After American Idol last night, there was a knock on my door. I wasn’t expecting company, so it was a little unsettling. I peeked through the peephole and couldn’t believe my eyes. I stood there, unable to move. The knock came again, more impatiently this time, so I opened the door, my heart about to beat through my chest.
On my doorstep was Das Fuhrer himself, Adolph Hitler. Well, his apparition, anyway. He’s been dead for 65 years.
Unsure of the etiquette for meeting the most maniacal leader in history, I invited him in, and for an Austrian/German, his English was impeccable. After I prepared hot tea, he and I sat on the couch and exchanged pleasantries, but he quickly got down to brass tacks.
“I need someone to write my story,” he said. “And Fox News wouldn’t return my calls. You’ve been doing a great job on your blog recently, so I trust you to be honest and fair.”
I blushed. Hitler’s a fan.
“I’m mad as hell over these recent comparisons between Barack Obama and myself,” he began. “How dare they compare me, the most ultra-right-wing dictator in the history of the universe, with a mixed-breed moderate who compromises with his opposition. It’s outrageous!”
I swear, a tear welled up in his left eye, however briefly.
“I give the world rockets, jets, and the interstate highway system, and I’m repaid with this slander. When the Jews insult me, it’s understandable. We had our differences. But my own constituents? How can they turn on me like this?”
I offered my condolences.
“And what the f**k happened to Quentin Tarantino? Resevoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction, Death Proof, all brilliant. What the f**k was he thinking with Inglourious Basterds?”
I must admit I had no answer.
“Anyway, you’ve been a gracious host, but my day pass is about to expire. I must get back to hell. Lucifer’s a real dick about punctuality. And people thought I was a dictator? The stories I could tell.”
With that, he excused himself, leaving me in stunned silence.
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