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Hitler and Mr. Dusseldwarf *final

 In light of the author's shoddy research, you should know that if you want the facts on Hitler, this story is not as accurate as films like Downfall or The Last 10 Days. Apparently, the ugly creep did come up short as an aspiring artist, which is covered in the movie Max. If you prefer your nightmare fuel in written form, you can study the micropenis menace in bios like Adolf Hitler: The Definitive Biography, by John Toland. Read it before bedtime and let your subconscious process mankind’s failure to learn from this guy’s atrocities. In defense of the author, though: Good luck laughing at those Hitler Facts.

The sympathy card business thrives on human misfortune. You know you're in trouble when someone goes out of their way to assure you that "This rainbow of wishes is coming to you." I mean no disrespect to the sweet and caring Sue Reilly; it's just that we are mostly promised rainbows and such when the dookie hits the revolving thing on the ceiling.

Death in the family, loss of job, broken jaw—all of these misfortunes are cause for sympathy cards. Getting sucked into a black hole of inane violence garnered me a gift certificate for ice cream and a month of free NetFlix, both of which were slipped inside a sympathy card. There are perks to having your jaw broken, and they are not to be wasted. Last night I used a lousy Fight Club DVD as a coaster for a pint of ice cream as a way to bring the whole cosmic mess together. (Yes, youngsters, Netflix used to deliver DVDs in the mail–and I am the same age as a pterodactyl.)

I’m on the mend though. In less than a month, the wires will get clipped. My tongue will be uncaged. My top and bottom teeth will unclench. I plan on racing to the nearest Subway, splurging on Italian BMTs, and since I'll have no more use for the sympathy cards, I'm going to offer them to the employees at Subway.

"What's this for?"

"I'm just sorry you have to work here."

Circle of life.

But before that exchange between a Subway worker and I takes place, I have some living to do, living that I'm not allowed to hibernate through. With that in mind, I'm open to suggestions people offer in an effort to improve the situation. The worst suggestion was Angry Mob Justice against my attacker, because we haven't been able to round up enough torches and pitchforks for the project.

The most intriguing suggestion is that I learn the art of ventriloquism while my jaw is wired shut. What better opportunity to learn a trade that is arguably less creepy than clowning? There is no better discipline for the jaw than having it wired shut. A good ventriloquist's jaw should appear idle while his puppet has the floor. This illusion is sacred to the poor bastards. With my top and bottom teeth confined within a millimeter of each other, a stable jaw comes natural to me.

When a bizarre opportunity like this presents itself, it deserves consideration...But only a fool would shove his hand up a dummy's butt and babble stupidly before doing a little research.

I turned to Wikipedia for fast and sometimes valid information on the subject. Like ska music and Dungeons & Dragons, ventriloquism was founded by a young malcontent who spurned his parents' insistence to "Get a hobby" until being told, in exasperation, to "INVENT a damn hobby, then! And leave us alone."

Ventriloquism was invented by Vangelis "Van" Queasel. At the age of 27, he was stoned to death by the ancient Greeks under suspicion of being a mouthpiece for demons. But by that time, Ventrilo-mania had already spread across Europe, the hype carried by dozens of sad minstrel hacks.

Scrolling farther down the page, I learned about all the most notable puppeteers. Wikipedia could not recall the names of many of them but offered vague descriptions such as "Batman's most obscure villain" and "What’s-his-name on Comedy Central with the punchable face." The last name on the list, interestingly enough, was Dictator/ History's Greatest Monster/ Ventriloquist Adolf Hitler.

Hitler's ill-fated venture into ventriloquism is documented here, with Wikipedia used as a source, but certainly not to the extent that would get me flagged for plagiarism. (Wink!)

In most puppet acts, the puppeteer functions as the straight man while the puppet plays the part of the zany loudmouth. The dynamic between Hitler and his dummy, Mr. Düsseldwarf, was the opposite. Hitler's IN-YOUR-FACE ethnic jabs once prompted a young Don Rickles to remark, "That ugly kraut has no Goddamn decency!" But his genocidal furor was tempered by Mr. Düsseldwarf's cheerful and clever diplomacy. The dummy constantly assured the crowd that his cranky cohort was only kidding when his Pollock jokes quickly led to a call for ethnic cleansing.

