Bill Collier: Nazi Sympathizer

Mein Kampf is apparently a favorite of Bill's, and in this article he points out that hey, Hitler never intended the Holocaust:

Hitler was able to use propaganda effectively. He did not reason with the masses, he marketed his unsavory package of hate and dictatorship in whatever package the people found most desirable. To the shop owners, for instance, he promised to break up the big department stores which they saw as being a threat to their livelihood. To those who were in debt he promised an end to "interest slavery". To the farmer he offered to make the land they owned inviolate from the tender mercies of debt collectors (one of the few promises he kept). To the military he promised a return to glory.

Never did Hitler say his proposed revolution was about killing the Jews and becoming the dictator, although he certainly was not shy about these issues. the point here is that while the Nazis focused on the Jewish issue, military conquests, and the totalitarian state and did not necessarily conceal these things the thrust and focus of their propaganda was such that one might have thought the real focus was on all those promises and that the Jewish program, the military aims, and the totalitarian state were merely means to these ends.


  1. American Dog ~ Scott is now owning this site! Now heed the warning! Beware of Dog! THESE ARE ALL LIES TO SMEAR HITLER AND LACK INTELLIGENCE! I will now dictate from a priceless historical document, a Reich log, that contains what may be a revelation to you but not to me...Hitler had a sense of humor. Here's a taste:

    One night in Berlin, Hitler, Goring, and Goebbels walked into a bar. Noticing that the bartender's hands were shaking, Hitler asked him what was wrong. "We don't get too many high-ranking officials of the Third Reich in here," he said.
    "Well, at these prices, I'm not surprised," said Hitler, pulling out a Luger and shooting him.
    Speaking before an audience of thousands at the Nuremberg Rally of 1936, Hitler departed from his prepared text to share one of his favorite jokes. "A patient complaining of a sore throat goes to see a doctor," Hitler began. 'After examining him, the doctor says, "Your tonsils have to come out.' The patient says, 'I want a second opinion.' So the doctor says, 'Okay - you're also of an inferior race.'"
    On December 7, 1941, Hitler opened a meeting of the Nazi high command as he often did: with a knock-knock joke.
    "Knock-knock," he said.
    "Who's there?" said Goebbels.
    "Tojo," he said.
    "Tojo who?"
    "Tojo the Japanese would bomb Pearl Harbor," Hitler said, roaring with laughter.
    After the successful publication of "Mein Kampf," Hitler immediately started writing a sequel. The new book, "Adolf Hitler's 1001 Favorite Insults," instantly became a best-seller in Germany and was an invaluable reference work for Nazi after-dinner speakers. A quick perusal of the book reveals that not only was Hitler a Fascist madman bent on world domination; he was also the originator of the "yo mama" joke, as these examples show"
    "Yo mama so fat, the Luftwaffe mistook her for London."
    "Yo mama so lazy, she stopped after she invaded Belgium."
    "Yo mama so dirty, she hasn't taken a bath since the First Reich."
    Even in his dealings with other heads of state, Hitler's unique sense of humor never failed him. After signing the Munich Agreement, in 1938, Hitler broke the treaty less than a year later by invading Prague. Incensed, the British Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, telephoned Hitler and demanded to know why German troops had crossed the agreed-upon border. Without missing a beat, Hitler replied, "To get to the other side."

    I offered the above olive branch, free of charge, to you, Viking Girl. I, American Dog ~ Scott, am in love with you, Viking Girl. I have not slept since you abandoned me. My dog is crying big tears too. Please come back to me, my beautiful little friend (wife?)!

  2. American Dog ~ Scott is now owning this site! Heed the warning! Beware of Dog!

    Viking Girl:

    I stand by what I said yesterday. I have many never-before-seen photos of me and my dog, Rex, ready to send to you.

    His name is Rex, by the way, not Roo, or Rowr, or Bow Wow, or whatever he's calling himself these days. He's also a mixed breed, not a rare Arubian Cunucu, or part dingo, as he has variously claimed. I know, Viking Girl, because I raised him from a pup. I was the one who taught Rex to sit, to heel, to speak, and to speak English. His first word was not "out" - as much as that serves his current political agenda - it was "eat." I was there, and so was my chicken Parmesan.

    I never struck Rex, Viking Girl. If he now flinches at the sight of an open hand, he does so instinctually (or possibly for effect). I may have, on one or two occasions, rubbed his nose in something or other, but this was a widely accepted dog-rearing practice at the time.

