Wrong way, Peachfuzz

Good God, how very irksome.

“To kill Europe’s best men (our brothers)," you contend? Sorry, but no. No way. Not hardly. In fact, not a-tall. Let me just put it to you straight—no ice, no soda, no chaser: No gawddamn blonde-eyed, blue-haired, goose-steppin' Nazi sumbitch is EVER gonna be my brother, not in any way, shape, or form. While we’re at it, I’d just better not ever overhear, in a dank, dingy, disreputable hole of a dive-bar someplace, some Gottdamn Nazi fudgenugget drunk as a boiled owl say otherwise, lest I summarily ventilate his sorry ass with two (2) mags’ worth of Hornady Critical Defense FTX in the .380 flavor.

Nor were the Nazis by any reasonable standard “Europe’s best men.”

At this momentous juncture, I’m unwilling to go into that convoluted “So that Epstein types could…” effort to create some spurious connection between, on one hand, a historical event which has been discussed, investigated, over-romanticized, and subjected to an endless parade of ever-more-fantastical speculation on the habits, deficiencies, strategic acumen, and even the mental stability of certain national leaders; economic catastrophe and expansion; and governmental subterfuge, self-contradiction, misdirection, even barefaced lying to its credulous, information-starved people. On the other hand, we have brazen promotion of extraordinary conspiracy theories that don’t actually exist, and never have; way-out allegations of coercing underage girls into sex slavery, prostitution, and grotesque abuse. These sexual proclivities and practices, once taboo except for devoted iconoclasts, spiritual rebels, and liberation absolutists, are now so commonplace they’re practically ubiquitous among nationally-known career politicians, famous actresses, musicians, fashion models, and other celebrities.

Anybody who knows/knew any WW2 vets knows they had learned in the crucible of wartime not to assume anything about anything. The "Epstein types” premise has at least one glaringly obvious fatal flaw, a hole in it big enough to drive a condo-cab Freightshaker rig through, or maybe one of those heart-stoppingly beautiful K-whopper T680s, with yards to spare on every side, before you’d need to fret about possibly scraping the trailer or the Plexiglass wind deflector mounted on the roof of the tractor’s cab.

Said hole being that, should you poll all of the surviving WW2 vets within reach as to their personal raison for accepting, without protest, his wartime assignment to the ETO to contribute his little all to the Allies in their struggle against the Axis aggressors, I will guar-on-damn-TEE that you won’t find even one (1) of them—whether he served in the enlisted, NCO, or commissioned officer ranks—putting forth the too-Byzantine-by-half Epstein/Jew/Israel semi-pornographic psycho-verbal diarrhea as his primary motivation for enlisting, persevering through the wearing ordeal of boot camp, and shooting at the enemy’s soldiers, sailors, and aviators with deadly intent.

See, my late Uncle Murray accumulated an impressive collection of medals, citations of valor, and awards for conspicuous bravery, all these bestowed on him because he had, basically, stacked Nazi corpses in windrows.

Knowing my Uncle’s WW2 history along with his general mindset for pretty much the rest of his laugh afterward, I’d dearly love to see some off-kilter, low-wattage gobshite like the hog-turd responsible for coming up with the self-beclowning meme above—who, as reflected in his internal mirror, perceives himself as an extraordinary milestone in human evolutionary advancement—try to peddle some of that “best men, our brothers” flapdoodle to my uncle. About two-three sentences into his rancid spiel, Uncle Murray (an old-school tough guy whose apparently inborn inability to back down, run away, throw in the sponge, or knuckle under to any flesh and blood opponent irrespective of size, numbers, or aptitude were the stuff of legend with native Mt Hollians of a certain vintage) would shake his head in dumbfounded stupefaction, scarcely able to fully accept the preposterous notion that any sentient being capable of tying his own shoelaces and feeding himself would ever dare to make such offensive, patently false arguments to him—to the soft-spoken, introverted, but nevertheless quick to anger, natively pugnacious Murray Hendix, of all people.

Even in his later years, after a momentary pause for him to wrap his head around this unheard-of situation Murray would've removed his hat, coat, dress shirt, and bifocals and set them gently aside, stripping himself down to his Guinea-tee, loose old-man slacks, sockjs, and well-worn Florsheim wingtips.

Murray would then limber up his arms, neck, shoulders, and waist via throwing some practice punches at nothing in particular, also shuffle-dancing lightly on his toes. Finally, after completing his pre-combat routine, he would hitch up his britches, roll his neck right, left, forward and back, and proceed to kick aforementioned's dumb ass up between his shoulder blades. He’d kick his stupid ass so hard he’d be wearing it as a hat.

Mittay was famous for it; having little patience for you nitwit blatherskites and none at all for history-revisionist ones especially, he’d whup you like a red-headed stepchild. He’d slap the taste plumb out of your mouth. He’d smack you so damn hard by the time you stopped rolling, your clothes would be out of style.He’d beat your ass so bad it’d leave you flopping around on the floor like a landed fish. He’d beat your ass so bad the pain would make you quack like a duck.

Thus it was with any Hellbound numbskull bold enough, dumb enough, to deny that historical events plenty of US soldiers had seen the proof had ever even happened at all, and rightly so. That’s another YUUUGE problem with the inane theories treasured by such crackpots: their first assumption is always that everyboidy else is either brainwashed, duped, or just too damned chickenshit to admit what’s really going on. None of which anyone half as smart as our double-digit IQ meme generator discussed above thinks he is wants to be hurling at skullbusters like my Uncle Murray, lest he be laid up in the Intensive Care ward for weeks.