The puppy bounded over the bright green grass, his tail swishing to and fro, breath coming in quick, excited gasps. “Come here, boy, come on!” Hitler cried, clapping his hands. A second later, in a blur of brown fur, the little dog leaped into his arms. Hitler laughed, cuddling the puppy closer, as the loving dog, grateful to be in the arms of its master, slathered his nose with his tongue. “Awww, that’s a good boy,” cried der Fuhrer, as the adoring dog licked his face, “I love you! Yes I do! I love you!”
There was one male dancer at Chippendale’s who everyone loved. His name was Hitler, and although his physique was on the smallish side, he made up for his lack of stature with a highly seductive dance
“And now, straight from Berlin,” cried the stage announcer, “. .
The velvet curtains slid open and a short man in a G-string, with hair slicked sharply over his forehead and a tiny square of a mustache emerged from the shadows. As the crowd of female secretaries who had assembled to wish Connie LaRenta a happy 40th birthday whooped and hollered, Hitler sidled forth, undulating out of the darkness with a snake-like insouciance. The women gaped as his pale, jack-booted form danced up to them, entirely mesmerized by the sheer nudity of his maleness, and soon Hitler felt an army of hands stuffing crisp one-dollar bills into his G-string.
“Happy birthday, Connie!”
“Whoo-hoo! Thanks, Denise!”
A rich sugary aroma filled the entire kitchen, a smell so delicious it made Hitler’s mouth water. He closed his eyes and breathed in, savoring it for a long, wonderful moment, and then the timer buzzed.
Finally, the corn muffins were ready! Hitler slid his hands into a pair of lime green oven mitts and approached the oven. He could practically taste them now. He flung open the door and as the blast of hot muffin-filled air bathed his mustachioed face, he slid the tray out of the heat.
Hitler knew better than to bite into the muffins right away. They had to cool down a bit first, otherwise he might burn his mouth. Patiently, he waited, watching the little pats of butter he spread over their rounded tops melting slowly into each muffin, and soon they were ready to eat. “Mmmm,” gushed Hitler, as he bit into the piping-hot treats. “These muffins are delicious!”
“Man, I suck at foosball,” said Hitler, as he heard the distressing sound of another little plastic ball plunk into the goal he was trying to defend. “Don’t worry about it,” cried Keith, taking a swig of his Bud,
“You’ll get better.”
“Yeah,” said Tammy, “Just have fun.”
“Alright, I’m ready. Let’s go.”
“Okay, Hitler,” announced Keith. “Last ball. Whover gets this in wins.”
He put the tiny little yellow ball into the hole as the four friends gripped the metal handles. And a second later the game was on. The ball flew back and forth as the players batted it around. Finally, Keith got control of it. He quickly lined up his shot. Hitler maneuvered his men, but Keith was too fast. With one expert flick of his wrist, he smacked the ball into the goal. “Yes!” cried Keith. Hitler sighed heavily, shaking his head in dismay. “Man, I suck at foosball.”
No one played the saxophone quite like der Fuhrer. His notes were silky smooth, as sweet and fluid as molasses, and as soon as they floated out of his instrument a feeling of tranquility came over the entire nightclub. Even the waiters stopped serving to listen to his soaring melody.
“That cat can really play,”
“His name is Hitler.”
Bathed in the soft glow of the spotlight, Hitler played on, his fingers flying over the keys, his smallish mouth clenched tightly on his bright brass organ. He closed his eyes, blowing note after sweet note, and it was like the whole room took off and flew into the sky along with him for the next ten minutes as he improvised what can only be called a jazz odyssey.
But that was Hitler, you just never knew what he was going to do next.