A typical routine went like this:

“What is the deal with Gypsies? I suspect one poured laxatives on my schnitzel!” 

This was Mr. D’s cue to pull a lax bottle from his pocket and slyly show it to the crowd. 

“Calm down, Adolf, it wasn’t a Gypsy.”

Big laughs. 

Mr. Düsseldwarf had a knack for pacifying both his puppeteer and their audience--by suggesting the duo perform their trademark routine in which Hitler lit one of Mr. Düsseldwarf's farts. All of the puppeteer's rage and hatred was forgotten by the audience when the duo did this bit. Before Hitler & Mr. Düsseldwarf hit the scene, people just assumed that a farting dummy was but a wondrous pipedream. Several decades later, skeptics, naysayers and debunkers remain baffled by the farting dummy trick.

With every public appearance, Hitler & Mr. D gained popularity. They’d come close to going off the rails, which made their act exciting. But they were sustained by the counterbalance they gave each other. Hitler had always felt contempt for those he deemed impure, but Mr. Dusseldwarf had a calming effect on his psyche. The Nazi's descent into super-villainy did not occur until the date of the pair's final appearance on June 8th, 1928. That was the night of the fire at the comedy club, a scorching night of destructive accidents in which Mr. Düsseldwarf had his bowels clenched by the cold fist of hatred.

Brisstalnacht's Comedy Club in Frankfurt was the site of Germany's premier talent show. Hitler and Mr. Düsseldwarf were the favorites to dethrone three-time defending champs Shecky Steinmetz & Spunky Hebrewster, a ventriloquist combo whom Hitler despised.

Steinmetz & Hebrewster took the stage before Hitler & Mr. Düsseldwarf. Their performance was sensational. While Steinmetz wore a deep-sea-diving helmet overflowing with potato salad, his dummy sang a flawless three-minute rendition of "Add on Salami (Not Pork)”. This was the duo's ode to sandwiches that parodied the Jewish hymn "Adon Olom." The crowd was stunned and enraptured as Steinmetz finally removed the helmet, splattering potato salad on the stage. He grinned triumphantly with slimy yellow bits stuck to his teeth. They bowed and, just before exiting the stage, notified the crowd of the book-signing that would take place after the show.

At the back-corner of the stage stood a wooden table that seemed parched in the stale heat of the crowded club. It supported dozens of copies of Steinmetz & Hebrewster's autobiography: Knock, Knock? Jews There! The cover featured a cartoon drawing of Steinmetz knocking on his dummy's forehead, both of them laughing uproariously.

Hitler & Mr. D went onstage next with jangled nerves. People were still buzzing about Steinmetz & Hebrewster. Feeling upstaged, Mr. Düsseldwarf lost his composure. He botched setups and punchlines the two had practiced and performed countless times. The pair’s confidence evaporated along with the wisps of heat that floated up the spot-lighted wall behind them. By the end of their set, Mr. Düsseldwarf was sweat-soaked and slouched like a dummy with a crooked trunk. As Hitler's unsteady hand lit the match for the big finish, the dummy stood up lackadaisically and pointed his butt at an irregular angle, aimed at the books on display at the back corner of the stage.

It is rumored that Hitler's eyes glimmered knowingly as he brought the match to his puppet's backside.

The display of books was the first casualty of the blaze. Steinmetz charged the stage, his panicked jabber drowned out by the furious, nasal scream of the puppet he carried. Their salvaging efforts were chased away when the blaze expanded with a great leap, swallowing the wooden stage and burping sharp crackling sounds. Bedlam ensued. Hitler & Mr. Düsseldwarf led the stampede out of the building. The blaze was unstoppable. Fireballs punched through the windows like deadly vigilantes. The smoldering roof folded and collapsed and made a noise like slowly booming thunder just as the fire trucks arrived.

