I’m almost all the way through the latest Bathroom Reader. Brilliantly bizzare, as usual. Totem poles, midget luggage thieves, funeral mishaps… and Hitler’s deadly flatulence.
Seems Der Furer was also Der Farter. Hitler was plagued throughout his life by digestive problems, and consequently, gas. Lots of gas. I’d like you to pause a moment and visualize Hitler’s plans for world domination being drowned out by his butt thunder. Thank you.
So anyway, Adolf meets up with the mother of all quack doctors. Snake Oil, MD, manages to convince Hitler that he has the cure for those embarrassing emissions. Hitler signs him up, despite protests from his inner circle.
Dr. Death’s medicine cabinet included “digestive pills” that contained trace amounts of strychnine, and daily “glucose injections” that almost certaintly were amphetamine. By the end of WWII, Hitler was a wreck, physically and mentally. He’d already had a heart attack and a stroke. If he hadn’t killed himself, he probably would have dropped dead anyway.
The moral of the story is, I suppose:
“Beans, beans, they’re good for your heart
The more you eat, the more you fart
The more you fart, the better you feel
So eat your beans with every meal!”