and his men were sleeping. The First Lieutenant was leaning over Custer, trying to wake him from his slumber.
"General, wake up, Sir. Sir, it’s time to wake up," the lieutenant prodded.
Custer turned over and tried to open his eyes, groaning and yawning widely. He spoke with his eyes closed.
"What do you want, Lieutenant?" Custer grumbled.
"Open your eyes."
"You know I need a cup of coffee first."
"Uh, General, I’ve been meaning to tell you. We’ve run out of a few things . . . such as coffee,"
"You know how I get up on the wrong side of my bed roll without coffee . . . I can tell you this is going to be a lousy day, and my eyes aren’t even opened yet!"
"Your foresight amazes me, General."
"Pony soldier, stand up and put arms over head," the chief ordered.
The general opened his eyes and jumped to his feet. "What the . . . lieutenant, why are they holding our guns?!?"
"Guns is the other thing we’ve run out of."
"Guns?" Custer was incredulous.
"First things first. Lieutenant, hand over the stash."
"Indian giver!!!"
"Swearing Eagle, tie them up," the chief ordered.
"Why do they have our guns?" Custer asked politely.
"Who!?! Those guys over there with the funny clothes and the feathers in their hair!"
"Oh, them, it’s a funny story, really."
"I’m not laughing, Lieutenant." Custer was pissed.
Custer gave the lieutenant a dirty look and turned toward the chief.
"Chief, can’t we discuss this man to Indian?"
"You mean Indian to land-lifting lowlife paleface, don’t ya?"
"We can discuss it that way too!" Custer said.
"Tell your men to leave their horses and canteens and walk into desert,"
"Men . . . leave your horses and canteens and walk into the desert,"
The men did not move a muscle.
"They’re not moving."
"Would you obey an order like that?"
"Tell them they have a choice . . . they can watch you die a slow death, or start walking,"
"Uh . . . Lieutenant, why don’t you tell the men what . . . uh . . . their choices are"
"Chief, I can’t understand it. You were friendly last night . . . perhaps you’re just hung over. I’ll tell you what. I’ll send one of my men for donuts and coffee." Custer hoped donuts would work the way it did with traffic cops.
"Only thing hung over around here . . . that’s your ass over hot coals. Ha, ha, ha," the chief laughed.
"Funny guy," Custer mumbled.
The lieutenant walked back and stood next to the general.
"Lieutenant, what did they say?" Custer asked.
"They were wondering if the chief will be serving refreshments . . ."
Custer sighed, "Maybe this is just a bad dream."
"Chief, you realize that if we don’t return by nightfall to Fort Cheyenne, they’ll come looking for us."
"No, me didn’t know that . . . but now we can bake a cake."
Custer stared hard at the lieutenant.
"Good one, lieutenant. I’m sure the general in command will appreciate it."
"Don’t mention it, Sir."
The lieutenant turned toward the chief.
"Chief, he likes chocolate frosting."
"Lieutenant, why don’t you see if the chief is taking enlistments . . ."
"No way . . . the odds are against us already," the chief admitted.

