The Meatriarchy led me to a fantastic post at Hog on Ice about how to claim your Native American roots, Ward Churchill style.

I can top Ward. My grandfather was a Cherokee. Now, I grant you, he wasn't my BLOOD grandfather. And he wasn't a full Cherokee. But he had dark hair and he tanned like nobody's business. And like all true Native Americans, he was a professional dry cleaner.

Also, on both sides of my family, there were horny old guys who left their wives for Indian women. I can understand that. My ancestors were mostly Celts, and after a while, the sight of all that pasty, freckled, dough-like flesh can drive you mad. My idiot sister likes to run around claiming that this makes us Indians, but the problem is, the family is pretty sure the Indian ladies came along after these gentlemen sired our forebears by fat, dumpy Scots-Irish broads.

Lame, I know, but compared to Ward, I might as well be Geronimo.

Okay, so the first order of business is to ream out you WHITEYS for keeping me down. You knocked down our teepees, you ate all our buffalo, and in return, you gave us swampland and poisoned whiskey. You better believe I am pissed.

I want white guilt and handouts, NOW. I want my damn land back. I’ll let you keep most of it. I want Manhattan and Vegas. I know, you claim you bought Manhattan for twenty-four dollars. Okay, smart ass, where’s your receipt? Right. That’s what I thought.

I’m turning Vegas and Manhattan into the United States of Steve. I’m going to be President for Life. My Vice President will be Wayne Newton. All you palefaces can get the hell out, except for hot white chicks and people who provide essential services. Like craps croupiers, bartenders, and pizza bakers.

The whole article is hilarious, and worth reading in its entirety.