o16

After WW1 passed, Germany, for some, strange reason, took me out for a drink. Maybe it was because I could sympathize with poor Germany, he was in quite a bind. France was demanding 132 billion marks for reparation for the war, because, in that wimpy blonde‘s mind, it was all Germany’s fault. If the payments were late, France threatened to take over the Ruhr region.

“Can you believe it?!” Germany yelled, drunk out of his pants. Literally. He was sitting there at the booth, next to me, with no pants and what I’m pretty sure was a boner. Either that or he was so desperate for money that he was going to steal a bottle of alcohol. “The bastard is making me build cuckoo clocks for him! I hate cuckoo clocks!”

By now I’d finished my beer and wanted a second. And even though I noticed the price had doubled in just the few minutes we’d talking, probably because he was printing money at the same rate Russia metabolized alcohol, I ordered another. Hey, why not? It was all on Germany.

And I know that sounds diabolically evil, but that’s what the idiot gets for printing enough money to burn us a bonfire for five months straight.