Fucking Bird Little Shit was not really an Indian name. Indians knew that of course, but the others didn’t. For some reason, it just hit them as an Indian name, if it was a name at all. Smart ones assumed it was an epithet of some kind. But it was just a very weird nickname that had stuck, like dog shit on the bottom of a shoe. But at least dog shit came off fairly easily. The nick name stuck more like soft gum.
Sometimes, when he was a little drunk, the nick name struck him as funny. Sometimes he made believe that he really was a Native American, sometimes a Crow, other times an Apache, or an Arapaho. His features were dark enough so that he could pass as an Indian, or a Mexican, or an Arab. But he was Irish, black Irish he guessed. What a nickname for a Mick!
Since he spent a good deal of time a little drunk, the nick name had stuck, then it had spread, and now, a lot of fucking people really thought it was his name.
At first, it had not been easy to get dates when people thought your name was Fucking Bird Little Shit. But then he had stumbled on a whole herd of liberal, sensitive, politically correct co-ed types. Those you could guilt into dates, and a lot more. But you had to put up with a lot of lecturing on social issues and causes de jour.
Some of their buzz words had stuck and they were useful for future politically correct seductions. That’s how he found himself a candidate for public office on the Green Party ticket.
What the hell would he do if he won?
Running for office had proven a total blast. He was getting all the sex he could handle from adoring coeds. And people who normally wouldn’t bother to piss on him were sticking to him like glue. It didn’t bother him at all that he was just a figure head; he could never have run or managed any part of a political campaign on his own. As it was, all he had to do was attend a lot of free lunches and cocktail parties, and remember his lines.
Man, they would shit if they found out his real name! Actually, defecation was probably the least thing he would have to worry about if they ever started digging into his background, and they were sure to do that if he showed any chance of winning the election. For now, he was enjoying the blessing of the tradition of press blackouts of third party candidates. Thank God for the two-party system. He thrilled in his ability to complain bitterly about the lack of coverage, and the continuing unfairness of the white-man’s press. It got him all the attention he wanted, and permitted him to avoid all the attention he didn’t want.
He wondered how long he could stretch this out.
 Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Ocala, Florida, 2004; all rights reserved