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Jason
DeBoer is an editor in Madison, Wisconsin. His work has appeared or is
forthcoming in The Iowa Review, Quarterly West, Rosebud, Stand,
Other Voices, Clackamas Literary Review, Mississippi Review, The Barcelona Review,
The Wisconsin Review, CrossConnect, Pindeldyboz, Locus Novus, The American Journal
of Print, The Paumanok Review, Suspect Thoughts, Eleven Bulls, and the Absinthe Literary Review.
At the moment,
he is working on Stupor, his debut novel.
Charlie Chaplin
Jason DeBoer
In retrospect, it must have been the moustaches.
Until I was seven, I thought Hitler was the funniest man ever to appear onscreen. I could
never understand why everyone said such awful things about him. He was impish
and charming in his baggy trousers and derby hat. A fearless and acrobatic rollerskater.
I adored his penguin walk. His omnipresent cane twirling at the sun. And the nonchalant
way he could eat a boiled shoe--well, it was delightful. Just as his autobiographical
film professed, he was a Great Dictator, everything a child could want in a world
leader. Yet, whenever I professed my admiration for him, my mother would kiss
me with the back of her hand. Of course, since she knew almost nothing of politics,
I disregarded her opinion. One day, in history class, our
teacher showed us a short filmstrip about Hitler. I grimaced at his appearance.
He had really let himself go in his later years. Gone were his sparkling eyes,
his dusty grace. He was speaking German, too, which was considerably less amusing
than his pantomime. I assumed this was the reason why the public had turned on
him.
Soon after, when I was not quite eight, I discovered
W. C. Fields, the truly funniest of men, and forgot all about Hitler
for awhile. My mother seemed very relieved.
© Jason DeBoer
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