Rites of Patches

Occasionally, and by occasionally I mean for my job, I think about what history gets wrong. Yes, the same guy who writes about cats with guns, peeing on sports announcers, and sweet, sweet boobs is also in charge of educating your children. Woooooo! America! Speaking of which, let’s reflect on a (sometimes) more accurate First Thanksgiving.

Settler: Wait, what is this?
Indian: It’s a gourd. We use them for decorative purposes.
Settler: Uhhh… Thanks, buddy….
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Settler: This is how we say “Nice to meet you and we promise not to strip you of your rights and sacred lands, forcing those we do not kill onto reservations and a life of crippling economic disparity.”
Indian: Nice to meet you too.
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Indian: You know those buckles on your hats look fucking retarded, right?
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Indian: Here. I give you fish.
Settler: Yeah, guy. Those, um, blankets you wanted are on the way too. (winks at wife)
Indian: Why are you winking?
Settler: Oh, no reason. (WINK, WINK, WINK)
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Pastor: We thank you, Lord, for our great fortune, finding a new land far away from the oppression of our Mother country. A place where we can finally be free to chose our own life and destiny. A place where we can live our lives without the encroachment of some outside party. And also for placing all these savages at that table over way over there.
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Pocahontas: So, you know that I’m like twelve, right?

John Smith: HELLS YEAH!