Sunday, March 31, 2013

KIM JONG UN RESPONDS TO THE INTERNATIONAL HERALD TRIBUNE



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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