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I am not certain as to which realm I am in now. There was no white light, no black light, no apparent transition whatsoever. I was in bed. Ill. Clutching my cross like it was some damn key or something. And, then Hitler showed up with a whitefish salad. He put it on a coffee table across the room. He politely invited me to disrobe and come and sit in a “big comfy, red chair that I had made special for you, my darling.” Ordinarily I would have reservations about indulging such a request, and after I sat down I observed this delayed feeling of hesitation.

“Too late, now,” I thought. “Let’s see where this goes.”

brunchwhitler

I’ve never wanted to meet Hitler, but I’ve always been curious about his eating habits. He took a seat in the corner of the sun room across the way and just keeps staring out of the window. Should I ask him to come and join me? Would he like to share some of this delicious looking whitefish salad? Or, should I join him? It’s all dark & dreary over here and obviously bright & pleasant where he is sitting. Perhaps leave the salad? Is this a test? Maybe, I am supposed to bring the salad to him. What if I’m supposed to eat the whitefish FIRST and THEN bring the salad over. Oh, dreary, deary me. No Heaven for Betsy. Is this hell?

hitlereating

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