Why I Hate Nazis

For many people, hating Nazis is natural, like laughing when a dude gets hit in the groin by a flying object. But for me, it’s personal. Let me tell you why.

After we returned from Egypt, Grandma and Grandpa visited the beaches of Normandy. They were kind of enough to bring our children souveniers, and explain to them all about the D-Day invasions.

Last week, Wifey and I were in our room when she decided to get frisky. She put on a little Marvin Gaye, slipped into something more comfortable, and began to whisper sweet nothings into my ear.

Our dialogue went like this:

Wifey: “Ah, my darling, you set my soul on fire. And not just a little spark; no, it is a flame. A great, roaring flame!”

Me: “Let me get these pants off!”

Wifey: “I yearn for you, my love. Come to me!”

Me: “CHARGE!"

So we were just settling in under the covers when the door flies open.

Me: “What the hell?”

Son: “BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Die, Nazis, die!”

Daughter: “Blap-blap-blap-blap! Eat lead, Nazi scum!”

Son: “Hey, Nazi, why aren’t you wearing pants?”

So I quickly threw them out, because having the Allies using your bed as a beachhead does not make for a romantic interlude. As they went, my daughter wanted to know what sexual healing was, but I ignored her. Then, I locked the door and returned to the task at hand.

Me: “Tell me about this spark. Better yet, don’t speak at all.”

Wifey: “You know, I-“

CLICK! Son: “Any Nazis out there?”

This is the sound of the “cricket” that grandma and grandpa so thoughtfully bought them. It’s what Allied soldiers used on D-Day behind enemy lines to signal each other. Unfortunately, my children had learned their history too well.

CLICK-CLICK!

Daughter: “I’m not a Nazi.”

CLICK-CLICK-CLICK!

Daughter: “You did it wrong! What are you, a Nazi?”

Son: “I’m not a Nazi!”

Daughter: “I didn’t say you were. But you’re only supposed to click twice.”

Son, crying, pounds on door. “Dad! She said I was a Nazi, but I clicked!”

Daughter: “No I didn’t! I said you only click twice, not three times!”

Me: “I’m slipping twenty bucks under the door! Take it and go!”

Son: “But she said I’m a Nazi!”

Daughter: “Thanks for the money, dad. Come on, let’s go kill some Frenchmen now!”

Son: “I’M NOT A NAZI!”

Wifey: “I’m sorry, I’m just not in the mood any more.”

Me: “But I really wanted to storm your beaches.”

Wifey: “Sorry. You’re going to have to go solo on this one.”

Me: “Stupid Nazis.”