Letter to Indians

Today I found a feather in my car, prompting this letter...

Dear Indians,

I’m so sorry. Ever since my people (fat, balding Norwegians with bad moustaches) set foot on your land you’ve had a rough go. For the love of Mike, why in the hell are you still called Indians? America is nowhere near India. Only stupid white men would go 400 years without admitting such an obvious error. Is there a name that you guys prefer…that’s less offensive than “Indians”? How about “Savages”? I’m sure that went over well when you found out what the white man was calling you.

This morning I saw a feather in my car and started thinking about Indian scouts. Now there’s a profession where Mr. Darwin’s theories make sense. If you’re good you can slip away from danger quietly, go home and have relations with your Squaw to produce the next generation of talented scouts. If you suck, you get shot in the face by a musket. The strong survive.

I’m sure in the scout industry there was a “chosen one”…a scout that from the time he was a wee one was going on the talk show circuit showing off his mad scouting skills. He went on to graduate first in his tiptoeing class and was the first to earn a perfect score on the standardized test that measured one’s ability to make weird animal noises with one’s armpits.

But, even the chosen one couldn’t escape the white man’s wrath and was sent to a top secret CIA prison, where his scouting talents were rendered useless. By the time he was released, an Indian Casino and Spa had replaced the forest. What was he supposed to do with his gift? What a wasted life. No wonder he turned to fire water. He was the most respected tip-toer in all the land and suddenly his livelihood, the thing that brought his life meaning, was ripped from him.
So, he’s forced to settle for a job in an Indian casino…where sneaking up on people isn’t much of a challenge. The crowd is mostly blue-hairs with bad hearing. The place is so loud with the clanking of slot machines that creeping up and slitting a geriatric throat or two wouldn’t bring the same sense of accomplishment. The best he can hope for is that one of them has a cardiac arrest when he sneaks up behind them and quickly hands them a 2 for 1 buffet coupon.

While I’ve got your attention, are you happy with your current entertainment in your Indian Casino’s overnight lounge act? Do you have the kind of talent that is so bad that people get up and walk out? I’m that kind of talent.

I’m lucky I was born when I was. If I had tried to outsmart an Indian scout in the old West my fat ass would have stepped on multiple twigs and I would have ended up with a flaming arrow in my eye. But, now, my plodding unfunny schtick can help the Indian people by sending people out of the lounge and back into the casinos to lose their life savings. Usually with my comedy, everybody loses, but this is a chance at redemption for both of us. I’ll swing by later this week; we can smoke a peace pipe and talk more about sticking it to Whitey.

Thanks,
Matt from 2HW

Editor’s Note: Wow. Rarely does my writing have any meaning, but upon further review I realized that I am that Indian Scout…the chosen one. My prison is a tiny little cube that I sit in from 9-5 everyday. My considerable gifts are useless in the world of Accounting. I’m letting the white man stick it to me. So, I can settle: choosing to turn to firewater aka Jack Daniels and rot away and die in prison. Or I can get it together and stick it to the man by writing ridiculous letters from this prison that no one reads.

I sent this letter to Craig and he fired back with this too good to be true link… Akicita. Say hello to my new buddy comedy partner.

I had no idea that Atkinson was an Indian name. In addition to being my namesake, this guy appears to be my soul mate. He’s everything that Craig wasn’t. He’s a real Native American, he plays the cello, wrote a 530 page book on Indian rights, and is working on a rock music project. He sounds hilarious. Wait. What? You say he’s serious? Oh my…lanta.

His son, aka “his most important struggle”, is in for a hell of a life. It’s bad enough trying to grow up in the shadow of such a well-known father, but to try to make it through life with the name Cheyenne River Atkinson is going to be rough. And here I thought my cousin Honey Lou Atkinson had it bad.

Picture Cheyenne River on the first day of school, playing the “What did you do this summer?” game. Cheyenne’s response, “Not much. Probably the highlight was helping my mom bail the Warrior out of jail when his one man protest at the Home Depot went horribly wrong”.