Warning: This post contains satire. Proceed with extreme caution. Side effects include bouts of critical thinking and unintended laughter. If you find yourself taking it too seriously, please consult with your doctor immediately.

In the hottest hell of our imaginations, two Fascists and a Communist escape into a corner bar, the Barbarossa.

The black-haired man with a tiny caterpillar mustache sits in an empty booth. He is Adolf Hitler, known to his people as Mein Fuhrer. A shorter man with a thicker, fatter mustache sits at a table in the middle of the room. He is Joseph Stalin, known as Comrade or Generalissimo. And the third man doesn’t know where to sit. Barrel-chested and wide-eyed, with a cleanly shaven face—no mustache—he is Benito Mussolini, known to his people as Il Duce.

“Sit, Benito,” Hitler says, pointing to the bar. Mussolini does as he is told.

A tiny woman with straggly grey hair flying everywhere appears but does not make eye contact with the three dictators. She hovers and awaits her orders, pulling on her white apron. Quivering in fear, she admonishes her considerable sins and accepts her fate.

“What are we drinking?” Stalin says.

“Tea for me in a porcelain cup,” says Hitler. “And something sweet. Pralines!”

“I will just have the usual,” Mussolini says.

“Same for me,” says Stalin.

The woman scurries back into the darkness and emerges moments later with a bottle of vodka, a tall glass of milk, and a saucer of pralines, which she places before Hitler. He rubs his hands together excitedly like a schoolboy. “Mmmmm, my favorite!” Says Hitler, “But where’s the tea!” The woman startles and nods furiously but must first place the vodka on Stalin’s table with a shot glass and then finally serve Mussolini his tall glass of milk.

As the wench turns to leave, Hitler stews. It’s taking too long. He pounds his fist on the table, and the woman races off.

“That’s always been your problem, Adolf. You are too impatient,” Stalin says, pouring himself a glass. “Impatient and impulsive.”

Hitler scoffs. “Enjoy your ‘water,’ Joseph. Do you think we’re that stupid?”

The cursed woman returns, taking care not to spill the cup of hot tea on Hitler as she carefully places it before him. Hitler dismisses her with a wave.

“Water,” Stalin says, “How would you ever know, even it was?”

“We’re already bored of your little tiresome games,” Hitler says.

Now, Mussolini pounds his fist on the bar. “Will both of you SHUT UP? We have urgent business to attend to.”

Hitler and Stalin share a look. Then, both break into giggles.

“WHAT is so funny if I may ask?” Mussolini says.

“You, uh, have a bit of a milk mustache, Benito; it looks like mine!” says Stalin.

Mussolini slides his sleeve across his face, wiping off the milk, but remains defiant.

“Stop laughing, Adolf!”

Hitler covers his mouth to try to keep from laughing.

“Ha Ha real funny,” Mussolini says. “I used to drink milk for breakfast. Now, It’s for my stomach. A terrible ulcer.”

“Settle down, Benito,” Hitler says. “We did not gather here to discuss your dietary preferences.”

“You’re one to talk,” Mussolini says. “Maybe if you’d laid off the sugar, you might have—”

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