Every Monday morning, I’m reminded why I hate Adolf Hitler.  The “Never Forget” message is embedded right under my nose.

I try not to shave on weekends.  The stubble holds the sun block better, and I don’t get as burned from the fiery hell reigning over Arizona.

So every Monday morning I get the razor and hope I don’t bleed to death from all the little cuts.

Pulling the razor down the cheeks and neck is fine.  But then comes under the nose.   You can’t get any momentum.   It’s not so much “shaving” as ripping each folicle out by the root.

Sure, sure, Hitler killed millions in death camps and unnecessary war and violence.

Sure, sure, he shot and gassed people because of their religion, sexual preference, mental or physical handicaps, nationality, political beliefs or having eyes that were too brown, or hair that was too curly.

Hell, he even shot many of his close friends because they were no longer “necessary” or possibly gay (remember Ernst Rohm and the brown shirts?).

But there have been hundreds of dictators, emperors, kings, communist party bosses that have been just as bad — or worse.  They usually have names that end in “Great” — Alexander, Peter, Catherine…  All mass murderers and conquerers.

Fucking Stalin’s body count is 3 times higher than Hitler, but you can still wear your jet black hair slicked straight back, and nobody says shit.

But if you just want to avoid that 4 seconds of pain every week and leave a couple of razor blades width of that annoying hair under your nose,  you’re a fucking Nazi.

The Exception

There’s only one exception in the history of the world, and it only lasted for one Hanes commercial.

That’s right, remember the one day Michael Jordan had a Hilter Mustache?

I swear they turned the lights down for the shoot to try and hide that stubble.  But look close — that’s not a cockroach on his upper lip.  That’s a baby Adolf…

It didn’t last long.  Jordan had that shit off his face within a week.

I’d like to be like Mike, but me being able to get away with the Hitler Mustache is just as likely as me dunking from the free-throw line.

So every Monday morning, I get to wake up to a dull scratchy razor.

I gotta hold my nose, tighten my upper lip and just start yanking that blade through the most stubborn stubble; while the one obessive thought keeps ringing in my head:

“Fuck you Hitler.

Fuck you Hitler!

FUCK YOU HITLER!!!”