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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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February
/ March 2007 Contest Results |
Native
American Blonde
By Lisa Spence,
Mississippi
I’m told by my family that I’m one-eighth Native American Indian. I have
to live up to my roots. This time it’s a different set of roots, but as
always, I do it well.
The Bonnie Raitt song, “Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About”, often
comes into play in my life. My Native American rituals keep me up to
speed on this. I’ve had to warn people who just come to my house that
before one enters, I could be found smudging, smoking, or dancing naked.
The other day, I decided to give up smoking till I got a burning pot.
This decision was made after I caught my carpet on fire when laying down
my manifestation page near candles on my prayer table. Since then, I’ve
kicked the habit
One day I was sitting in the house, minding my own business,
with nothing on but my breechcloth (which, in this case, was only my
Victoria’s Secret, red-heart-covered thong). I was smudging myself
with ashes when my future daughter-in-law walked in.
She said, “What the hell are you doing?”
I answered “What the hell does it look like I’m doing?”
A picture paints a thousand words. I tell her that, in the future, since
she didn’t knock, I will put up a sign that says I could be smudging
which means “think” before you enter because you might be shocked,
flashed, or anything else I can devise for you if you dare to enter the
Blonde Zone.
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. I ignore it. I give no account
for what a redhead thinks. She’s marrying my son, so you have to wonder
about her thinking processes.
This evening I decided to do an outside ritual. My future
daughter-in-law's parents are here: visiting and living in a travel
trailer. I figure that just once, before they left, I had to prove what
they already thought, “That the blonde lives on the edge.”
So, I clean out my sacred circle, light my candles and incense, bless
the earth, and then do a dance to my native music. It’s a blonde version
of getting jiggy with it. I step inside the sacred circle and get my
maracas. A blond with maracas is a beautiful thing!
First order of business is to pray to all four directions. I have just
one problem, Blonde’s are not directional! We only know two directions,
and I'm not saying what they are. Mama always said, “Girl, your tongue is going to cause you more trouble
in life.” She may have been right.
This remark, of course, causes me to think of my Native American WHITE
parents. My dad has his special name of Chief Running Bull because, just
like me, his tongue has gotten him in more trouble than any other body
part in his life.
My Mama, who is part Crow, one of the meanest tribe of Indians, could
take up pages. That woman, when ticked off, could scalp the skin off a
turkey faster you can say, “gobble gobble”. Trust me, there have been
more than a few turkeys scalped, my daddy first of all. When mama goes
on the warpath, the path clears quickly.
I bend down and pray. I bent too low and my hat caught on fire. Now I
name myself Fiery Blonde. I’m sure by now with the running cat, the
maracas, and the burning blonde that I may have gathered attention.
I’m sure people driving by wonder what that flaming white thing is
surrounded by candles. I hope that if the in-laws looked out their
window, they realized that they were witnessing a sacred event and not a
crazy blonde.
I actually consider disrobing down to my breech cloth, but I figure that
might be more than the in-laws can take due to the fact that my home-grown maracas are the size of large water balloons.
I can see now that I’m going to have to move to the country where I can
be free to run naked, hug trees, and smudge whenever the notion suits
me. Or better yet move to a place where only the squirrels will see me
and won’t care if I run around in my version of a breechcloth. In fact,
they might even like it.
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