Across the street from the inferno, the predominantly Jewish group scolded Mr. Düsseldwarf for pointing his butt off-kilter and causing the destruction of one of Germany's most beloved comedy clubs. The dummy said nothing. He was almost catatonic, which allowed Hitler to spew forth the sort of hateful rhetoric that would one day make him a star on the History Channel. His crimson face streaming with tears, Hitler then ran for the nearest train station, harassed by cries of "Book-Burners!" He was devastated to realize that he and Mr. Düsseldwarf were sure to be blacklisted in the ventriloquism scene.

Mr. Düsseldwarf broke his silence one block short of the train station. He did so with convulsive violence that made the puppeteer stop in his tracks. His bitter condemnation of Steinmetz & Hebrewster and indeed Jews everywhere was so crass that it could only be documented by the History Channel's "Too Shocking for History" series. Hitler cracked a smile for the first time in hours, knowing he had at last converted a powerful ally.

Hitler turned his ferocious energy to politics. Mr. Düsseldwarf went into seclusion, inside a dusty bedroom closet. The dummy was not idle, however; he seethed, contemplated, and schemed. His unforgiving wooden finger pointed always toward past misfortunes that he believed to be the only reasons why the present was such a miserable struggle. Really, the main reason life was such a miserable struggle for him was because he wasn't getting any sunlight in that closet. Even when he traveled with Hitler, he demanded to be stored inside a suitcase that let in no light.

For almost two decades the dummy served as Hitler's top-secret advisor. He pitched to his puppeteer ideas like "Make that cross crooked, then maybe we'll put it on a flag" and "We'd be fools not to do business with Mr. Schindler." He remained a recluse raging in darkness until April 30th of 1945. The bombs crashed through the roof above his closet and for a brief moment he saw the sunlight. Then he was ashes. 

Q: What does it all mean?

A: I’m not the biggest fan of the guy who broke my jaw, but do you know who's even worse than he is? Hitler. I’m not gonna share a hobby with a Hell Hall-of-Famer like him. His mustache and haircut were stupid too. To hell with ventriloquism. During this time in which I somewhat resemble a puppet owned by Jaws from the Bond movies, the only temp hobby I'm into is scaring little children.

Oldies DJs *final

 Side A

I became well aware of Oldies, and their DJs, during my years at Theisen Junior High. My friend Willy and I carpooled to school. All 4 of our parents took turns getting us to and from Theisen, but Willy and I agree that we best remember the car rides with my dad from decades ago. The day after I lost my dad, Willy invited me over to his house to mourn and praise the man. We concluded that our parents must have divided the carpool as evenly as they could, but we mostly just remembered my dad driving us. Bill and his trusty Oldies station, 103.9 FM, left imprints on our minds. 

When he picked us up, Willy and I could sense if my dad was in a foul mood. Sometimes he was cranky after eight hours of patrolling the streets of Fondy. Lack of feeling in his “hello” greeting was a dead giveaway. But if he seemed able to tolerate life, and, by extension, us, then we might comment on the Oldies tunes. Sorta Beavis and Butt-Head style. Dad would put up with our sarcasm. 

He might even hint at a smile if we heard a Beach Boys song. We’d hear something like “Surfin’ USA.” Half-shivering in our coats, we gazed out the car windows at front lawns covered in a foot of snow, icicles hanging from houses. The band sang the praises of California, which seemed like another planet. The joke did not escape us, in Wisconsin, in January. I spotted a dog getting coaxed against its will to go outside to pee in the frigid cold. 

“Well, this song sure makes me want to go surfing,” I said. 

“We should scope out Lake Winnebago,” Willy said. 

“Might have some gnarly waves. Might be… frozen.” 

“Fifty-fifty chance.” 

“Don’t forget your sunblock, boys,” Dad chimed in.

Sometimes we actually shut up and appreciated the likes of “Please Mr. Postman,” “Earth Angel,” “Runaround Sue” or “Twist and Shout.” Once in a while, Willy and I were willing to give an Oldie a chance, but Dad was not.  

