Book of Jim: Agnostic Parables and Dick Jokes From Lucifer's Paradise by Adam Spielman Page B

Cleopatra?”
    Hitler said, “We ruled.  We expanded our empires until we were defeated by superpowers.  We killed ourselves to avoid capture.  Much in common.”
    “Yeah, but, I mean, with or without the arm fat she’s smoking hot.  She consorted with Caesars.  And you were, like, the Lord of the Nazis.”
    “Fuhrer.”
    “It ain’t the same.”
    They came to the place where Jim’s ball thwunked .  The hipsters set down the chariot, and they found the ball in some tall grass behind an oak tree.  It was a fair lie.  Jim took out a seven iron and he punched the ball into the fairway.
    “The Pharaohs were not kind to their people,” said Hitler.
    “Dude.  Nazis.”
    Jim exchanged the seven iron for a fairway wood and approached his ball.  His swing was wild.  The ball hooked and sailed out of play.
    “You need to be more open,” Hitler said.
    “What?!”
    “Your club face.  You have to open up your club face.”
    “Oh, a golf joke.”
    “I never joke about golf.”
    Jim threw down the club.
    “You killed a billion people.  Like, a fucking billion.  And you’re giving me shit about my golf swing?”
    “You have a terrible swing.”
    “Give me another ball.”
    So Hitler threw him another ball and he lined up for a second shot.  “Relax your shoulders,” Hitler said.  “And bend your knees a little.  Remember to keep your head down.  You must strike the ball well before you can watch it fly.”
    Jim thought, The Fuhrer wants me to relax and be more open.  He took a breath, opened up, and swung.  The ball sailed straight down the fairway and thumped down on the fringe of the green.  He handed his club to one of the hipsters as he climbed back into the chariot.
    “It was Plato that showed me golf,” Hitler said.  “He is a very good teacher.  Being more open, that was the first trick he showed me.”
    “You golf with Plato?”
    “We have much in common.”
    “Go fuck yourself.”
    Hitler’s drive was in the dead center of the fairway.  He approached the ball with an eight iron.  His swing was creamy smooth and he stuck the ball pin high.
    “And it’s not true about the billion people,” he said.
    “Well, I exaggerated a little,” Jim said.
    “In this place I’ve only killed one person.  They only count it if you pull the trigger.”
    “Oh come on.”
    “It’s true.  I’m only credited with a single kill, one Adolf Hitler.”  He thumbed his chest.  “You might call me a hero.”
    Hitler put his eight iron back into the bag and climbed back into the chariot.  The hipsters carried on.  Jim rummaged through his brain for some high school history.
    “But how is that possible?” Jim said.  “D-Day, the Battle of the Bulge, the concentration camps.  That was all you .  You made all that shit happen.”
    “Free will.”
    “Free will?”
    “You’re only responsible for what you do .  According to the records, I just talked a lot.  The kills all went to the people who listened to me.”
    “But you forced them to do it!”
    “I thought so too.  But you can’t force anybody to anything.  There is always a choice.”
    This was all too much for Jim.  For not only was Hitler off the hook, but he got to be the guy that killed Hitler.  When the hipsters set them down at the edge of the green, Jim took out his putter and pointed it at the Fuhrer.
    “I don’t buy it,” he said.  “And I don’t care what the angels say.  Adolf Hitler was an asshole.”  Then he three-putted for bogey.
    “Just go to the Mortality Plaza,” Hitler said.  “It’s on Corporeal Avenue, right downtown.  That’s where they keep the kill counts and the death records.  They will tell you the same thing.”
    Hitler rattled home his putt.  Jim took out the scorecard and wrote the scores.  Around his six he drew a box.  He circled Hitler’s three.
    “Well,” Jim said, “at least an eagle can still put you six under.”
    Hitler slapped his shoulder.  “Ha!  A