Injuns is Injuns from the Fifth Avenue Gazette

December 11, 2005

Editor’s note – It had to happen. With apologies to the late Dr. Seuss, Theodor Geisel, and his dear widow Audrey, today the Fifth Avenue Gazette is proud to publish its first children’s page. Enjoy kiddies.

Injuns is Injuns
Well the dot-headed Injuns had foreheads with dots,
While the feather-head Injuns had no distinct spots.
Those dots weren’t so big, they were really quite small.
You would think such a thing wouldn’t matter at all.

But because they had dots all the dot-headed sorts
Thought they were superior to those near the forts.
In their sandals and saris they’d saunter about
Boasting, “We are far better than Injuns without.”
And often it happened that when they were dining,
Or playing the sitar or simply opining
About this or that, or whose land was Kashmir,
That a feather-head kind would approach and draw near.
“Get out of here, Cochise!” The dot-heads would tell 'em.
Then they'd joke about blankets and beads they could sell 'em.

So the feather-heads, naturally, felt quite rejected,
It wasn’t exactly the life they’d elected.
For whereas the dot-heads had come from a nation,
The feather-heads just had a foul reservation.

Then one day the feather-heads got them a notion
And called an old squaw to come whip up a potion.
She took a big pot and then out of her pockets
She added some yak spleen and otter eye sockets.
She stirred and she chanted until she turned blue,
And when it was over she’d whipped up a stew.
And all the braves ate it, though it tasted quite horrid,
Yet not even one dot appeared on a forehead.
“Don’t worry,” she said, in a voice old and wheezy,
“This concoction will help you make money real easy.”

Then suddenly something quite magical happened.
The redskins’ brain cells, they all started to snappin’.
And all of them instantly put down the booze,
And thought of things other than white women’s cooze.
If the dot-heads, they figured, had slurpee machinos,
Then why shouldn’t they build themselves big casinos.

And into the game rooms the white people poured
And left behind cash for the redskins to hoard.
People gambled and drank and got mumbling and stumbling
And into the slot machines money kept tumbling.
By the time it was over, things were all in reverse.
Of the two types of Injuns, the dot-heads were worse.

They should have known better, you see, here’s the moral –
Minorities never should get in a quarrel.

If you come to the States, no matter how many,
Most white folks will just assume you’re Pakistani.
And you’ll drive a taxi, or run a motel,
Or you’ll join the service and not ask nor tell.
And maybe your children will have better chances,
They sure won’t remember traditional dances,
Or your native culture in any small way.
They’ll listen to Moby, or maybe Green Day.

And often you’ll wish you were back home in Delhi,
Though things were quite frightful there (and downright smelly).

‘Cause that’s how it is in the U. S. of A. –
White is white, green is green, and the rest is just gray.
Don’t ever forget this if you’re not a honkey,
To Washington, you’re just another porch-monkey.
If you have an earthquake they’ll show up in force,
But they’ll leave just as soon as the news runs its course.
Dots and feathers, you see, they don’t matter one bit.
Nobody in power could give a good shit.

So whether you’re brown, or perhaps red or yellow,
You really should sneak into someplace more mellow.
Up until recently France would have been it,
But all of those black folks there fucked things up in it.
So try Scandinavia, it’s still o.k.
Though the food really sucks and it snows every day.
Or if you can’t make it in Denmark or Sweden,
Then try staying put. Try to build your own Eden.

The pasture might not be too green on your side,
And your dictator might leave you no place to hide.
But keep trying, no matter how bad things may rub ya.
It could always be worse – you could be stuck with Dubyah.

I am prepared for whatever hate mail I may receive from immigrant readers. I hope everyone gets the fact that satire is satire. I like Indians. Heck, I even like Indians. Seriously – I saw Kama Sutra on IFC and the one where Ben Kingsley played the skinny bald dude, even though he was better in The House of Sand and Fog. I’ve seen Dances With Wolves and Last of the Mohicans bunches of times. I understand that some Indians don’t celebrate Christmas. I’m not sure what kind of Indians those are – the ones who don’t eat cows or the ones who don’t worship elephants. But either way, that’s totally o.k. with me. Jews don’t celebrate Christmas either, I hear. I think it’s because they’re mad at Jesus for not saving them too. Arabs don’t celebrate Christmas, but that’s because they’re just generally angry at everything.