The clenched iron fist of awesome punches you right in the balls. The picture is too white-powerful to take in all at once. Only by focusing on one small portion of the photo at a time can you avoid having your pupils burn like a Swastika on the Ark of the Covenant. Is this the best picture of all time? In a word, yes. Is Nazi Milk-Girl the love of my life? In a different word, probably. A few thoughts on the shit that just changed everything we thought we knew about everything forever:
Figure A.
There he is, the man with the plan! Teen Heartthrob Hitler absolutely sizzles with fuhreriness in this tasteful 3×2 oil rendering. Frame is available white-separately and comes in your choice of blond maple or faux Jew-molar. The perfect gift for that special someone who spends her days purifying milk with her feet while surrounded by Nazi memorabilia!
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Figure B.
Your standard 14-year-old girl’s Nazi shrine, replete with adorable cat figurines. Some may call them a real NOT-zi touch, but I say the cats delicately humanize the future mother of the Fourth Reich. Nazi Milk-Girl, you’ll be a Nazi Milk-Woman soon.
And I mean real soon because next to the cats a cigarette lighter and ashtray can clearly be seen. You know what they say, “If she smokes and purifies milk with her feet, she pokes.
In the upper left of the shrine there is some fan-art commemorating Soundgarden’s masterful 1991 album Badmotorfinger. Nothing soothes the savage Aryan beast and helps break the “Rusty Cage” of creeping Zionism like rocking out to jewey grunge guys.
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Figure C.
And the shit just got real! Any poseur can cut a few cute pics out of Tiger-Tank Beat or Hitler Parade magazine and declare themselves a milk-purifying Neo-Nazi. But for those serious about removing the taint of the Jew-claw from their beverages and ushering in a new age of White Nationalism, being unarmed is not an option. By casually hanging this bitchin’ and white-powerful Airsoft rifle on the wall, Nazi Milk-Girl has put the inferior races of the world on notice that if they mess were her or her ideology, they are liable to get showered in a slightly annoying hellstorm of soft plastic pellets.
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Figure D.
I’d like to think of this as the Master(race) Clock, counting down the seconds until the (Final) Solution to all my milk-purifying needs. “Is this batch of milk pure yet,” you ask quivering with anticipation. “Nein,” Nazi Milk-Girl would answer, “It needs three more minutes of feet.”
Du scheissenkopf! That’s why she’s sitting in the milk bucket and you’re not.
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Figure E.
No Nazi Milk-Girl worth her weight in lampshades and soap would try to pull this shit off without a trusty Nazi Milk-Gimp at her side. Wearing the same Tuxedo-Tee as that kike Sean Penn in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, (and evidently a ski mask to prevent hair or boogers from falling into the same batch of milk that currently has feet in it) the Nazi Milk-Gimp is Eva Brauning like a sumbitch.
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Figure F.
And then there was her. Look at that sassy, Hitlerian hair-part to the left! That creamy white skin! Those hateful, pouty lips!
If someone had asked me yesterday what love was, I probably would have quoted them a Hanns Johst sonnet, mumbling something about reaching for my gun when I hear the word “culture.” But I had never before looked at a Nazi Milk-Girl and been totally vulnerable– a Nazi Milk-Girl who could level you with her eyes.
Summers in Vienna. Winters in Argentina. Begging, coaxing, praying her philtrum whiskers into existence. NASCAR races. Tea Party rallies. Watching Riefenstahl flicks over and over and over again. I’d even be willing to forgive her Mathias Steiner calves and her penchant for wearing mismatched men’s suits while begging me to shit on her chest as Nazi Gimp-Girl jacks off 240 black guys into clear plastic containers.
We may struggle at times, but in the end, our love shall triumph where others who came before have failed.
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I would sass that girl somethin’ fierce. Get her all riled up then show her my dippin’ stick. Yeehaw!
Ich würde vermuten, dass die Magermilch Mädchen sitzt mit dem 1% ausgerichtet.
Why does Baron try to write like you? His shit is stale. Your shit is superior. You must really have him brainwashed.
Mommy? Is that you?
ho hum. the end of this story makes me sad.
thats a shwarze sonne, has nothing to do with soundgarden whatsoever
Actually, it is a huntsman’s jacket and a simple trousers, so I wouldn’t consider it a mismatch.
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