The Chief was lying back with a cold cloth over his forehead. Wise Wolf crawled into the teepee.
"Chief . . . everything is set."
"Good, is Goldilocks gagged and tied?"
"Yeah, before I put cornhusk in mouth he told me to tell you he’d like to call the whole train deal off and that. . ."
"And that, what?"
"That’s when I put cornhusk in mouth,"
"How ‘bout other pony soldier."
"Smoked joint with him, and he pass out."
"And everyone is painted and ready for warpath!!! Except Gay Flower, he’s ready for cover of Cosmopolitan."
"Me think we should keep Gay Flower hid in closet."
"But Chief . . . he knocked out ten Sioux with his hand-made beaver skin bag . . . he was second to Rabid Badger in last week’s raid."
"How many Rabid Badger get?"
"Forty-two, but it was off day for Badger."
" Swearin’ Eagle is all four letter talk and no action. Flyin’ Bat is as blind as a bat; he shoots more horses than people. Brave Hawk is a chicken and you are like me . . . wise enough to stay out of it."
"But we got rifles now!"
"But we still haven’t figured out how to insert arrow!"
"Me solved problem. Me make small arrow."
"Don’t know what we’d do without you, Wise Wolf."
"Me tell you one thing. You never get those toys put together Christmas morning."
"Chief, there’s a delivery boy at the front door; he’s got a telegram."
"Sign for it, Wise Wolf, probably from my wife."
Wise Wolf reached into his pocket after signing the boy’s clipboard. "Thanks boy. Here’s a little something for you." Wise Wolf handed the boy a buffalo chip, which the kid bit into.
"What the hell is this? It tastes like buffalo crap."
"It is. Don’t spend it all in one place."
"Read it, Wise Wolf," the chief ordered.
"Ma Bear Claw is well. Stop Gall stone surgery success. Stop. Be home in three moons. Stop. Teepee better look like I left it. Stop. Signed your wife."
"Telegram always bad news,"
"This place looks like a pig sty. She scalp you when she get home."
"Least of troubles, Wise Wolf. Wait till she finds out we at war with the U.S. Cavalry. She’ll never leave me home alone again!"
"Maybe war will be over by the time she gets back."
"This war maybe . . . my war and her war pick up where we left off."
"If you don’t mind me asking, Chief, why you marry such a pushy woman?"
"She made me."
"Did you get her in trouble?"
"No, but she say she make trouble."
"No, I mean, how she make trouble?"
"She say she’d tell her daddy that she’d seen my totem pole."
"Mmm . . . bow and arrow wedding."
"You got it, so I did what any self-respecting man would do. . ."
"You married her?"
"No, I ran like hell," .
"How she catch you?"
"She run faster."
"Then you marry?"
"Where you spend honeymoon?"
"We take long canoe trip down St. Lawrence River,"
"You see Niagara Fall?"
"Not till it was too late,"


  1. “And you two been on warpath ever since.”
    “Ever since her first headache,” Chief mumbled.
    “That too bad,” Wise Wolf comforted his chief.
    The chief grunted, “You telling me. Sometimes I think I’d rather shack up with a grizzly for the winter.”
    “If it’s that bad . . . you should file for divorce.”
    “Divorce, what’s divorce?”
    “Whiteman custom, it begin by marrying wrong girl.”
    “Then what?”
    “You call a lawyer. Lawyer represents a body in a court of law.”
    “Oh. . . What is a court of law?”
    “Whiteman have rules. Whiteman break rules. Judge say what rule is broken and breaks Whiteman who broke rule.”
    “Sounds like a bust.”
    “Something like that.”
    “So, what’s this have to do with me?”
    “Marriage is law. Only law can dissolve law . . . so you call on a lawyer to sue for divorce.”
    “Sioux?” The chief began to look in all directions.
    “Not S-i-o-u-x, S-u-e.”
    “Good, those guys are obnoxious.”
    “Then you cite grounds.”
    “Throw dirt?”
    “Sort of. You tell the judge that you’re neglected, that she beats you, and deprives you . . . stuff like that.”
    “That’s all there is to it?”
    “Well, there’s the certain matters of court costs.”
    “It figures.”
    “You have to pay lawyer and alimony.”
    “Who’s he?”
    “Not a he . . . a fee. You give your wife and family money each month for clothes, food, and shelter.”
    “Sounds like it would be cheaper to keep her. Hey, that sound like country song.”
    “It is cheaper, if you can afford the mental anguish.”
    “How much does he get?”
    “Mental anguish is what you’re experiencing now. Anxiety, tension. You’re disturbed about the present condition of your marital status. If you can live with it, you’ll save a lot of money.”
    The chief stood up and grabbed a pen and paper and started figuring.
    “What are you doing?” Wise Wolf looked over his shoulder.
    “It seems to me that I pay you $50.00 an hour to be my sickanimalist.”
    “That’s psycho-analyst, and your time has run out, Chief.” Wise Wolf tried to slip out the door.
    “Which is roughly $200.00 a month.”
    “So I’ll see you the same time next Thursday.”
    “Food, shelter, clothing, lawyer’s fees, lemme see . . . Hey Wise Wolf, it would be cheaper in the long run to get a divorce and stop seeing you.”
    “Terrific. (Under his breath) Sometimes I’m too wise for my own good.”

