The First Thanksgiving - A Retelling
by Michele Christopher

The Indians remember......

Yeah sure. The Elders said "don't go." But, you know what? We went. Fuck, you try shucking corn all day long. After a few bong pulls, you just need something to get you thru a few more hours. Don't go telling the others, but me and a few friends grabbed a sack of dope, the chiefs hat and case of Brewing Badger's home brew and hit the road.

After drinking all day long and getting our ass lit up like the Fourth of July, we were lost.

"No, I don't know where we are at. No, I don't know what they are doing. Would you just shut the fuck up and keep up. I mean fuck, man, they have a boat. I think the ocean is this way. And listen Squanto, pay real fucking close attention. Just cause I'm named Wise Eagle doesn't mean shit. You know they named me that before I opened my eyes for the first time. Half the fucking tribe was on Psilocybin that day. You remember that day, right Flying Fish With Purply Like Spikes Coming Out Of Head, right? So don't ask me any more fucking questions. We eat, get a buzz on, then bail. Maybe try to get laid, too. Just remember that one bitch who turned Scratched Knife into Scratchy Balls. I think she is the one with the huge tits. But remember, her Mayflower doesn't sail alone, if you know what I mean."alcatraz.jpg

So after giving my friends the pep talk about how white women spread their legs like the Panama Canal once they get an eye-shot of our dark meat, we moved forward. This was a bad day. Puffy went thru our bag like it was harvest day. I was popping seeds into my mouth as we rolled into something. I don't know what it was. I really couldn't see and even if I could see, nothing was probably that great.

I pulled back and acted stupid to them as I dismounted. Oh, great. Corn. Yum. Oh, great. turkey. After about an hour or so I got bored. The last of the beer was gone and I don't think these guys even drank sooooooooooo, party over.

I pulled out my penis and gave the traditional Indian cry for retreat.

While at first the white people were stunned at the audacity to see me pulling on my totem pole of love, they soon were enamored with it. A white woman fell to her knees and gently took the tip of my tender tomahawk into her mouth. Swirling her tongue around it until my cloud of the white gods was running out of her mouth and started dribbling down her chin.

Another cry of retreat was heard as I looked over and saw My God, Is That His Penis pushing his wide warrior up into the woman's back door. But why? Then I understood. My God, Is that His Penis had found the one woman who's love forest was occupied by another army. He had wisely decided to blow her jets in the traditional "squaw with child" way.

Wise move My God, Is That His Penis, wise move.

We gave the white men some island for a few hours with their squaws.

I planted my seed many times that day.

Still would've watched football, but hey, it was the first thanksgiving. Next year they want us to bring something called a "strap on".


Go figure. -T

The Pilgrim's Tale

So we set sail to go find the land of Virgins or something like that. Except we didn't find the virgins. Well, we found some place called Newfoundland, but everyone there talked funny and we decided to keep looking for the Virgin Land. Or Virginia. Something like that. All I know is that we were promised women.

After we ditched Canada, we ended up in this Plimoth place. Later they changed the name to Plymouth. I bet a a Canadian did that. They have this thing aboot the "ou" thing.

So after we landed in Plimoth some Indians wanted to be buddies with us. Now, these are not the Indians you know of today, those guys who answer the phone when you are trying to figure out why your iPod threw up again or why your Target credit card has been rejected. I think you refer to these people as something else now. Chief Nokahoma. Something like that. Anyhow. Everyone wants to make friends with the new kids, because the new kids bring cool stuff with them. The first thing these pow wow guys said to us was "What kind of booty you got up in that ship, yo?" And I said, "Hey, I got a wife and teenage daughter. You can have them in exchange for that bitchin' hat you're wearing." He told me it was called a head dress but dude, that sounded gay. I stuck to hat.

I wore that feathered hat with great pride. My wife and daughter weren't really that thrilled about being Chief Nokahoma's bitches, but hey, they got a warm tent to sleep in and some cool Pocohantas dress up clothes.

We spent our first couple of months building a bunch of houses and stuff on the Indians' property. The didn't exactly give us this property and we didn't exactly ask, but it's not like they had any deeds or anything. Every time one of those chief dudes asked what I was doing, I just said, hey, "it's a free country, right?" Even though it wouldn't really be a free country for more than a hundred years later, but what do Indians know?

I'll tell you what they know. They know how to scalp a white man. That has nothing to do with my story. Just saying.

So we built our houses and churches and stuff and tried to get the Indians to come to our church and worship our god, but they had all these weird beliefs about running bears and sitting ducks and shit like that. I think it was voodoo. Not sure. All I know is that when I saw my wife at some Friday night pow-wow, she said Chief Nokahoma was hung like Galloping Horse. And I happened to see Galloping Horse in the community shower a few nights before, so that explained why my wife was walking like she just got off a horse. A Galloping Horse. Get it? I asked her how she knew what Galloping Horse was hung like and she just smiled. Whore.

