[EDITOR NOTE: THIS ARTICLE HAS BEEN EDITED TO BE AS RACIALLY SENSITIVE AS POSSIBLE. MANY OF THE WORDS HAVE BEEN CHANGED TO BE MORE INCLUSIVE. THE VIEWS EXPRESSED ARE OF THE INDIVIDUAL, AND DO NOT REFLECT THE VIEWS OF THE SITE AS A WHOLE]
This morning I was driving along, and a coyote stopped in front of me. I slammed on my breaks, and we made eye contact. Instantly I knew that I was going to convert to whatever religion it is that Native Americans do. I have always been interested in whatever it is they believe, and it has long been central to who I am, ask anyone if you don’t believe me. All that cool stuff like dreamcatchers, and turquoise stones, and trickster spirits preventing you from going to work? I’m all in baby.
The first thing I needed to do to learn about my new religion was to find some Native Americans. Thankfully there are several Native American gaming casinos in my area, so I headed to the closest one. Brought $100 to play the tables while I’m up there too, figure they’ll appreciate that I’m supporting their culture. I don’t know if that’s a big deal in my new religion, but better safe than sorry, plus imagine if I won big?
Once I arrive, I head right to the tables. I ask my phone “who is the Native American spirit of luck?” She quickly replies with a search result for my question, and I spot Lakshmi [ed. Note: Hindu Goddess], hell yeah.
“Lakshmi, watch over me as I double my money!” I yell as I place everything on black.
“This is some bullshit,” I say trying to grab my chips back. “Lakesha should have guided me to a win. I want a do-over, and this time I’ll bet on red. Oh shit, I see, duh.” But they won’t let me have my chips back, and the dealer is telling me to move my hand or I’ll be escorted from the building.
I do a quick google on my phone for native American war spirit. “Wineandglasses [ed. note: Winalagalis, war god of the Kwakwaka’wakw native people of British Columbia] is angry at you for turning your back on him, this must all be destroyed!” I say as I climb up on the roulette table, kicking chips in the dealers face. I see two large men rushing at me, but I know they are just Skeleton Man [ed. Note: Hopi Trickster God] and Waynebezos [ed. Note: Waynaboozhoo, Ojibway Trickster Hero] trying to test me, so I quickly yank my pants off and start whipping them above my head. “I know your weaknesses tricksters, and you can’t get me if I’m protected by moving air. That’s right; I googled all the loopholes!”
There must have been a third trickster I didn’t notice because all I remember is crashing to the floor and waking up in a dank cell. A man noticed I was awake and told me he was Tribal Police and that I was being held in the drunk tank. The only thing I was drunk off was the power surging through my veins. I charged the cell door, but I guess he never opened it, and I fucked up my shoulder pretty bad. I asked “Quick, who is the Native American spirit of healing” but the Tribal Officer had no idea. He tried to come up with some excuse about there being thousands of different beliefs or some shit, but I knew he just didn’t want me to tap into his ancient power because I’m white. He said he would call some EMTs over to check me out, but I told him I would refuse The White Man’s treatment, as it was against my religion. Something he would know if he was a real Native American and not some–
[EDITORIAL NOTE: SEVERAL HUNDRED WORDS WERE REMOVED AS WE WERE UNABLE TO FIND AN INOFFENSIVE WAY TO RE-WRITE THEM]
Even with the one bad experience, I would still suggest you get in on this cool new religion before it becomes too trendy and everyone thinks you are just doing it to be popular or interesting.