Hitler's Balls

About six months back, I read a really interesting article which asserted that Hitler actually had both testicles and that the widespread rumor that he only had one was just an urban legend.  The article went on to state that when a member of a group does something particularly horrible the other members of the group will do their best to distance themselves from him or her, which is easy to believe.  It further stated that we, as human beings, wanting to distance ourselves from Hitler as much as possible, would create various lies about Hitler so as to make him less human and therefore less like us.  I thought I’d saved or bookmarked this article but apparently I hadn’t and I’m now kicking myself in the ass for not doing so since it would be nice to be able to link to it here.

As interesting as this article was, I honestly have no idea whether or not any of the claims made within were true.  It’s certainly easy to believe that we’d make things up about that miserable cocksucker, but it’s equally easy to believe that an article on psychology that I’d read on the internet was completely full of shit.  And, as the only reason I’m now bringing any of this up is to satisfy my own childish sense of humor, I have absolutely no desire to find out.

Having said that, and assuming that Hitler actually did have both balls, two things come immediately to mind:

  1. If we’re going to make shit up about Hitler – and we should – why would we stick with something so mundane?
  2. What on earth did Rod Stewart and Richard Gere do to piss us off so much?

Seriously, what the fuck?  Richard Gere has stars in a handful of annoying movies and we claim he loves shoving gerbils up his asshole.  Rod Stewart sings a handful of ultimately forgettable songs and we claim he sucked so much cum out of so many cocks that he had to have his stomach pumped (since when was semen toxic, anyway?).  Hitler, on the other hand, murders six million Jewish people and all we can come up with is he only had one nut?  Fucking weak.

Why not make him a shit eater?  Why not have him dining nightly on fresh poop with a knife and fork?  Or walking into a whorehouse with a toilet seat around his neck?  One ball?  Any child on any playground at any school could have done better.  Jesus Christ, we may as well have just called him a Scientologist or something.


Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

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