I wake up every morning to the soft crack of the execution squads, brew my morning drink of Polish blood with caffeine, then get in my carriage pulled by Russian slaves to get to work.

I wake up every morning to the soft crack of the execution squads, brew my morning drink of Polish blood with caffeine, then get in my carriage pulled by Russian slaves to get to work. It is an uncomfortable ride since the wheels are formed like swastikas, but it works as long as you whip the slaves enough. At work I carefully grind prisoners of war into sausages, and enjoy my mystery meat soup for lunch. It is mysterious because every day my wife uses a different minority to make the soup and we have a game where I try to guess which it is from the taste. After some more sausage grinding, I end the day with a quick stop to pray at the Shrine of Bandera before going with the lads to shoot some Jews in the park. Finally I head home, smelling the delicious roast Romanian my wife has made from all the way down the block. In the evening I retire to bed with her and my gay satanist German-American lover, falling asleep to the gentle rumble of the night trains to the concentration camps. It is a good life.


Leave a Comment