Can the Balloon Juice and Hit Something!

Literature's nice and all, but I bet you've all been missing the sweet kiss of fists on Hitler's face.

Thankfully, Uncle Sam is here to change that:


Thanks to rcs for the picture, which he found here. You can click on it to enlarge.

And because he has a poet's soul, rcs also composed this limerick:

There once was a man from Braunau am Inn
Whose vision of the world was quite grim
Old Wolt made this site
So we can swing day & night
And punch Adolph's mug at our whim!

Which is the first time anyone has written a non-dirty limerick about me. Thanks!

More Poetry Corner!

I got so excited about remembering to hang Hitler on his birthday, I almost forgot that today was one of my posting days.

Have another collage poem!

Time To

I am made of shellfish tick tock tick
He encounter globe make gesture
Come at swingin', come at swingin'
I sit in one of the dives on
Firebomb jag, write them as are
Give Adolf the rough end of the stick
The swift rendering unto, the hot house
There may, four candles grouped, as is,
With Elmer Fudd in Warsaw Ghetto
This Count Basie Orchestral Maneuvers in
The thee the thou the wendigo blues
Lightly brown a pound of ground
Take a number, punch that Shitler
Sometimes it happens that an image
Is not forthcoming, so come at him
Swinging

Thanks to Gene Mayes for the erudite Hitler Punchery.

HGP's Poetry Corner!

Happy Monday! It's time to give you illiterate HGP readers some culture. Some culture with fists.

Longtime HGP reader (and one of our first contributors) Gene Mayes has given us another slab of two-fisted poetic justice, this time a collage poem:

Cold Soup in the Bathroom

They often wander for the wandering
The old prizefighters; Henry screwed the day
And nightly scissored his canned brown bread
Why not chase the moondog? Hitler creeping
All lyrical abstractions correct and accounted
For lying still and sleeping, Daffy Duck
And hollowpoint rounds--Hitler saw and ducked
The first punch, the second, not third
The hard bread breath of, the sticky lights of, of
Mussolini hidden with hardboiled eggs in aspic
Jiggling, Hitler crying now, bloodied and
Vaguer stuff can still decide the day, Henry screwed the day
And nightly punched the Führer they called him
They often wander for the wandering, dog moons
And nicer stuff, ducked or lying under gelatin cover
Punch him harder
It's a dog's world

Thanks again, Gene! Here's your Fun Bucks. And remember: Hitler Punching is for everyone! Send your examples, in whatever medium you choose, to HitlerPuncher AT gmail DOT com.

I Found a Pretty Cool Site

I'm going to deviate from my usual "drawings and photos of Hitler getting injured or humiliated" and give a sample from letters to dead people, which would be awesome in its own right, but became germane to HGP with this entry:

Of course, it also makes me feel somewhat guilty for spending nearly a year putting up pictures of Hitler toilet paper and Captain America #1 tributes.

No, I'm kidding. I love putting stuff like that up.

Postcard Week, Day 4!

Lest yesterday's entry made you think HGP has a strong pro-dog bias, just remember: only the cute ones.

Hitler-dogs get strafed just like everyone else.

Apparently, this poscard opened to a poem that I wish I could read. The art is credited to H.D. Smith, and the poem (or the card) was published by Pan American Publishing Co., El Paso, Texas.

If anyone would like to write a poem based on the title "Hitler at the Gates of Hell," I'll gladly put it up for all to see.

Olaf again, via here.

"I'm a Shock Trooper In a Stupor..."

Here's a little bit of verse from Silent Majority about my favorite Ramone meeting my least favorite anything:

It was in the year of '79
Dee Dee Ramone lay on his leathered back
Saturday smack addled shine
No whiskey did he lack

He stepped on board a vision
And followed with some gin
And ended up in Germany
Near the border of Berlin

He watched the marching army
Baffled at their clothes
Thought that he'd gone barmy
Seeing the Nazi pose

He walked the streets for hours
Then stopped at the Reichstag doors
The guards were simply cowards
Ran at the set of his jaw

He put on his jet black shades
Motorcycle boots on polished floor
A one man commando raid
Looking good for sure

Dee Dee sneered at the day
A moustached creep screamed
"Sieg heil! Actung! Danke schon! Away"
As on the fireplace he leaned

Easily caught and quickly taught
A lesson or two in place
Hitler brought up short
Dee Dee pulled out his razor bass

Yes, he caught the little turd
Punched Adolf after the chase
Singing 53rd & 3rd
As he banged the bass in his bloody face

The Ramone hit him for ages
Kicked his jackbooted arse
As Hitler had his impotent rages
As the sunshine turned to dark

Blood's never looked so pretty
As when it came from Hitler's shin
Dee Dee awoke in New York City
Many miles from Berlin

Gabba Gabba Heil?

I Hear the Working Title Was "K & C Punch Hitler (Plus There's A Golem)"

If you haven't read Michael Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, then please, do so post-haste. It has everything you could ever want in a book: love, adventure, comic books, the immigrant story, the Golem, the Second World War, comic books, friendship, self-sacrifice, denial, and comic books. Plus, the first edition apparently focuses on what really matters in this world:

Ka-Pow!

No, seriously, read this book. It's outstanding. You'll love it. Even if you aren't a totally backwards comics nerd like Flex.

I'm not really sure who drew this cover, but if anyone could contact me with the information, it would be greatly appreciated.

Thanks to Ben Handfelt for the heads up on this pic. In addition to his own blog, Ben contributes regularly to Thunder Matt's Saloon, a site I also contribute to on a quasi-regular basis - although my posts tend to center less around celebrating Hitler's glass jaw, and more around Iron Maiden.

Goethe Gives Hitler A Talking To

A Bagatelle

Hitler, his eyes to the east. Hitler, his hand on the west. Hitler, reading Goethe. Hitler, his eyes to the east, reading Goethe, his hand on the west, falls asleep in his great red chair, Hitler, he, reading Goethe. Hitler sleeps, he doesn’t dream. A common mistake to attribute mad vision to dreaming. Every madman sleeps like a—Goethe, page creeps up on itself. Hitler sleeping, book in lap. The page creeps. The page creeps up and forms a five-fingered knot. Uh oh for snoozing Hitler. Pow!, right in the kisser. He wakes up, hollers.

He had forgotten Napoleon all along!

Thanks to Gene Mayes for this fantastic tale of Hitler Fist-magnetry.