A short, serious about tragedies in life, referring somewhat to the scandals horror pastiche by book ghostwriter Karen S. Cole
Subtitled: Woody Allen meets his Bête Noire, Adolf Hitler!
One day around midnight, Woody Allen was chewing on his lower lip. You see, Woody had finally noticed his fixation on God. He woke up, startled, from his reverie, and realized he was in love with Death. The infamous D-word. Not the B-word, not the N-word, but the altogether underwhelming D-word. Woody, you see, had recently attained the marvelous age of 79. The D-word was looming ever closer. Step by step, inch by inch, it was creeping up on him that he may have hurt a little boy and a little girl’s feelings. Without anything really bad having happened to him, while he got away with doing so. Meanwhile, his memories told him that it had all been done for publicity purposes. No, that was impossible; this made no sense to him. How could that be?
Suddenly, Hitler was there. He was playing with Eva Braun’s long blonde tresses, lovingly stroking it. But he had that look on his face again. That look that implied all he really cared about was, Kill the Jews. Kill all the Jews, over and over again, until all that remained on the face of the planet was wealthy, well-off American Jews, who had to prostitute themselves through comedy and news programs forever. Until it changes, Woody sighed. Until then, I can’t recall whether or not I ever…gave Mia an enema. There was the night I gave her an enema, because she was sick and constipated and couldn’t get her bowel movement out. Gee, why are you never allowed to talk about things like that?
“I…had to give Eva a bowl of coffee once. I took some coffee beans, ground them up, waved them right under Eva’s nose…she frowned, didn’t know what it meant. “Adolf,” she told me, Hitler sighed right then and there in Woody’s bed, “You must be crazy. Why are you doing this?” She got up, Hitler sighed, and went into the next room. “You know, Woody, she’s intelligent enough to have figured it out. I think I punished her later for it by standing her up at the altar. But she wouldn’t pick up on my hint about drinking some coffee. Wouldn’t have done her much good, is what I thought at the time. Must have been that reference to my dying mother. Mom was home when she died in Austria, and for some reason I frigged out and thought Eva was her. Well, you know, I always used people for political purposes in order to get ahead.” Hitler sighed, scratched. “I thought there was something wrong with me.”
“No…You can have it. Take everything, take it all away from me. Later. They were all packed in there. Like sardines in a can. Yes, it was overpopulated where you were every other time, and underpopulated the rest of the time, wasn’t it, Adolf?” Startling, Hitler looked askance. “I just want a cigarette. Wow, they took over Bosnia on TV again.” Both of them glanced perceptively at the screen, but Woody wasn’t agonizingly happy about what he was seeing there. Not because of politics in Bosnia, but because the TV was suddenly on. He noticed now that Hitler had turned on the TV by using the remote control.
Like a giant misunderstanding, Allen thought to himself. You like one, I can’t. “I don’t have sex with boys. You think I am a boy, Adolf, and you’re not much taller than me. Say, want to check on that? I have completely forgotten whether you’re taller than I am.” And I’m surely dreaming all this, he mused nervously. I need to change medications soon. I thought I was only neurotic, and this is verging on psychosis now.
“What has happened to me?” Hitler suddenly asked Woody, who leveled a stare at him designed to melt Kryptonite.
“They obscured everything about your death. They wanted to make another Jesus Christ out of you, promo everything and pretend you came back later…are you Jewish, Hitler?” Startling again, as though coming out of a strangely veiled reverie, Woody reached for the pack of cigarettes. He threw them across the room. Hitler thought, they bounce as much as those Jews did when they hit the ground. The ones we sicced the dogs on, those German shepherds, easy to breed to kill people. Like that guy. He thinks I want to have sex with him. Gee, I just wondered what that was about. Well, it’s a mistaken premise, one where you pretend you can make the other guy pregnant. Then it works, obviously, Adolf reasoned…”I hate to be annoying, but are you gay?”
“I’m a greater man than you are…evil person wannabee.”
“You mean you took on more than I did. That doesn’t make you greater than me. I know what a woman’s breasts are for. They are for squeezing, not for ridiculous farmland references.”
“I went down in history as a homicidal lunatic.”
“You went down in history on Hermann Goering’s…twat.” Slapping his own thigh, Woody leapt out of bed. “I’m going downstairs, after I check on my two teenage children. Then, I’m going to fix an aging Austrian dictator a sandwich. You’re going to have to settle for a ham on rye with mustard. That’s what we have for someone like you in the house.”
Must be weird irony, Allen mused. He opened the fridge door just a crack. Heaving a sigh of sweet relief, he saw the sandwich sitting in there, untouched. The ghosts that had been haunting him all of his life, the voices, the imaginary sexual touching…he grabbed the sandwich and briefly thought about putting it into a bowl. Of course not. It’s on a plate, with an artful pickle perched right next to it. Something about a boy at the next desk, whom I wanted to love only in a humanitarian manner. Whom I wanted to show off as the guiding light…somehow nobody is able to do that other thing. The one where I’m all things to all people. Wait a minute, maybe I’ve got something in common with Hitler back there, but he’s just a spook and I’m somehow just imagining things. Well, if he doesn’t eat this sandwich, I will!
Remember, only one “w” in both!