A novelty song like “Monster Mash” would make him wince. A dud on 103.9 led him to  turn down the volume a few notches, from a reasonable volume to scarcely audible. I might offer a meek protest. 

“But Dad, c’mon, it’s almost Halloween.” 

He’d wrinkle his nose as if whiffing a fart. He’d explain his opinion in a single word. 

“Dumb,” he said, shaking his head. 

I never saw him dress up for Halloween. Dad didn’t suffer fools like Boris Pickett and the Crypt-Kickers. Oddities like “Monster Mash” and “Bird Is the Word” damn near got muted. But no matter how awful the Oldie was to Bill, he’d never change the station, because finding something better was against the odds.

He had no interest in the alternatives on the dial. To paraphrase him, he wasn’t about to gamble on the pop station with its Michael Jordan—er, Jackson. He wanted no part of Stone Temple… Whatevers on the Rockin’ Apple. Line dance anthems on the country station made him uncomfortable, and for that I’m grateful. 

One Oldie he could stand, surprisingly, was “Rubber Ball” by Bobby Vee. I’ll never get why that song had the edge over “Monster Mash” or “Bird Is the Word.” But as the school year went on, we heard it a lot on the drive home. “Rubber Ball” was a go-to gem to the Oldies DJ in that late afternoon sweet spot. 

For starters, Willy and I geeked out reciting the chorus: “I’m like a… Rubber Ball, I come bouncin’ back to you-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh.” 

By the spring, we were getting deeper into the lyrics. At one point, the lady backup singers mention: “She calls you by some other guy’s name.” Why would we want to cheer for this bozo? We found it easy to roast this Bobby Vee character. 

“I like how this guy keeps trying to get back with his ex-girlfriend, by pointing out the fact that he is annoying,” I said. 

“Desperate too,” Willy said. 

“Yeah. Selling points.” 

I mention these wonderful memories to add more perspective. I’ve matured just a wee bit since I wrote side B in my early 20s. Back in the day, I portrayed the Oldies DJ in a way that was quite cynical and harsh. Now I find myself identifying a little bit with the stereotype who fell short of his lofty dreams and had to settle for less. Don’t get me wrong: I finally like my job. I’m a good reading tutor and assistant teacher, and that’s how I pay my bills. But if I got the fantastical offer of writing and recording stories as my full-time job, I’d probably put in my notice at the school. 

Plus, I can recall showing side B to my friend Wes, whose dad was an Oldies DJ, a job I obliterated. And to sprinkle salt in that wound, I also vilified Phish, my friend’s favorite band. I didn’t even give him fair warning before I handed him the 2 pages stapled together. How insensitive was that? What a passive-aggressive asshole. 

So, I’m sorry, Wes. Looking back, I understand why you didn’t laugh and just gave me a simple “Fuck you.” Now I see your point. But I still gotta have my jokes. 

I’m finally at peace with this story. Some of the sentences I scribble down just before I go to bed turn out to be nonsense, but here goes nothing. I’m just a swimming Pisces getting older. I see that karma drives time that moves in a circle, and sometimes I swim back into my own shit. 

Side B

 Herman’s Hermits: Teen Heartthrobs or Nightmare Fuel?

Baby boomers like to criticize millennials for our short attention spans, but have you ever listened to an oldies station that plays the a-sides from the mid-50s through the end of Beatlemania? These pieces of music are short. They last about two-and-a-half minutes, on average. Many track lengths are much shorter.  

The nasal-voiced DJs talk over the start of the song. They have no qualms with drowning a good opening riff. They yammer over the first 15 seconds, shutting up only once the vocals begin. Then some preening geek with a sucked-helium falsetto rhymes “do” with “you” for 90 seconds before the DJ interrupts him again.

“Okay, we get the picture. Driving T-Birds and going steady with a swell gal—very nice.” Cue a new song. “Now here's a hit from that same year from Rich Doodleberry and the Underlings called 'Driving in My GTO with My Sweetheart.' It's 50 degrees and partly sunny with a 40 percent chance of evening showers, the barometer is right around 30, the dew point has something to do with humidity, clouds are pretty, this booth is awful-drafty, I can complain but no one listens, I see a penny on the floor and now I've got to zip it because the vocals start in half a second!”