  2. Back in 1996 I contributed to The Onion in Madison before they were bought by New Yawk. They paid me 25 dollars for an article and 5 dollars for a headline. They used to like my headlines and write their own stories to the headline.

    Just for the heck of it here is a headline they bought but a story the rewrote. All this stuff in my archives has some merit so I am going to use it. There is a chuckle or two in it.

    Later I will post the original articles as they appeared in the Onion.

    American Indians Ask Very Nicely For Country Back

    Congress and President Clinton were surprised this week by national Native American chief, Chief Charming Bear, who darned near talked our leaders into giving the American Indian the country back.

    “He said the magic word,” President Clinton began. “The magic word goes a long way in my book.”

    Charming Bear took his feather headdress off, held it in his hands, sang a medley of patriotic songs, the Star Spangled Banner, America the Beautiful, Yankee Doodle Dandy, and Born in the USA, Indian style, and then very nicely asked, “Would you nice gentlemen please give us our country back.”

    “Newt Gingrich was speechless, if you can imagine that. The house speaker speechless,” said one slippery republican congressmen from one of those southeastern states. “Newt had loaded a spitball into his pen and then he got this look -- I thought he was going to set the spitball on fire before he shot it at the chief, but instead, Newt just set down his pen.”

    “It just hit me,” Newt explained. “How sincere and nice this old guy was and as our president said, and its the only thing I agree with the president on, is that the word ‘please’ can work magic.”

    Charming Bear almost worked magic but came up short when an alert democrat no one’s really heard of said, “Excuse me Chief Charming Bear, but where exactly should the other two hundred million people live?”

    And when Charming Bear said, “On reservation,” that’s when everyone came to their senses and laughed him out of the house. But for one split second, Chief Charming Bear, by using the magic word of please, darn near got the country back for his people.
    Of course there is a saying Chief Charming Bear might consider, and that’s to be careful of what you ask for, because you just might get it.

  3. Africa To Be Divided Up Into Warring Factions.

    A huge summit of white people convened thousands of miles from Africa to deliberate on the fate of the rich but troubled continent. Said Harold Pink of Green Bay, who attended the conference, “I know nothing more than I see on the news. Lots of black natives with sharp sticks killing lots of black natives with sharp sticks. We hear tribe names like Zulu, Zimbabwe, and other z-type names, and apparently they don’t get along, so I suggested we divide them up into thousands of warring factions, give them different colored T-shirts, say like Zulu’s in green and gold, and then that way, the civilized world can begin to sort it out at home on their TV’s and take it from there.”
    The conference felt it was a good suggestion, but the big problem was designing thousands of T-shirts that would be distinctive enough to tell one warring tribe from the other. Some would have to have polka dots, some would have to be plaid and still they need more identifying characteristics to set each warring faction apart. Someone suggested one tribe could be skins, an idea they immediately adopted to save money. John Albino, of Ohio, a shoe manufacturer, suggested different styles of shoes, like one tribe could be in high-top sneakers, and another in say penny-loafers, or cowboy boots. Then a Chicago Bulls fan who had wandered in by mistake looking for a men’s room, suggested they dye their hair bright colors like bulls player Dennis Rodman. This suggestion was immediately adopted because Dennis Rodman’s fluorescent green hair definitely stood out among other black skinned men.
    Then they all got on the subject of sports and another good idea was adopted, to rename the tribes after professional football teams like the Broncos or the Saints.
    “I think we made history today, said Bob from Milwaukee. “Once we can tell them apart, maybe then we can figure out why they’re so angry at each other, and who knows, maybe get them some guns.”
    “What worries me,” said Beth Kranston of Texas, “is while all these tribes are warring, who’s feeding the elephants?”
    A question they all pondered in silence.

