The First Thanksgiving – As Told By Squanto!


I still remember the first time I laid eyes my on the Mayflower, pulling into Plymouth Rock.  And thinking to myself, oh god-damn, not white people again.

My story actually starts back in 1580, when I was born near what is now known as Plymouth, Massachusetts.  I had a happy childhood, running through the woods near my village, hunting with my father, and smoking endless peace-pipes.  Life was good, and I had not a care in the world.  Then one day in 1614, this handicapped white Englishman named Thomas Hunt approached me, as he was having trouble lifting his sofa into the back of his van (due to his arm being in a cast), and asked for my help.  I figured why not, what’s the worst that can happen?  Anyways, after I climbed into his van, this asshole hits me over the back of the head and knocks me out!  I started to wonder if his arm was actually even broken!  Anyways, a few days later I woke up, and found out that I was kidnapped and sold into slavery in Spain.  Just my luck.

I spent the next five years down this creepy well in this Spanish dude’s basement, who kept lowering me lotion in a basket.  I still remember exactly what he would say, “put the lotion on thy skin, or else ye get thy hose again”.  I’ll never understand why that freak was so obsessed with moisturizing, but by the time I finally escaped, fuck where my hands soft.  I managed to skip town, and made my way to London, where I met with a nice man who took me in for awhile and taught me English.  I convinced him to let me head back to my home country, and eventually managed to find a ride on John Smith’s ship, and in 1619, I actually found my way back.  It was a fucking miracle!  I was just glad that nightmare was over, and I was done with crazy white people.


I was out scouting a deer one day in 1620, when I began to hear the villagers in the distance grow excited. On the horizon, I noticed what appeared to be a large ship, sporting a bunch more white people in dumb looking hats with buckles.  Ah hell no, not again I thought to myself.  Making sure to keep my distance, I yelled to the white folks that no matter how many times they asked, I wasn’t helping them lift a sofa onto their ship, but after we got to talking, I realized these folks were from England, and coming here to settle.  I tried to convince them that they’d be better off moving down the coast about a hundred miles south, but the stupid bastards wouldn’t listen.  Hell, I’m just a native, who’s spent most of my life here, and whom understands the harsh living conditions and environment, but sure, don’t listen to me.  

That first winter hit, and like I predicted, the Pilgrim folks started dropping like flies, and about half of them didn’t make it.  Feeling a little more relaxed around these people, and finally convinced that they weren’t here just to kidnap me, I decided to reach out to them, and teach them the basics of survival.  I taught the white folks how to bury fish with the seeds to help better fertilize the crops.  I taught them new hunting techniques, to catch and kill the local fish and wildlife for food.  I tried to convince them to bathe regularly, but that’s a lesson they refused to take, and man did they smell.

Anyways that summer went off without a hitch, and come fall, they were blessed with a huge offering of food and crops, thanks to my tutelage.  I gave them my bill for my services, and the white folks only laughed, and told me that they were paying me with friendship.  Fuck that, I said.  We finally settled on sharing a giant feast together, since they didn’t have any money anyways, and I was curious to see what their women would make.  All I can say, is man oh man did those white folks love mayonnaise.


After getting to know the Pilgrims, I guess they aren’t really all that bad.  I mean they do smell, and don’t bathe properly. They dress hideously.  And also they keep preaching to me about how they came here for religious freedom, yet they wont quit trying to pitch to me that I’m a heathen and going to hell unless I accept their religion as my own, but I guess we all have our faults.  Maybe this will work out, maybe this wont be so bad.

(Squanto eventually died in 1622 from a disease contracted from the white people).

Happy Thanksgiving!


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