God help you if you hear a surfer rock instrumental on an oldies station, since the Oldies DJ is likely to talk over the entire song with an exhaustive tale about his days working as a roadie for the Mamas and the Papas.

The truth is that Boomers have the shortest attention spans of any demographic group on the radio dial, and the Oldies DJs cater to this. To prove my point, any time you hear the Doors’ “Light My Fire” on an Oldies station, the psychedelic jam is cut, which shaves four minutes from the version you hear on the album and classic rock stations. The DJs at classic rock stations are only ten years younger than their Oldies counterparts, but the difference in taste is significant. Classic Rock DJs prefer the full-length versions of tunes such as “Light My Fire” and “In-a-Gadda-Da-Vida” since they allow more time to gawk at the lines in their left palm that look like the Star Trek symbol when they cross their eyes just right. Live long and prosper, Classic Rock DJ. You know that I would be a liar if I was to say to you: “You couldn’t get much higher.”

Say what you will about Phish, but there’s been a lot of demand for a worse version of the Grateful Dead. And hey, at least their stoner followers have the attention spans to withstand a 20-minute solo by Trey. And once it’s finished, it’s the damnedest thing, they nudge their buddy and say wistfully, “Dude, don’t you wish that solo would’ve lasted even LONGER?” And their buddy agrees whole-heartedly: “Totally. A 20-minute guitar solo only whets my appetite; it’s like a wedding night hand job. I wish Trey would have soloed through Monday morning so I could have an excuse for missing my drug test at Piggly Wiggly.”

Whenever a rare, eight-minute epic like “American Pie” plays, I picture the Oldies DJ getting anxious. He’s cooped up in his tiny booth. Fixating on the clock, heart racing at 130 beats per minute, his loafers matching that tempo against the booth’s square white tiles. He’s got a squirt of blood trickling down his chin because he’s been chomping on his lower lip with abandonment for the past six minutes and the damn song is still playing. Then, bursting with a fit of impatience, he stops the record and gripes into the microphone, “OK, was that eleventh verse really necessary? For God’s sake, Buddy Holly’s been dead for forty years. Aren’t you over it yet, you nostalgic sissy? I want to hear myself talk!”

You see, those Oldies DJs have a God complex. They spent their youth idolizing the head-bopping hip cats on The Ed Sullivan Show. Decades later, after their rickety bass has been pawned off to buy a hemorrhoid pillow, after their dreams of stardom have fizzled, they become jaded and bitter. When they’re confined in that ever-shrinking booth, listening to the bubbly tunes of Herman’s Hermits, cursing themselves for wearing a condom and failing to knock up Mama Cass when they had the chance, Oldies DJs may suddenly go power tripping on their former heroes.

With a devilish smirk, the Oldies DJ thinks, “The play button allows me to give life to these pricks, and if I choose to make that life fade into premature silence, then so be it. Herman’s Hermits, who were once so proud and getting laid all the time, are now toiling at the mercy of me: The Oldies DJ. BWAH-HA-HA-HA! I am omnipotent!”

After cutting off “I’m into Something Good” before the one-minute mark, the Oldies DJ makes a snotty announcement. 

“Four measures of that garbage ought to hold you over. That was Herman’s Hermits, and they’ll be appearing at a county fair near you this summer—as long as the stage has a wheelchair ramp. Since we’ve got some time to kill before I play the next record, let me tell you guys about all the tail I chased at my 35-year school reunion in Beaver Dam, Wisconsin this past weekend...”

Many times the Oldies DJ has considered barricading himself inside his booth, quickly nailing boards against the door, maybe even toting a flare gun “just in case.” And as the station manager pounds desperately on the door, the Oldies DJ grabs the microphone and hushes the last half of “Like a Rolling Stone.”

 “It’s my turn to talk, old man. The following people can burn in hell for all I care. I’ll do this alphabetically since it might take awhile...”