  4. Meanwhile, only miles away, the Callahans’ struggle across the dusty plains of America. The sixty wagons were stretched like a long snake across the plains. The dust was constant, like fog, as the pioneers pressed on. A Chinese-American man stood, holding a sign that read, “San Francisco.” Rooster, riding out ahead of Gramps, who was leading the procession, rode up to him and ordered the wagon trail to halt.
    “Stop the wagons,” Rooster howled.
    “Stop the wagons,” Gramps growled.
    “Stop... the... wagons...,” Cane said, with a period after each word.
    The order faded in the distance.
    “San Francisco?” Rooster read the sign.
    “That is correct.”
    “Where’s San Francisco?” Rooster asked.
    “Other side of Golden Gate Bridge.”
    “The Golden Gate Bridge hasn’t been built yet. Come to think of it, neither has San Francisco.” Rooster consulted his Rand McNally pocket map of the untamed west.
    “Is it right that a man must cross the bridge before finding truth?” The Chinese man had a weird question...
    “Well, I tell ya foreigner, I ain’t never given it much thought.” Rooster looked at Gramps and raised an eyebrow.
    Cane came riding up and stopped next to Rooster and the Chinaman.
    “Hey Rooster, what’s goin’ on here?”
    “This here Chinaman wants to know the way to San Jose.”
    “I wouldn’t know . . . I’ve been away so long.”
    “No . . . San Francisco.”
    “You didn’t leave your heart there, did you? Because, if you did, you should look up this friend of mine. He’s a cop — funny looking guy with a big nose. Here’s his card. Don't leave home without it."
    Mushu took the card from Cane.
    “This American Express. . .”
    “It is? oops sorry. I must have left his card at home.” Cane didn’t deliver his line with much conviction, knowing that this joke was old and would probably sail over the head of anyone who didn’t follow Karl Malden’s career in the 70’s. He took his credit card back from Mushu.
    “Is it right that a man must cross the bridge before finding truth?”
    “Gee, I don’t know. I’ll ask Gramps. Hey Gramps, come here!” Cane called out to Gramps.
    Gramps rolled up in the wagon. “What in tarnation is holding up this western covered wagon train of a funeral procession in this dadburned burning heat?” Gramps constant bitching was sometimes bordering on poetic.
    “This here Chinaman wants to know if truth is on the other side of the bridge,” Cane repeated.
    “What bridge?” Gramps glanced around.
    “No. That’s not the question. He wants to know if you can cross a bridge and find out the truth.”
    “No . . . is it right that a man must cross the bridge before finding the truth.” The Chinaman repeated.
    “What the hell difference does it make?” Gramps bellowed.
    Pilgrim rode up. “Wh-wh-what’s go-goin’ on here?”
    “I’ll tell ya what’s not goin’ on here. . . because we gotta stop and talk to every Tom, Dick, and Grasshopper who comes along,” Gramps griped.
    “My name is Mushu, Mushu Pork.” The Chinaman felt he should begin again.
    “Wha-what’s he wa-wa-want?” Pilgrim stuttered.
    “He wants to know wants to know what’s on the other side of the rainbow or some dadfool thing!” Gramps grunted.
    “He-he-he sh-should ask Dorothy Gale of Kansas.” Pilgrim offered.
    “Arf!! Arf!!” Butt the mutt arf arfed.
    “No one asked you fer yer Toto impression, you little four-legged furry Rich Little,” Gramps snapped at his dog.
    “Dorothy Gale of Kansas?” Mushu asked.
    “That’s right. Pretty little farm girl. Wears ruby slippers with blue anklets,” Rooster explained.
    “Blue anklets? With ruby slippers? Bad taste,” Mushu commented.
    “That’s right . . . Look her up, maybe she can answer your question . . . but as far as us, we gotta get a moseying.” Rooster tried to get back them out of the conversation and back on the trail.
    “Can you give me a lift to San Francisco?” Mushu asked again.
    “Ya know I would, if I could, but we’re only going as far as Oakland.”
    “Oh, that’s too bad.”
    “Sorry fella. Wagons ho. Move ‘em out!”
    Mushu watched them file on by.