He was born into humble circumstances, the son of an obscure civil servant in a remote corner of a crumbling empire, yet his name resounds throughout the world to this day.

He was rejected by the universities of his time for formal enrollment in art and in architecture, and yet he erected mighty buildings and monuments, and today a simple postcard that he drew in ink or charcoal fetches staggering sums at auction.

He never achieved more than a public school education, yet he wrote a book which has outsold every other book in history except for the Bible.

He fought as a front line soldier through all four years of the greatest war in history up to that time, never rising above the rank of corporal, but he won both of his country's highest decorations for bravery under fire and rose to command the mightiest armies on earth.

He did not drink. He did not smoke. He was a lifelong lover of animals and children and was happiest in the company of toddlers rather than statesmen and soldiers, and no one ever overheard him use a profane word or tell a smutty joke.

He lifted his people up from the mud of defeat and despair and alien domination, and he died trying to do the same for all of us.

Alles Gute zum Geburtstag, der Führer.