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Dear
Editor:
I
am not a subscriber or even casual reader of your so-called “newspaper.” For one thing – no good comics. For another
thing, who can afford the villas in Cinque Terre listed for sale in the Real
Estate Classifieds? Thirdly, the Trib
is banned in my country. But one of our “agricultural attachés” brought a copy back from Paris yesterday
and showed me an article you had published about me.
It
was all about how I am threatening the world with nuclear missiles, and how my
people are starving, and how I am mercurial and a Class-A nut job, and blah blah
blah. The usual stuff. Then, mid-way through the third paragraph, I
read this: “The baby-faced dictator
remains jealous of his older exiled paternal half-brother Kim Jong-Nam.”
Ok,
like, for starters, “Baby-Faced?” Excuse me?
Had your intrepid reporter bothered to do his
homework, he would have learned that I am, hands down, the biggest heartthrob
north of the Demilitarized Zone. I so much as step foot in the Pyongyang
People’s Pleasure Place & Pâtisserie
and the whole place falls into a swoon. All the girls want to dance the
“Hustle” with me. (The PPPP&P is a swanky little disco we have here.
Thursday is Mandelbrot night, hence “Pâtisserie”).
Why
do you think that one of my official titles is “Number 1 Handsome Man?” Every
Korean of the female persuasion dreams of having a date with me. Whose photo do
you think is taped to all the vanities in the country? The Pope’s? Jerry Lewis’? Guess again, Sparky!
It is me, myself, and Mois! (Jerry
Lewis is number 3 on the male pinup hit parade, just so you know).
Can
you guess what Pop (“Dear Leader” not to be confused with “Dear Abbey”)
use to call me? “Macho Macho Man.” Pop was the World’s Number 1 Dad. Don’t take
my word for it; he had the coffee mug to prove it. He used to sing “Macho Macho Man” in the
shower all the time. Do you know it? “I
want to be a macho, macho man.” Those
are the lyrics. He’d say “American
Adventurists! I’m going to bomb the shit
out of them as soon as we get one of these ferkakta
rockets to work!” Right after that, he’d jump in the shower and
sing “Macho Macho Man.”
In
case you were wondering, I also like to sing in the shower. Here’s a little
song that I sing in the shower to perk me up right before I meet with our
supreme military brass to map out our top secret strategy for the surprise
attack on America planned for next Tuesday. It goes like this:
I’m going to Pyongyang
Pyongyang here I come
They got North Korean
women there
And I’m gonna get me
one.
By
the way, did you know that the first time Pop ever played a game of golf, he
shot 11 holes-in-one? EEEELEVEN! Read ‘em and weep! Once I went bowling with
him, and I scored a perfect 300. He
scored a 360, which is like a 300, plus 60! Can the horse’s ass at the Trib who called me “baby-faced” say
that? I didn’t think so.
Now
I’m going to clue you in on a little secret about my brother, Kim, who you seem
to think I’m so jealous of. Are you ready?
Here it is.
He’s
a moron.
I’m
sure you’ve heard the kooky stories about him. Well, take it from me: the
stories are true. When we were kids, I shared a bunk bed with my brother. Being the younger (albeit, the handsomer, by
far) I had to sleep in the bottom bunk.
My brother used to keep me up nights babbling on about how much he wanted to go to Tokyo Disneyland
and how he was going to fight off coyotes and savages in Frontierland and learn
everything there was to know about the future in Tomorrowland. It was like a
fetish. I’d say: “Kim. Give it up already. It aint gonna happen, bro.”
But
he would have none of that. He had a portable record player under his covers
that played little 45s. And all he ever wanted to listen to was “It’s a Small
World After All.” He played it non-stop. Sometimes he would play it at 78 speed
so that everybody in the chorus sounded like they had just sucked down a
bathtub full of helium. He would hum along with it like Donald Duck in heat.
That’s what I had to go to sleep to every night. I wanted to shove that little record player
down his throat. Instead, these years of psychological torture conditioned me
for my role as Great Successor to Dear Leader.
Then,
one day, when the rest of us were distracted by some bogus threat from the
lackeys in the South engineered by the Yankee imperialists, my idiot-sans-savant brother bribes some minor
palace functionary to get him a fake passport and to help him slip out of the
country undetected at dawn. Then he finally makes his way to the fantasy land of his childish dreams, and what does he do there?
Can you guess? Spends the whole day riding around and around on the Alice in Wonderland Teacups, squealing like a
piglet in doody, that’s what!
His
whole life, he fantasizes about his big day at the amusement park where giddy capitalists
go to wait on never-ending lines like Soviets of old trying to buy toilet paper.
How many times did I suffer through his breathless descriptions of his
hoped-for exploits? He had planned every
detail. He was going to venture into new horizons. He was going to have once-in-a-lifetime
thrills. Who knows? Maybe he was even going to flash his man
boobs for the cameras at the bottom of the Space Mountain water slide. But,
no! When the big moment finally arrives,
all he wants to do is go on the girly teacup ride until closing time.
Ha! Can you believe they were grooming this troglodyte
to be the heir to our Dear Leader?
Still,
in a perverse kind of way, Tokyo Disneyland is the greatest thing that ever
happened, because it got my half-wit half-brother out of the country for good. Can you imagine what an unmitigated disaster
if my brother were in charge around here!?
I shudder to even think of it.
In
conclusion, I have demonstrated to you
that: (1) I am not baby-faced. Just the opposite: I am the Number 1 Handsome
Man. (2) Saying that I am jealous of my brother is the stupidest thing I ever
heard. It is the other way around. I know he is kicking himself in his fat ass
every day wishing he was me. But he
isn’t me. I am me. Number 1 Handsome Man. (3)
There is no number 3.
Well,
that’s all for now. Hope this sets the
record straight.
Sincerely,
Kim
Jong Un
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