Finally, the harvest came. We gathered all our Indian friends and said, hey, we want you to come over for dinner on Thursday, but it's a potluck dinner. That means you have to bring something. Mrs. Smith used this opportunity to sell Tupperware to the Indians, explaining how it keeps the hot stuff hot and the cool stuff cool and comes in a variety of colors and if Princess Sacajawea over there sold enough to her friends she could get a free colander! Colanders make kick ass head dresses, too!

After the Indians exchanged some nuts and berries and a few Susan B. Anthony dollar coins for some Tupperware products, I made them each write down what they were going to bring. It's not like I was trying to hold them to it or I thought they were gonna try to bail on us, it's just that you don't want to end up sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner and realizing that you have four sweet potato pies, but no string bean casserole.

I almost felt bad that most of the food the Indians were bringing had to be hunted down or picked or just needed hard labor to get. Me, I was bringing a peach cobbler from Mrs. Johnson's Bakery. I don't have time to bake or cook or shit. And I no longer had a wife or daughter to do that stuff for me. So yea, I cheated a bit. I bought from a bakery. In my defense, I was the planner of this feast and I had a lot of work to do to get everything in order. So Squanto, who complained that I was lazy white ass, can go stick a corn on the cob up his ass and whistle Dixie for all I care. He didn't need to threaten to scalp me over a damn peach cobbler. So he spent three days in the woods hunting deer, dragging the carcasses to his campground, skinning the things, cutting them up and curing them. And so what if that other dude spent three days killing all kinds of turkeys and geese for our feast and their wives got malaria while out in the woods collecting nuts and berries for pies.


And it's not my fault that kid got eaten by a shark while trying to catch some lobster for the party. Who told him to go out there anyhow? Not me. Yea, ok, I knew there might be sharks out there, but I wasn't going to start alarming people and then no one would go clamming or fishing and the Thanksgiving dinner would suck. I tried to tell the kids's parents that it was a propeller that killed the tyke, but propellers weren't invented yet, so I blew that one. I think the father put some kind of voodoo Indian hex on me. Or maybe that was just gas I had that night.

Anyhow, a lot of the Indians were all up in my face about doing most of the work, but they were invited guests and that's the way we did it in Britain. Yea, yea, I know we weren't in Britain anymore, but damn it, I was going to teach these Indians to do things the right way.

Jesus, this story is way longer than I intended. But I just want to make sure we are getting things straight here. Because I know you all have history books that tend to "retell" stories, kinda like the way they did that remake of the Poseidon adventure, which they claimed wasn't a remake at all but a retelling. Dude, a retelling is nothing but telling your own version of a story because you don't like the way the real version went. Ernest Borgnine owns you. Never forget that.

Anyhow. Thanksgiving came and we all gathered at my house. Except that there was way too many of us and we ended up having to eat outside. Ever been to New England in November? It's fucking cold. And the Indians show up all wrapped up in fur and animal skin and we just had some Members Only jackets. And they didn't even bring us any fur or anything. You would think they would have at least warned us about the weather. Whatever.

Everyone dumped their food on the table and we did a buffet style thing. Pocahontas wanted to do a whole sit down dinner with place cards and all that crap, but I knew what she was up to. She would have made us sit Indian-White Man-Indian-White Man like we were at some high school mixer. I don't want to be forced to talk to people during dinner. Dinner is for eating. Not getting-to-know-you conversation. So we did the buffet and the white people sat at one table and the Indians sat at another and all the kids sat at the kiddie table and the Indian kids taught the white kids how to curse in pow wow language and the white kids taught the paint face kids all the words to 50 Cents' In Da Club.

After dinner, we had dessert and espresso and smoke um peace pipe, and drank about three cases of King Kobra. We put on a Scorpions 8 track and had an air guitar contest and then we played "throw the arrow at the drunk Indian" but that game ended when Running Bull got a shot to the heart. And I was to blame.

That almost ended the night on a sour note, as alluding to Bon Jovi lyrics usually does, but we smoked more of the peace pipe. And more. We sat around in a circle and just kept passing that thing around. Then fucking John Smith kept bogarting the damn thing. We all yelled at him. Puff puff pass, dude! You're fucking up the rotation! Then after about 15 rounds of puffing and passing I was starting to see Jesus. Or maybe that was Squanto. Did Squanto wear a crown of thorns? I stared at my hand for a while and everyone talked about some life affirming moments and then John Bunyan took out his guitar and we all sang a round of "Wish You Were Here" before we called it a night.

We all went home and dropped some Tums or Alka Seltzer and most of the men fucked their women and I just masturbated while thinking about Pocahontas stuffing a turkey. Again. Then I said my nightly prayers, which is weird when you have jizz all over your stomach and hands. But it was Thanksgiving and I needed to let God know that I was thankful for the bounty he had provided us with that day.

Yea, whatever they put in that peace pipe was good shit. Thanks for that, Big Man.

Happy Thanksgiving. -M

Michele and Turtle quit smoking the peace pipe years ago. Maybe they should start again.



I just died a little on the inside.


That was great except for the thing that you knew I'd take exception to. Bon Jovi.


I can't remember if it was Greg Proops or Eddie Izzard who likes to point out, "Remember, the Pilgrims were not pioneers who left for the new world seeking religious freedom. These were people who were too fucking weird for 17th Century Britain."


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