Disneyland is called home by 2 interesting individuals. I would call them unique, but that would be incorrect. Wooden Injuns (otherwise known, to you leftist college edumacated SMART people, as "Wooden Native Americans") decorate Main Street and Frontierland. The one on Main Street is in front of the theater (the one showing old silent Mickey and Donald cartoons) where men go to be *as one* with other men in darkened semi-privacy (don't question me about this, it's a traumatic subject), and the one in Frontierland is in front of the candy shop and shooting gallery/target practice for future Tom Sawyer Island snipers attraction.

The one to your left is named Sitting Chief Injun Man, and he is the Frontierland injun. To your right is Wild Running Heap Big Pipe Smokum Injun Man, and he is the injun of Main Street. They are both distant cousins to Joey Belladonna, formerly of Anthrax, who wrote a song about Walt's inhumane treatment of his wooden relatives.

The Main Street injun is far more popular than his Frontierland counterpart. You often see large groups of Asian tourists gathered around him making that peace sign (why? Do they not remember WW2?) while their tourguide snaps photos of them. He is also beloved during parades, as children will try to climb him for a better view of the costumed bisexuals stomping in horsepoo on their merry way to a half hour tea break behind "It's A Small World". The most attention the Frontierland injun ever gets is when a kid, hopped up on cotton candy and Disney cookies, tries to aim a Shooting Gallery rifle at his wooden head. His predicament is very sad indeed, and the Main Street wooden injun has been seen shedding miraculous tears on several occasions.

"Don't cry for me, I'm already dead..."

Does Big Chief Whateverthehellicalledhim truly cry for the Indians? Does he cry for the reservation his brother has been placed on in Frontierland? Is he crying because of the tacky and offensive holiday decorations strewn about Main Street, making the entire area look less like an olden times town square than a gaudy upper-class suburban stripmall festooned with shitty dolls, other wretched overpriced merchandise, and poisonous hotdogs (Yes. Poisonous hotdogs. Never combine a hotdog with a chocolate chip cookie and a Disney coke. I made that mistake once and was squirting gravy by the time I hit the exit gates)? If I were the inebriated casino owning soulless hunk of carved tree, I would shed tears over the clothes people wear to Disneyland. Dirty torn jeans, size 40 asses squeezed into size 22 tights, mumus and bellbottoms, Tie dye and entire families in matching "Herman's Church, Portland OR" shirts. All manner of fashion crimes are committed without apology within Disneyland's hallowed gates. What would Walt say about this terrible terrible situation?

"O' sweetest children of mine, hear my cry...
AWAY with your flabby bodies!
AWAY with your foreign faces!
AWAY with your unpleasant style of dress, a pox to the eye it is...
AWAY with you, in hordes untold, your numbers clog my aryan oasis...
My domain, this haven, my Garden of Eden...
AWAY, I cry, AWAY!

Please, if you would, feel free to empty your wallets of the currency which weighs you down...
This bronze mouse will guide you out. The exit is thataway. Shoo. Git. Scram. Vamoos.

AWAY, says I, AWAY, a million times, AWAY!"

Born 12/4/99.
Last updated 12/4/99