Political Humor

The First Thanksgiving: A story, as told to me by a burned-out Deadhead

Before you sit down to your faux turkey and organically grown veggie meal, I’d like to tell you the truth about the First Thanksgiving.

A long time ago – before even the Grateful Dead and Woodstock – there was this commune of hippie Jesus freaks, who got conned into occupying Native American lands by this evil corporation, the London Company. It later changed its name to BP.

And you’re like, dude, there weren’t any hippies back then. But I have proof. Just look at some old photographs or movies from then, and you’ll see the long hair and beards, and the Earth Mothers. Google it from Starbucks, it totally all over the Internet.

Anyway, they were in touch with nature, and everyone was sharing everything, and life was really good. Even before that Karl guy –I think he went all cannibal later and opened-up a chain of nasty burger places -said some stuff about to ‘each to according to his need’ or something, these Pilgrims were doing it. I mean, completely random, huh?

And everything would have been cool, but one of Sarah Palin’s relatives was the Republican Governor of Virginia. This guy was a butt-wipe, shill for Big Merchants. He broke them up into family groups and gave each a chunk of land. He forced them to farm it, and went all postal about making a profit. I mean, that Fascist wouldn’t even recognize civil unions.

Pretty soon there was way too much food for their needs. The Governor was sending stuff back to England. England! Can you believe it? He should have been sending it Africa or North Korea or the inner city -somewhere people were starving. What a dick.

He went so far as to trade with the indigenous people. Besides AIDS, he gave them cheap beads from China in exchange for meat. The strings would break on those necklaces the first time someone wore them. Then there would be beads all over the sweat lodge floor. People would slip on them and kids would put them in their mouths. Lead paint and choking and… Shit. Someone pass me a joint, I need to get centered.

OK, I feel better now. Anyway, he forced the free-loving Pilgrims to eat turkey and deer. So this Thanksgiving, before you give thanks for your meal, think about what it REALLY means. That’s all I’m saying.

How it all started

In what has to be the oddest gift exchange I’ve ever been involved with, Chris C decided that I would get zip while demanding that I find a pet hippie for Fiar. For those of you who don’t know, the master of this  satire domain has a penchant for punching hippies, thus the “gift”.

Since I just learned that Fiar already has a pet hippie, I suspect my gift is supposed to be a companion for it. I guess hippies do better in captivity if they have a playmate.

As I’ve mentioned before, I live in a climate where hippies can’t survive during the winter. They migrated south, leaving hippie sign as they go. It’s easy enough to track them but being a bright guy, I decided to use my head instead.

The thought process went something like this:

What could I do to entice a hippie back this way?

My first idea was to claim that man made Global Warming had converted the area to a tropical paradise. The problem with this was that hippies are pack animals; they tend to stuff too many of them into vehicles that simply wouldn’t make it through the snow.

They’d all just get stuck somewhere and freeze to death since they’d only be wearing tie-dyed T-shirts, sarongs and flip-flops. At least it wouldn’t become another Donner Party, or Uruguayan soccer team, being vegetarians and all.

Not that having them turned into solid blocks of ice is bad thing mind you, but Fiar would hurt his fist punching on a frozen hippie. Or worst, it would thaw in the mail, leaving a nasty, pulpy mess. Again, not an acceptable gift.

So getting an intact hippie up from warmer climes wasn’t going to happen.

Next I tried the Internet. I’m pretty good at searching the web. Wow! Some of the stuff I came across was rather scary. Try as I may, in the end my quest proved futile. Apparently, you simply can’t buy a hippie on-line and have ‘em delivered. The SPCA claims it’s cruelty or something. Strike two.

My mind wanders

I was bound and determined not to strikeout. What a funny saying. Bound and… sounds like the writings of the Marquis de Sade. I wonder if JumpOut celebrates his birthday? It’s June 2nd and not much else happening that time of year… Stop it!

Think. Think. Think. I can’t buy one and I wasn’t going to get Mohammad to come to the mountain, so maybe I could put the mountain on top of him instead. Sorry, that’s for a different post.

Desperation sets in (or if at first you don’t succeed, lower your standards)

OK, I could drive to San Francisco and… no way. I’m not going anywhere near the people that continue to keep Nancy Pelosi in office. Maybe head down to the Black Rock Desert of northern Nevada and see if there are any leftovers from last summer’s Burning Man? Problem is that all the recent rain and snow must have turned the playa into a quagmire deeper than that national debt and the schemes to spend our way out of recession.

Then it hit me. Fiar is not too far from New York City! The French visit the Big Apple from time to time! He could get a Frenchman instead! Yeah I know, gender bias. While I’ve  never met his lovely bride, the way he says “yes dear” to her when he and I have talked on the phone… A Frenchman it is.

But wait you say. A French dude is not a hippie. Au contraire mon frere. The similarities are so striking as to make them kissing cousins. Yuck!

Let me show you

• Hippies and the French distrust work, so they do as little as possible. They’re damned lazy.

• The women of neither group shave their legs or pits.

• The French drink wine, hippies drink wine.

• After all the wine drinking the French piss in the streets, hippies ditto.

• Both smoke a lot cigarettes despite the massive amount of harmful toxins released into the atmosphere, which will kill off all life on the planet.

• They all wear perfume; French men call theirs cologne, hippies call theirs petiole.

• The French and hippies hate America and love socialism.

• Berets are de rigueur for each group. Hippies are too stupid to make nice ones, so they knit theirs from lint they find between their toes when they wear socks with sandals.

• Both think art is a dog vomiting on the sidewalk.

Let’s speed this up. If you’re still not convinced that they are the same creature then look at some of the other things they have in common.

The French and hippies both:

• Drive ugly little, piece of s#1t cars or underpowered vans.

• Believe in man made global warming.

• Won’t fight for almost any reason or if they do, they surrender at the first opportunity.

• Think everyone else is wrong. Period.

• Adamantly believe the universe pivots on their opinions.

• Are totally into philosophy and are determined to convert you to theirs.

• Smell bad from not bathing, puking up wine, smoking cigarettes and wearing too much perfume.

Nuke a hippie! Punch-out France!

So Chris, if you still think Fiar needs another pet to slug, you don’t live all that far from New York  City either. Go get the gift your damn self. I’m through with Christmas.

Since Les didn’t get anything for Christmas he’s slunk back to his satire and humor blog, Sideshow Mirrors but he’ll be back next Monday, if someone ask nicely.

I don’t know about your part of the country, but here in Southeastern Pennsylvania we’re clinging to our guns and bibles, and heading into leaf control mode. As I collect together the dead leaves, it occurs to me that I have multiple options for their disposal.

Therefore, this week’s flame war parody topic is about the disposal of leaves. As usual, have an opinion, and feel absurdly strong about it.

Leaves: Burn them and throw the hippies on the fire, or compost them and bury the hippies under the pile?

Discuss.