(no subject)
Today marks the 132nd anniversary of the death of Custer and his fuckin' buddies at Little Big Horn. While I normally think celebrating deaths is cold and mean, I feel completely comfortable raising my glass to the death of Custer.
There are many stories of the "Last Stand" and many things that will never be figured out. They can't tell you how many people died. I hear 200. 214. 260. And 266 with 6 bodies unaccounted for. They'll tell you Custer was the last person alive. Or that he was shot an hour before the "end." That Curly, Custer's fucking Crow scout, was the sole survivor. That Custer wasn't scalped out of respect for his "fighting abilities." That Custer was, in fact, a hero with a heart... (I always was told that he was castrated for being such a fucking coward, but maybe that's just the Native way of saying he died with great shame and disgrace and no respect for life, human or otherwise.) And you know, to be honest, those facts aren't important to me. What is important is that he's fucking dead. Shot through the brain and heart. No better places to shoot a sick fuck, his filthy mind and cruel heart.
A couple years ago, I went to Little Big Horn. It was really hard for me. The hills where my ancestors fought for their way of life, for their honour. And family names on the walls. But what was harder than that was the obvious one sided respect given. It was disgusting...
Anyway, today I raise my glass in honour of the dead. Those who died at Little Big Horn. Those who died at Wounded Knee. Sand Creek. During all the treaty signing, all the rounding up to reservations. In Christian and Catholic boarding schools (still being kidnapped from their families as late as the 1980's) at the hands of priests and nuns. All my ancestors who died at the hands of white men or Natives who went white. Here's to you, uncles and aunties, brothers and sisters, grandmothers and grandfathers, mothers and fathers.
And here's to you Custer, you cocksucker. I'm glad you're fucking dead.
There are many stories of the "Last Stand" and many things that will never be figured out. They can't tell you how many people died. I hear 200. 214. 260. And 266 with 6 bodies unaccounted for. They'll tell you Custer was the last person alive. Or that he was shot an hour before the "end." That Curly, Custer's fucking Crow scout, was the sole survivor. That Custer wasn't scalped out of respect for his "fighting abilities." That Custer was, in fact, a hero with a heart... (I always was told that he was castrated for being such a fucking coward, but maybe that's just the Native way of saying he died with great shame and disgrace and no respect for life, human or otherwise.) And you know, to be honest, those facts aren't important to me. What is important is that he's fucking dead. Shot through the brain and heart. No better places to shoot a sick fuck, his filthy mind and cruel heart.
A couple years ago, I went to Little Big Horn. It was really hard for me. The hills where my ancestors fought for their way of life, for their honour. And family names on the walls. But what was harder than that was the obvious one sided respect given. It was disgusting...
Anyway, today I raise my glass in honour of the dead. Those who died at Little Big Horn. Those who died at Wounded Knee. Sand Creek. During all the treaty signing, all the rounding up to reservations. In Christian and Catholic boarding schools (still being kidnapped from their families as late as the 1980's) at the hands of priests and nuns. All my ancestors who died at the hands of white men or Natives who went white. Here's to you, uncles and aunties, brothers and sisters, grandmothers and grandfathers, mothers and fathers.
And here's to you Custer, you cocksucker. I'm glad you're fucking dead.