One of John Dillinger’s most famous quips was that Bonnie and Clyde were giving bank robbing a bad name. In this century, that honor goes to Elizabeth Warren, who has succeeded in smearing ancestry archeology with a bad name, and maybe bank robbing too — I don’t know her that well. At all events, initial press releases indicated that she is 1/32 Native American, which made me think that one of her ancestors might have been a computer chip. Then the fraction changed to 1/512, followed by 1/1024, depending on the number of generations between her and the world’s most famous residents in the Garden of Eden. Which means she shares a family tree with Donald Trump. Oh, the humanity!

Anyway, I thought the good senator’s quest for her roots beyond her top soil of blond hair is an inspiration to us all, so I said, what the heck? Might as well do some DNA digging myself. I put on some grubby clothes, fitted a Fedora hat on my noggin, strapped a whip to my belt, wrapped a gun holster around my waist, stuck a .45 caliber revolver in it, and stared at myself in the mirror, practicing the lines, “It’s not the years. It’s the mileage.” Then I headed to the local phrenology, hair care, and blood sucker office of Dr. Werner von Roswell, which was ensconced in a decrepit brick building next to the local airport.

The waiting room was filled with a flock of eager pedigree pursuers and reminded me of the bar scene in Star Wars. Finally, the doctor entered the room, followed by the humpback figure of a Marty Feldman look-alike. The doctor, a kindly gentleman who strongly resembled the Swedish chef of Muppet fame, bent over to his assistant and said, “You know, I am a brilliant physician. I can fix that hump on your back.” Ee-Gore looked up at him with a curious expression and said, “What hump?” I concluded the poor chap had a terrible problem recognizing reality and therefore must be a Democrat.

Since I didn’t want to make this political, I scurried away from that thought, and when it was my turn, the doctor called me into his office and said, “Now vee take a beet of blut.” He pulled out a medical instrument the size of a knitting needle, which triggered an awful wave of nausea and sent me staggering to the fainting couch (which I later learned had been borrowed from a big university). When I regained consciousness, the first thing I saw was the scraggly nest of his tumbleweeds-eyebrows hovering over an expression that hinted good news for my quest to check some minority status box on government documents. He didn’t disappoint: He announced proudly that I had significant Native American heritage in my blood. Specifically, Hekawi. I bolted up from the fainting couch and asked if he was sure, and he said yes. Then I trudged out of his office, pondering the significance of being related to that famous band of entrepreneurs from the ‘60s sitcom “F Troop.”

But enough about me; what about Sen. Warren? As I gazed at her picture, blond hair, blue eyes, inflamed look on her face, I figured that her ancestors probably migrated here from Scandinavia, the Isle of Wight, the State of Minnesota, or wherever Vikings come from, and concluded that she is rather attractive. In fact, if I were 20 years younger, unmarried, and she was single, I might even ask her out for coffee at that great new hangout near the UPMC Mario Lemieux Sports (Hockey) Complex in Pittsburgh, called StarPucks. I’d order coffee, black, which comes in three sizes, regular (which is small), large (which is regular), and who-needs-a-joint compound-bucket (wheeled out to you by a barista with a dolly). She would probably order a double-latte, mocha enhanced, caramel concentrated, crème-de-menthe, carbonated carbon-free, windmill-powered-coffee-bean-grinder-ground beans coffee, smothered by whipped cream with an olive on top. Then we would get down to business and talk politics.

Or not, since I doubt she would warm to the idea of a weekly Fauxcahontas Award given in her honor. It will work like this. After careful review of hundreds of submissions over the course of the previous week, the Fauxcahontas Committee will consult itself and take a vote on which intellectual atrocity deserves the award. Or, after conscientiously examining bunches of essays that best expose their authors’ descent into madness, the committee will vote to select the most preposterous one. Or, on the basis of slapdash viewing over an undetermined period of time, whatever snags the committee’s attention will vault to first place, followed by a few dishonorable mentions based on coin tosses.

Is this method of selection biased? Good grief, we hope so! The point is to draw attention to the most outrageous outrages, like raking muck in a wetland. Speaking of which, the committee goes on record to say, “We Don’t Need No Stinkin’ Wetlands!” These artificial, “natural” cesspools are only good for using resident swamp critters for target practice, extracting from our vast assortment of high-powered rifles the right one to do the job. Actually, come to think of it, just leave the wetlands alone.

But I digress. The first winner of the Fauxcahontas Award of the Week is none other than Sen. Warren herself! You see, she recently proposed creating a Native American Casino somewhere close to where she lives. I mean, how can you top that?

So, kudos to Sen. Warren for her brave proposal. That’s a real feather in her cap.