Gerechtigkeit (Justice) fur das Schweinehund

Written by Ye Olde Scribe

The two Nazis were talking in hushed tones just after the war in a biergarten. Hans said, “Ve have to do something about Juden.”

Of course this conversation was all in German. Scribe is just too damn lazy to translate it back correctly into their native tongue. Oh, and if you have a tongue transplant in another country, does that mean you can never again speak in your “native tongue?” Besides, you probably don’t know German, anyway, do you?

The other Hans; yes, they’re both named “Hans,” answered, “Yes, ve must do something about der Juden before those muttermausen, leftist, pinko, bleeding heart, non Glen Beckus da Schmeckus loving Allies stop us from butchering them.”

“Hey, Hans.”

“Ja, Hans?”

“Have you notice all the weird people hanging around das biergarten lately?”

“Ja. Dem ist from das Cambodia.”

“Cambodia?”

“Ja. Time travelers who selected das wrong destination in die past.”

“Who are they looking for?”

“Pol Pot. They’re mad about genocide and they want to kill him, or at least urinate in his mouth for supporting das Khmer Rouge: a group from our future that would have made our Fuhrer proud.”

“So that means…” Hans smiles.

“Yes, that means…” the other Hans smiles.

In unison.

“They don’t have a Pot to piss in!!!”

While they laugh at their own joke a near by family moves to another table, far away from them, as the mother mutters, “Schweinehund.”

“But why do they look so strange?” asked Hans.

“Because they’re time traveling zombies. I can only guess da from the last days when Jesus raised them from the dead, only he didn’t quite get it right.”

“Why do you say that, Hans?”

“Because they only have half their clothes on. See half of their butts hanging out?”

“So you mean that Jesus, Hans…”

“Ja, I mean, Hans, that Jesus…”

In unison.

“Did a half ass job.”

Hans and Hans laughed some more. More patrons left in disgust. The biergarten started to fill with more zombies.

“But das means…”

“Ja, das means…”

“Zombies in the future found Herr Peabody’s…”

“Found Herr Doctor Peabody’s time machine we were helping him work on at the camp. They must have dug it out just as Armageddon started. Excavated it out from under the wreckage made by Sherman’s tanks.”

Of course neither laughed at the Bullwinkle Show pun because TV had just been invented. Jay Ward was still on some holy CRUSADER: working on a concept involving a rabbit and a tiger. His wife said he was so involved it made him angry some nights, like he was on the… RAGS.

“But Hans.”

“Ja, Hans?”

“If Jesus raised the dead, why Hindu, Buddhist, maybe even Juden, zombies?”

“Well maybe God must not be as much a religious bigot as we, or Pat Robertson, are.”

“Who knew.”

“Ja. ‘Who knew.'”

“Hans? Who is Pat Robertson?”

“Don’t know, Hans. That just slipped out, almost like someone named Scribe is typing my words as I speak right now.”

Everyone in the biergarten had left by now except the zombies and Hans, and the other Hans. Scribe’s readers will be pleased to know that eventually even Germans will grow so sick of all the Germans named “Hans.” They will even go so far as to ban all cell phone companies from hiring anyone named “Hans.” That’s right. They demanded their cell phones be “Hans free.”

“Hans?”

“Ja, Hans?”

“Don’t look now but there ‘s a whole bunch of Juden zombies raised from the dead in the future coming towards us right now.”

“Ja, I think I even killed a few of them myself. Don’t look at them. Maybe they won’t recognize us.”

The leader of the group, a woman zombie who died brutally by the hand of Hans in a camp where Peabody’s time machine was being worked on, said, “I think I remember one of you. Which one of you is Herr Hans?”

They point at each other and said, in unison.

“He is.”

“Well, we’ve been sent here to deliver justice. This is your Judgment Day.”

Just before they died, Hans looked at Hans and said, “Hans?”

“Ja, Hans?”

“Vie knew this vould happen, Hans”

“Ja, vie did, Hans.”

In unison.

“Vie knew von day v’d be eaten by zombie Jews from da future.”
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Copyright 2010
Ye Olde Scribe
all rights reserved