what if hitler used his bbc as a pogo stick and jumped his way out of berlin
- Thread starter sage
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Berlin, April 1945.
The Red Army thundered toward the city like the judgment of history itself. The FĂĽhrerbunker, now more of a concrete mausoleum than a command center, echoed with desperation, cigarette smoke, and the distant rumble of artillery.
Adolf Hitler, twitchy and manic, stared into a cracked mirror. His mustache was crooked. His empire was crumbling. The war was lost. But then… he felt it. A tingle. A vision.
"What if," he muttered, eyes wide with a mix of delusion and epiphany, "I became... the pogo."
He ripped open his trousers, revealing what historians had long debated: a grotesquely muscular, spring-loaded phallus, glistening with an undeniably vantablack exterior.
"Eva, get the goggles!" he screamed.
Eva Braun, unfazed and chain-smoking, rolled her eyes and handed him a pair of steampunk aviator goggles. “Are we really doing this again, Adolf?”
“There is no again. This is destiny.”
He crouched, aimed his penile pogo mechanism at the floor, and launched himself upward with an almost majestic "BOING." The reinforced concrete ceiling exploded in a shower of dust as Hitler soared into the ruined Berlin sky.
The Soviets paused. Even the most battle-hardened soldier dropped his rifle in awe and confusion as a screaming, half-naked Hitler bounced past, howling “NEIN NEIN NEIN JA JA JA!” with each rebound.
One soldier muttered, “Was that his...?”
“Yes,” replied a grizzled tank commander. “And it’s got hydraulics.”
He pogo-jumped through the Brandenburg Gate, did a flip over the Spree, rebounded off a T-34 tank turret, and screamed across the Reichstag’s burning roof like a demented jack-in-the-box from hell.
Eventually, somewhere over the Alps, Hitler’s bounce began to falter. Physics and shame caught up with him. He crash-landed in a Swiss pasture, terrifying a family of goats and a yodeler named Klaus.
He crawled into a cave, muttering about "the fourth reich... of bounce." No one ever saw him again. Except Klaus, who wrote a bestselling memoir: “Springtime for Hitler: The Man, The Myth, The BBC Pogo.”
The Red Army thundered toward the city like the judgment of history itself. The FĂĽhrerbunker, now more of a concrete mausoleum than a command center, echoed with desperation, cigarette smoke, and the distant rumble of artillery.
Adolf Hitler, twitchy and manic, stared into a cracked mirror. His mustache was crooked. His empire was crumbling. The war was lost. But then… he felt it. A tingle. A vision.
"What if," he muttered, eyes wide with a mix of delusion and epiphany, "I became... the pogo."
He ripped open his trousers, revealing what historians had long debated: a grotesquely muscular, spring-loaded phallus, glistening with an undeniably vantablack exterior.
"Eva, get the goggles!" he screamed.
Eva Braun, unfazed and chain-smoking, rolled her eyes and handed him a pair of steampunk aviator goggles. “Are we really doing this again, Adolf?”
“There is no again. This is destiny.”
He crouched, aimed his penile pogo mechanism at the floor, and launched himself upward with an almost majestic "BOING." The reinforced concrete ceiling exploded in a shower of dust as Hitler soared into the ruined Berlin sky.
The Soviets paused. Even the most battle-hardened soldier dropped his rifle in awe and confusion as a screaming, half-naked Hitler bounced past, howling “NEIN NEIN NEIN JA JA JA!” with each rebound.
One soldier muttered, “Was that his...?”
“Yes,” replied a grizzled tank commander. “And it’s got hydraulics.”
He pogo-jumped through the Brandenburg Gate, did a flip over the Spree, rebounded off a T-34 tank turret, and screamed across the Reichstag’s burning roof like a demented jack-in-the-box from hell.
Eventually, somewhere over the Alps, Hitler’s bounce began to falter. Physics and shame caught up with him. He crash-landed in a Swiss pasture, terrifying a family of goats and a yodeler named Klaus.
He crawled into a cave, muttering about "the fourth reich... of bounce." No one ever saw him again. Except Klaus, who wrote a bestselling memoir: “Springtime for Hitler: The Man, The Myth, The BBC Pogo.”
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