Hitler Is Hot

I knew I wanted to be a Nazi ever since the day I first put on my mother's SS uniform.

I still remember the swastika on my arm, the iron cross on my hat, how it all felt right, how I felt no guilt but just a relief to be out of those civilian clothes, even if it was just for a brief moment. And what a moment it was: timeless, an eternity.

I would be lifted into the air, spun around inside a rain of fairy dust, and I would see myself transformed: Eva Braun, beautiful and graceful, at the side of the Aryan Emperor of the World, angelic, regal, omnipotent!

And then the fear gripped me.

You see, I realized there and then, in a wave of cold terror, that I was not not like the other boys. That I was different inside. That from now on with every chance I had I would run to my mother's closet and try out all her SS uniforms.

I managed to sneak back there many times, and each time I was lost in the dizzying beauty of National Socialism. In those precious moments the world would spin off into infinity and vanish into a puff of Zyklon B, leaving only true happiness.