So we’re in The Netherlands showing our baby off to his grandparents.
They live very, very close to the German border — well, “border”; it basically consists of a sign — so often it’s easier to go shopping at the next town over in Germany than in the nearest Dutch city. Visiting Germany, of course, makes me want to behave like Basil Fawlty:
It’s funny to me that the Germans would have mistaken themselves for the Master Race, because if you go to the grocery store in pretty much any country in the world, including Germany, you see that people are basically… well… potato-shaped. And a little tired. It’s really only when you gather 30,000 athletic young men in Nuremberg Square and dress them in spiffy uniforms that you could deceive yourself with any sort of silly racial triumphalism. (Or, as the much-misused Nietzsche put it, “The abdomen is the reason why man does not easily take himself for a god.”)
Frankly, even looking at the photos of the attendees of the Wannsee Conference makes me wonder how Heydrich, et al. ever decided they were of some super-refined race of men. (“Wannsee Conference? Looks more like the COMB-OVER Conference!” Or, no… wait… how about this one? “Hey Eichmann, were they all out of hats at the normal hat store? Did you have to go to Huge-Hats-R-Us?”)