Before this loathsome time of transmission rates, vaccine obsessions and performative safety, the most inane of pub chatter centred upon just how Nazi Germany came about.
“I’d have fought them with my bare hands!” cry the corpulent. It’s always the corpulent—a bleachy adjective for ‘fat’—indulging in such hypothetical heroism. Interjecting, jowly seniors decades above draft-age battle vaguely articulated enemies in fantasies of civil war, as their ballooning waistlines recruit the guerrilla forces of diabetes and erectile dysfunction in their body’s own civil war.
At least they’re entertaining, unlike the morbidly futile Fake Brooklyn hipster wheedling before the entrance, ‘Hi! Umm… Could you—maybe… raise your mask to above your nose? Thank you. Ha-ha! Great…’ The default setting of New York hipsters is carbonated harmlessness.
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