‘Punch Nazis,’ you say, flexing your keyboard courage. Noble in theory, but let’s be real: you’re probably a quivering twig who’d crumple at a stiff breeze, let alone a fist. Those tears you shed as a kid when life hit harder than your feelings? They’re still wet. You’re not out here toppling tyrants—you’re chasing ghosts of a regime dead for decades, playing tough in a fantasy where you’re the hero. Meanwhile, the real fight’s in the mirror, and you’re dodging that one like a coward.