A Load of Hooey (6 page)

EVA BRAUN: Well, the night has finally come. It is a real pleasure to host you both again.

Handshakes and smiles all around until the screech of a bomb tears the moment in two. An awkward pause. Hitler breaks the tension:

HITLER: So, are we gonna eat, or what?

EVA BRAUN: Yes, Adolfy, we shall eat.

FRITZ: I'm so hungry!!

They cross to the table and gaze at their first course, a salad. Hitler breaks the silence, muttering
.

HITLER: Salad.

Hitler starts eating; the others join in. Eva prompts her guests to say something
.

ANNETTE: We were afraid we were late. So many streets are closed—well, they're impassable, due to—

She stops herself
.

HITLER: Due to what?

FRITZ: Traffic. It's backed up. Buncha weekend warriors out there.

Hitler nods and smiles at Fritz
.

HITLER: I wonder what I would have as a last meal. Did you ever wonder this, dear Fritz? What would your final meal be if you could choose it?

FRITZ [
Laughing nervously
]: Oh, I don't know. I…I would just eat…I wouldn't care.

HITLER: Surely you would care. If you knew you had, say, three to seven days before you would be executed, you had time to plan, and many resources at your disposal, what would you eat?

FRITZ: Well, I'm not much of a foodie myself. Annette?

ANNETTE: I don't eat dinner. Except socially.

HITLER: Last lunch, then.

ANNETTE: I don't know…salad. What we're eating right now.

Hitler stares at his salad, then pushes it away
.

HITLER: No more for me.

Eva scowls at Fritz and Annette—wrong answers all around
.

FRITZ: Well…well…

HITLER: Well, what?

FRITZ: Nothing. Just “well, well.” I was reading the paper… [
off Eva's scowl
] Sports section! Have you ever heard about the Chicago Cubs baseball team in America? They're really having a year, I'm told. At baseballing. [
No responses
.] Nobody?

Hitler is staring off into space
.

EVA BRAUN: Perhaps our guests can tell us a bit about the small matters of daily life at university. Small, delightful matters.

FRITZ: Oh, things are good. Nothing much going on. There's the usual infighting. Not “infighting.” Uh, what's the word. Tiffs. People have tiffs.

HITLER: What kind of tiffs?

FRITZ: Nothing earth-shattering.

A BOMB whistles and crashes LOUDLY, shaking the furniture
.

HITLER: What kind of tiffs?

FRITZ: “Tiffles.” Not even as big as tiffs. “Where did I put my hat?” “Are you wearing my hat?” “Haha, we mixed up our hats.” “We're such silly-billies!” That kind of thing. A lot of that.

HITLER: Must be nice.

Eva smiles at Fritz…good stuff. Fritz is energized
—

FRITZ: Oh, it is, it is. It's wonderful! Low stakes! You should try it sometime! I mean, join us at the university, someday. Do you ever consider what you might do after…uh…later in your, uh, career?

Eva shakes her head, staring at her plate
.

HITLER: You mean after the thousand-year Reich is up?

Fritz laughs
.

EVA BRAUN: I think that's enough salad. Let's get the main course, shall we? [
She taps her glass to summon a waiter. No one comes
.] Where is that staff?

HITLER: They're in the bunker. They can't hear you.

Hitler grabs Eva's fork to stop the tapping. A bomb explodes outside
.

HITLER: I'm sorry. This is my fault. I do apologize. I think I've made a mistake.

ANNETTE: I hope you don't mean that you made a mistake in having us to dinner. We do so love to dine with you and darling Eva—

HITLER: I was talking about the war. World War II.

ANNETTE: Yes…I'm familiar with it.

FRITZ: Oh, Herr Hitler, I wouldn't call it a mistake. I think you're being a little hard on yourself—

HITLER: What would you call it then? A boner? Did I pull a “real boner”?

Eva tries to stop him—Hitler waves her off, turning to Fritz, raging
—

HITLER [cont'd]: Tell me, old friend! Say it to my face! Tell me

I pulled a boner! Somebody, say it!

FRITZ [
meekly
]: You pulled a boner.

HITLER: There! Finally. Someone said it. What a fucking relief! Jesus H. Christ. That took long enough.

FRITZ: I…still like your artwork.

HITLER: Well, you're an idiot.

Lights fade as the sound of bombs rises
.

Famous Quotations—Unabridged

“
Don't walk behind me; I may not lead. Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend
. Or we could skip the walk and just be pen pals. Let's do that instead. It's cold out.”

