No Nazis were harmed in the writing of this blog.

We get all types here at the house, and that's fine. Expected, accepted, appreciated even. But sometimes we stop, shake our heads, and force ourselves to wonder: Are our friends really that open-minded about their social screening process? Then, of course, we pat ourselves on our backs when we realize how marvelously unprejudiced we are through the Law of Syllogism. It's a mostly painless cycle.

A couple weeks ago we went through said scenario. One of our newer friends from across the mighty Hudson showed up at our humble abode with a few of his pals to join us in the evening's alcoholic merriment. I had just gotten out of the shower and was getting dressed up in my bedroom when they arrived. The night's lucky winner was selected from my rows and stacks of mildly ironic thrift store T-shirts. I pulled it over my enormous head, manipulated my mop of hair into the same general direction, and sauntered down the steps to play host to my new acquaintances.

There they stood: my one buddy, and four of his tragically hip friends. We get them around these parts from time to time, but it's an uncommon thing to find an indigenous member of that type. You know, the kids who you'd expect to see at shows featuring punk rock or similar music akin to its derivatives. Tight clothes, facial piercings, interesting hair, chest-piece tattoos. It's not that we don't tolerate that particular fashion statement here in the Dirty 'Burgh, it's that we just don't care enough to try in vain to attempt it. Our fine city provides far better threats than ridicule from the Fashion Police. There's nothing tougher than risking life and limb with the possibility of a drive-by just to get some Kennedy Fried Chicken at three in the morning. Take your scene points, quite frankly, and shove them. Gingerly, mind you. But as usual, I digress.

I shook hands. I made eye contact. I pretended to pay attention to names, though I'm terrible at that and tend to let them go right out the other ear in most group introductions. And then I established, for my own personal knowledge, the odd man out. Ripped clothes, huge plugs in his earlobes that were covered in fake diamonds, a mostly shaved head that revealed tattoos on his scalp, and that smirk that usually comes along with the persona. We'd had his type here before, it ended poorly. Mostly for him, mind you, but poorly none the less. I made a mental note to put myself on the defensive and watch for any signs of potential violence or petty larceny.

Neither of which occurred. Once again I was put in my place regarding the race and coerced into shredding the cynic card for a bit. This guy was alright, despite the fact that he resembled a poor man's version of the drummer of a popular punk band who is rumored to be reforming despite his third-degree burns via plane crash. He made the right comments at the TV screen, he laughed at the jokes and made some good ones at appropriate times, he was respectful of our home, and he even did a full shot of the 160-proof Austrian rum that has come to be a rite of passage amongst our group of friends without taking a trip to the bathroom to vomit. Eventually, however, he managed to make a bit of a fool of himself. We'll blame it on that shot.

See, someone mentioned Nazis. Not sure how it came up in conversation at a party, but it did. And well, his face lit up like a teacher had asked the class a question and he was the only one who knew the answer. I was almost waiting for him to raise his hand. Instead, he raised the leg of his shorts to reveal another one of his numerous tattoos. This one was unfinished, only an outline on his inner right thigh. Maybe the sensitivity of that spot had halted production, or maybe money was short and it didn't seem wise to pursue an expensive mural that only a few select people would see, or maybe it was just a stupid idea that was too late to erase. In my humble opinion it was a clear case of the latter. Let's go to the Not-So-Instant/Not-So-Verbatim Replay for further clarification. Charlie, take it away:

"Nazis, huh? I like Nazis."

"Oh yeah?"

"Here, check out one of my leg tattoos. It's not done yet."

"It's a plane."

"That's the Red Baron."

"Yes, it does indeed resemble a biplane from the turn of the last century."

"Look at the wing."

"There's a swastika."

"It's for my German heritage."

"Maybe you should've thought that one through first."

"What do you mean?"

"The Red Baron was an ace fighter pilot in the First World War."

"So?"

"So, the National Socialist German Workers Party was not even established until 1920."

"The who?"

"The Nazis."

"Oh..."

"Fail."

I took a sip of my cocktail and let the news sink in. Grins spread across the faces in earshot of our conversation, but no one had the heart to pursue the matter. Not even yours truly. Fortunately, the piece hadn't been completed yet so there's still time to cover up the swastika with something more clever. Something tells me that he won't go that route, though. We changed the subject quickly and efficiently and pretended as though nothing had ever happened, but it had--

Hitler, you've been bested yet again, sixty-some-odd years after your cowardly bunker suicide!

The German quarter of the blood coursing through my veins has been redeemed. Now if only the ignorance common to you and your supporters could be eradicated from the earth. But alas, I want ice cream, and can waste no more words on you or your uneducated scenester cohorts.

Goodnight, friends and Allies. And remember: fascist dictators come and go, but bad tattoos are forever.