Indian Lore, or, Fuckin' with your stereotypes, part un

I am a native american so don't go getting yourself in a bunch over the following. I can do this stuff. I have permission. And you know how I'm always talking about white folks, and calling the catholics a pile of twats? I'm part white and I was raised catholic. See how this works? And using the same logic, you will never find me referring to the spoos, the zippyheads, the kites or the eelshoes in a pejorative fashion, mainly because I made those up.

THE HISTORY OF THE FLATBUTT TRIBE-SAVAGE INVESTORS OF THE OLD WEST

Back , back, my children, back in the dim mists of time, the Flatbutt tribe lived their charming, primitive lives undisturbed by the passing parade, amid the peaceful ponderosas high in the hills.

Yes, it was a time of innocence. The mighty Flatbutts stalked game (mainly Twister) in the primeval forests. They raised bonsai Republicans, which they later sold as chum to the fishing tribes living along the coast, or sometimes traded for Altoids. They made highly sophisticated pottery and are known from the archeological record as the inventors of the booby mug. They were particularly known for their greeting cards, which they imbued with powerful magic charms and a strong, greasy aroma.

The children of the Flatbutts were reared with a keen appreciation of something. Nobody knows what exactly. They spent much of their youth high in the elms, waiting for salmon to pass beneath, attempting to hit them with water balloons. Life for the young Flattbutt was idyllic, and most of all, unhygenic. When a Flatbutt lad or lassie came of age they were initiated into adulthood by members of the secret tribal Amish Death Metal Society...felled from their lofty aeries by setting light to kilos of Matanooska Thunderfuck beneath their dung-whitened roosts, and then flung headlong into the mighty Lager river, which ran, strong, foaming and yeasty, through the center of their ancient tribal lands. For days afterwards those living downstream tasted, and knew.

Using pool cues, the newly-made adults were then rescued from the malty torrent and greeted by the tribe. A huge bonfire using wildcrafted sofas was set ablaze. The next three days were passed in feasting, catered by Port O' Subs, attempting to light off damp fireworks with gasoline, peeing for distance, fart tag and Twister. During this time, and for some afterward the buffalo were wary.

The adult male Flatbutt was of average height, not counting the additional inches added by the ceremonial pirate hat and cuban-heeled boots. Adult males wore a penis sheath, a ribbed length of dryer vent decorated with feathers and crackerjack prizes, held fast to the body with duct tape, and many inches longer than was entirely necessary. This article of clothing, it was believed, aided the hunter in attracting the police. Sometimes in bad weather the males would burrow deep into the forest duff in search of Playboy magazines cached earlier in the year.

Women were revered as givers of life, and they alone carried Israeli manufactured automatic weapons with taped clips. Women customarily went topless (inspiring the tradional indian war cry WOO WOO) wore raffia platform shoes with cherry toe clusters and midlength tulip skirts adorned with poodles, eiffel towers, and Frenchmen riding bicycles. No ensemble was considered complete without the traditional Hermes bag where the scalps and genetalia of their enemies were carried. During the winter the females would often drive in to Portland and take in some shows, maybe do a little shopping, and later hunt elk with stone-tipped spears through the center of town, dodging busses and gorging on the thrill of potential bloodshed.

Then came the pioneers... Europeans banished from their own lands by a populace sick to death of their constant whining about being too cold and too wet and too muddy and oo, can't I have another blanket and oh dear the thatch is leaking again and could somebody bring me something hot to drink? and maybe a magazine? and could you turn the channel before you leave?

They crossed the plains leaving trails of used tissues, and the rumor of their passage was told in the sudden increase of postnasal drip among the tribal peoples with whom they traded for Vicks and aspirin along the way.

The first doomed meeting between the Flatbutt tribe and the ofay happened on Friday. Everyone was settling in for a nice picnic lunch and maybe later a swim in the river if it wasn't too chilly (making certain they waited the traditional one sacred hour after eating to appease Douglas, the giant monster lager lizard who was rumored to live on the bottom of the channel eating the adidas of the unwary.) Without warning, from over the rolling hills in the distance appeared the Pintos and Gremlins, the Chevrolet Caprices and Pontiac Sunbirds of the settlers, drawn by tired oxen with large crayons.

Without so much as a howdy do they headed toward the river, heedless of the noshing natives, and then into the very river itself, where they drank their fill, promptly passed out and floated away downstream.

The Flatbutts rallied. Gathering up their blue tarps and styrofoam coolers they waded in, chunking rocks and bottles, sandwiches and eight-track players, and finally, desparately, pelting them with the used diapers of their own children. But a sense of destiny hung over the whole scene, a portent of doom, a scent of failure, and several other things.

And so history was played out on the sage-strewn stage of the painted praries.

Intermarriage alloyed the pride and strength of the Flatbutts. Competition for cigarettes drove the price up. Korean and Japanese investors swept in and bought up the primeval forestlands for a pint of pee and a box of Kotex and built mini malls where once proud Flatbutts had hunted in proud and flatbutted nudity. Although that was supposed to be a little Flatbutt secret.

But a ray of hope gleams through the crack in the bathroom stall of history, blocked though it may be by the wadded up toilet paper of Caucasian revisionism. Today, using laptop computers whch they cleverly assemble from sticks, rocks, pinecones, and some of those carboard tubes that paper towels come on*, the Flatbutts are slowly regaining their former status as the savage investors they were of yore.

Given time, a clearly written pattern-preferably Bernina- and the right yarn, they will rise again.

WHITE MAN, PRAY TO JESUS THEY HAVE YOUR CORRECT SIZE.




*a perfect example of Flatbutt injun-uity.