—Albert Camus

MY SPEECH TO THE GRADUATES OF THIS FINE INSTITUTION

H
ello, young people. Today is a momentous day. Today you are stripping from yourselves the protective husk of “student” and stepping into the harsh, naked, unforgiving fluorescent light of adulthood. I don't envy you, unless you have a massive penis. If you have a massive penis, this speech is not for you. You can just daydream for the next few minutes. Think about the women you will soon be having sex with in a series of porn films. Do me a favor: can you not look into the camera when you appear in those porn films? In fact, tell the director not to allow the camera to ever show your face. I don't want to see it. Seeing men's faces in porn immediately kills my “zest,” if you will. Thanks, sorry about the sidetrack, but it's important to seize the moment when you have the attention of a potential celebrity.

To the rest of you, who won't be appearing in porn films—well, maybe some of the women will go into porn, and to you I say: good job, thank you, and I'm sorry—all three at once.

To those who remain, here is my only advice: finish college, don't take advice from strangers, and enjoy all the porn you “accidentally” see.

G'night Cleveland!

Famous Quotations—Unabridged

“
If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants
. When I have failed miserably, that, too, was on the shoulders of giants—giant fuckups, that is.”

—Sir Isaac Newton

WHAT I'M LOOKING FOR IN ANOTHER MAN

A
ll right, ladies, back off! You're not the only ones looking for a good man in your life. I may be a man myself, but that doesn't mean I am all I need. I want a companion—more than that, I need a helpmate, a bro, someone of the “rougher sex” to applaud me and be by my side as I navigate the vagaries of this life. I'm prepared to describe this hunk to save myself from having to suffer through a bunch of interview/back-rub sessions, so back off and butt out. Speaking of butts—

First of all, I'm not looking for a “hot bod” or a cute butt. Frankly, I wouldn't know a cute butt if it bit me in the ass. My dream dude must have a sense of style so he can help me pick out clothes that fit together instead of me just grabbing the first thing on the top of the pile. I'm forty-eight years old and my clothes are still kept in a “pile,” so I need this guy, pronto. He will probably be gay, because none of my straight friends are any good in this department. So gay is fine—but again, no cute butt necessary. A cute butt would just be wasted on me.

He should have wonderful, piercing, clear eyes. By that, I mean his eyes must be clear for him to see out of, and his clarity of vision should pierce through smog and low-lying fog. My eyes aren't doing so well: things are getting watery and I've always
been color-blind. My guy mustn't be color-blind! I need him to tell me what's in front of me, especially when we're out racing in his car.

He should have a car, and oh! What a car! A stylish mini-convertible like the kind James Bond would drive. We could take it for spins in wine country—even with the low-lying fog (see above), and I could drive superfast around those hairpin turns because he would be using his piercing eyes to see oncoming danger, and we'd never, no, never, get lost (see below).

Mr. Hotstuff must have a good sense of direction so he can orient me to where my GPS is trying to tell me to go, because sometimes GPS stands for “Getting Places Circuitously,” if you know what I mean. This magic dude could even reroute me entirely if he felt like it. By “reroute” I'm not trying to be metaphorical—again, I'm not gay, and I'm not planning to “turn” gay.

You know what? Now I'm thinking my “perfect fella” should probably be homosexual. The position shouldn't even be open to anyone else. I need diversity. I need to open things up. Heck, I'd like him to be one of those guys who knows what women are thinking. He can help me interpret cryptic signals from my wife, like when she tells me she's “had it” with me. What does that mean? Is it a come-on? If so, it's not very sexy.

He doesn't need to be a hunk, but he should have upper-body strength like a mule, because guess what? We're going to be moving some furniture! More specifically—can my hottie's forearms be sinewy and scrawny like a pterodactyl's? So he can reach through gratings for dropped keys, and under cracked windows to turn levers to lift the window so I can crawl through and unlock
the front door when I lock myself out? Better yet, just make him a certified locksmith!

Let him be well-read, so he can tell me what happens in
The Great Gatsby
—that thing always tires me out before the end. Also, may he have a rhyming dictionary in his head for when we're in the car making up lyrics and laughing. He doesn't have to be good at Scrabble, though…it's okay if he puts up a fight, but I want to be winning, mostly.

I don't know if the guy I'm dreaming of is out there. Then again, maybe there are quite a few gentlemen who would work for me—I'm just starting this process. If I meet more than one outstanding man, then it'll come down to a personality match—or maybe I'll just be forced to pick the guy with the cuter butt.

Famous Quotations—Unabridged