Enter Hitler, riding a giant robot spider.

I linked this a while ago. But I was depressed. And i watched it again. And you know, I am going to watch this all the time, whenever I am depressed. I think it will never cease to cheer me up, forever, always, and aye.



^^

because we don't own a copy of Bent.

You can always tell a dead nazi household. It contains conversations like the following:

"I want to relax and watch a movie tonight."

"Sure thing... how about Schindler's List?"

"Oh good, just what I was thinking."

And so it is watched, and all of the documentaries too.

Maybe next we watch Swing Kids.

(Also, we own too many pairs of boots here. Closets fill so easily... we're always tripping over them. Boots boots boots. But are there ever really too many boots?)

Life and Times.

It's morning, so I am going to go do laundry at the coin-op and get bagels with Gestapo Jones.

I live with Gestapo Jones now. Remember please that reincarnation is a search, often. But that is not what I wanted to write about.

I wanted today to talk about bagels.

I love bagels. But I do not like lox. I think this is a measure of criminal guilt amongst nazis of the dead variety. Gestapo Jones is a salmon bagel aficionado. Me, I never had to force down the stuff. Clearly, I have demonstratively less guilt. I should make a formula of some sort about this.

Imagine, for example, the excess of guilt necessary to enjoy gefelte fish.

(Latkes don't count, however. Everybody with a soul likes latkes. Unless you don't like potatoes, and then you just probably have some Irish issues.)

Maybe I just like to link things.

Is it wrong to link a page and include, as the link, the two most amusing things thereupon?

I don't know, but I'm going to do it anyway.

"Did you hear what happened!" a man asked his friend. "Last night at 9:20 p.m. on the rue de Clichy, a Jew killed a German officer, cut open his chest, and ate his heart!"

"Impossible!" cried his friend. "And in three ways. One, a German does not have a heart; two, a Jew does not eat pig; and three, at 9:20 p.m., everyone is listening to the BBC."

...

There is, for instance, a short essay by a handsome young American, whose job came to be that of picking up gay German officers. After a night of love-making, just before they got up, he would jam an icepick into the neck of his recent conquest:

"My hands are strong [he wrote]. I never used a gun or a grenade. I did not trust them as weapons and I felt they would expose me to danger. I killed in private, quietly."

lololol.

Now usually I don't do this but uh...

For great Wangst.