    Rex, I'll admit, Viking Girl, did beg me to take him to the doctor to check out a "lump" that he found. But, you have to understand, he begged for everything: for scraps, for ear scratches and tummy rubs, to go out at all hours of the night, to yet again rent "The Lion King." (He just barked all the way through.) I would have happily taken him to the vet, if not for the simpering, and if not for the fact that we had been to the vet three times that month, twice for "anemia" that he attributed to a lack of "wet meat" in his diet, and once when he thought he was having a heart attack, which turned out to be the UPS guy. What Rex leaves out of his telling is that I did eventually take him to the vet, and the vet told him exactly what I had told him: the lump was his testicles. And let the record show that it was Rex himself who insisted they be removed.

    Rex will never rip open your throat, Viking Girl. I know. One morning, I awoke to find him on my pillow, jaws agape, his fangs resting on my throat. He stood, licked my Adam's apple, jumped off the bed, and trotted away without saying a word. Probably went off to sniff out a few trolls on Team Sarah. Rex, like me, knows their tactics, having read Saul Alinsky's "Rules for Radicals."

    As you can see Viking Girl, I, American Dog ~ Scott, and Rex have a very interesting life. The only thing missing is you, Viking Girl.

    Eagerly awaiting your response,
    American Dog ~ Scott.

  3. American Dog ~ Scott is now owning this site. Heed the warning! Beware of Dog!

    By American ~ Dog Scott

    I share the blame for my break up with Viking Girl. I did a lot of things wrong in our friendship: worked too hard, cared too much, made too many sacrifices for Rex. Tore my heart out and left it lying on the kitchen floor so that anybody who wasn't too busy stabbing me in the back could stomp it into the no-wax vinyl tiles that I myself laid down at a savings of more than two thousand dollars. I am guilty of that and more.

    But forget it. Past is past. Let's move on. You are now dating Viking Girl, and her lawyer, my lawyer, and a Iowa state judge have all informed me in writing that you have a legal right to do so. So be it. I'm not a blackmailing pickpocket doubletalking attorney, so I don't know the technicalities. But the two of us still need to have some ground rules here:

    1. Do you know the Lord? If not, buzz off! If so, read on.

    2. Do you know Sal Alinsky's "Rules for Radicals?"
    If not, buzz off! If so, read on.

    3. 1,080 hours, pal. That's how long we were friends. You've been dating her for almost an hour. Tell you what. In 1,079 hours and 32 seconds, let's you and me talk again.

    4. You don't go within a thousand feet of her bedroom. Not ever.

    5. Despite what you have been told, I've got some self-respect left, and I don't need to have your face shoved into my face every time I turn around. From five o'clock on Friday afternoon until two o'clock on Sunday morning, the bar at the Ramada Inn belongs to me.

    6. The oil in her Mazda Miata gets changed every three thousand miles - not five thousand miles, not seven thousand miles, not ten thousand miles - and I don't care what she or the owner's manual or the guy in the service department or the Internet says. Three. Thousand. God. Damned. Miles.

    7. Bring her to my house. Pronto! The Wiffle ball hanging from the string in the right-hand bay of the garage is where the middle of the front of the hood of your car should be pointed when it's parked correctly. The Wiffle ball is not supposed to rest on the hood of the car. You aim at the ball. It makes parking easier.

    8. Before you even ask (and this is for Viking Girl's eyes only), allow me to explain why there's no cable TV. To install cable TV, they have to drill a hole through the house. Hey, fine, let's get satellite TV instead. Well, guess what? To install satellite TV, they have to drill about twenty holes through the roof. Somebody ought to get the Nobel Prize for that idea - drilling holes through the roof (giggle, snark, arf).

    9. When you get to my home proceed to the basement. Viking Girl will stay with me - understand? The band saw in the basement belongs to me - understand? You are not to use it, you are not to move it, you are not to put anything on it, including even just one corner of a laundry basket while the person carrying the basket scratches their nose. I assembled that band saw myself. When I got the box home from Sears, I thought, Hey, great, I'll just lift out my brand-new band saw and start ripping pressure-treated railroad ties, but guess what? The box didn't contain a band saw. The box contained a large plastic bag filled with medium-sized plastic bags filled with small plastic bags filled with parts the size of bird shot. Putting that thing together took three solid months of the best years of my life, and to make the blade cut plumb I had to level the legs with a laser mount that I borrowed from a friend of mine who's a contractor. So hands the hell off. I'll free you after the wedding.

    10. This goes without saying, but on your way to my house - no funny business. Understood? She's fifteen years old, for crying out loud.