S. Korea's 'Worst-Case Scenario' Planning Doesn't Include Genital Torture

ast week's announcement by South Korea that it was planning for a "worst-case scenario" in a U.S.-North Korean war fell short by the standards of many worst-case scenario experts.

According to delegates speaking on behalf of South Korea, the country is making preparations for war in the event negotiations to prevent nuclear armament fail. South Korea anticipates multiple responses that could endanger the country, even up to and including a nuclear attack on a major city such as Seoul by their northern neighbor, an event South Korea considers a "worst-case scenario."

But those in the know say a nuclear assault on Seoul would fall far short of the "worst-case," in their estimate. A nuclear blast would likely incinerate most inhabitants on the spot, and those not killed in the blast, while being badly burned and poisoned by nuclear radiation, would still face quicker and less painful deaths than other possible, "even worse" scenarios.

"An atomic death would be horrible, no doubt about it, but 'worse-case'?" questioned worst-case scenario expert Rich "the Douche" Borwinkle. "I highly doubt that. Until you introduce things like genital electrocution and sandpaper-on-the-eyeballs, you're a long way from worst-case."

Borwinkle makes a point other experts agree with; worst-case aficionado and author of The 100 Worst Ways to Die Albert Crome insists he made the point before anyone else.

"There are peaceful ways to die, like suffocating in your sleep or freezing to death or something. I've heard drowning is a little intense, but it's pretty cool because the flashbacks in those last moments of brain activity are awesome. But nuclear assault isn't anywhere close to best or worst, it's right in the middle."

Continued Crome, "One word for you: Acid. That'll smack you on the ass, won't it? Don't tell me if given a choice between radiation poisoning and acid in the face you would take the latter. And we're not even getting into flesh-eating bacteria, small pox, or some of the more ordinary every-day deaths like ass cancer. That'll make you beg for a mushroom cloud."

Expressions of Slaughter videos producer Jacob Vissucio also found the South Korean "worst-case" preparation falling short. "No doubt the South Koreans aren't anticipating being caught on train tracks when North Korea comes barreling through, non-stop. Here, check this out."

This reporter did, indeed, "check it out," and voluminous vomiting followed. If South Korea is subject to the same kind of horror as the poor son of a bitch on the video, they have yet to know what real pain is.

Similar feelings resonate with many Americans, at least those in Roanoke, Virginia's Bewley High 10 a.m. study hall.

Stiller Wells, one study hall regular: "If North Korea was real vicious, like real sick bastards, they should do some of that medieval shit on South-K. They would, like, rip a whole in your stomach—not enough to kill you, but just enough so's this giant rat could be shoved in there. And the rat, like, ain't been fed in days so it goes all crazy eating up inside you. That's some sick shit. The South wouldn't rise again from that, I tell you what."

Wells and this reporter then made plans to rent the train video that was described to him, at some future unnamed date. Representatives from the South Korean embassy refused to respond to questions, and would not stay on the phone long enough to hear the details of the rat story.

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Twisted gas needles! It's time! 'Tis the season when a Nedmiller's happier than a hamster cut up by a coat hanger! Next Yesteryear done come and came, and Ned had hisself the biggest Next Yesteryear ever, as can be vouched by the fresh gypsies of Good King Wencelas, no less.

All was well-fittin' with the tradition of Next Yesteryear as invented by Nedley's great grandfather and greater granddappa in the year seven days before 18 hundred and 66, the same year Wencelas choked himself to death on a camel toe. As in every year, Ned scaled the great tent pole in the backyard and planted the head of a dead fish to ward off the Next Yesteryear goblin and his self-dropping breeches. "Whew!" said Ned. No sense taking chances of free-danglin' goblin willies scaring off Ned's guests at this Yesteryear party, no sir!

Course if there is any guarantee to be had of a Yesteryear party for the ages, it comes from collecting all of your person's dead skin flakes and mixing them into a fine, grainy paste. No joking! A true Nedmiller would do nothing less for the best Next Yesteryear ever, and Ned did it up good. Big old books will tell you suntanning by the mighty oak tree in the backyard makes them skins nice an flaked, and Ned will be bit on the ass by a woodpecker if that's a printed falsehood. Also, you just know climbing inside the over helps a heap for making skin flakes crunchy and ready to be flaked!

Before three possums can say Yahtzee, them party is begun. Fresh off the trolley comes Ned's fat meaty cat, and Ned cooks 'em brilliant. None for you? More for Ned!

More treats for the guests is laid out by the handfuls. Cinnamon gravy richer than the king of Siam, bottle caps with moth eggs laid nice in, and a dead guy roasting on the lawn. And them's just for appeteasers! Such a time brings back mammaries of Ned's first Next Yesteryear back on the plantation, yessir. Brings a genuine wet tear to Ned's old eye. And pinkeye to Ned's nose, it should be noted.

But them foods and decorations is just the beginning to the Next Yesteryear celebration! No Yesteryear has come to town until the clock strikes home and it's for real the Hour of the Misbegotten. Masked dogs take Ned's guests hostages and Neddy Furtado hisself has to hide in the wall outlets, crawling about like ol' 'lectricity in all its glory, dispatching one canine after another until all them guests are back to safeness. Then you know them guests take one big-sized bath together while Nedmiller the New cavorts about in a Saran Wrap diaper as Baby Clamdipper. Only when Nedder's own shadow catches him and pops him back in a bottle of that Kentucky Bourbon is this Next Yesteryear officially kaputs.

Then them post-party depressionations set in, indeedy-Steve. Ned cries hisself into the fourth dimension and back one more time, saying Nedmiller backwards eleventy times to banish away them nasty spirits if needed. Should that falter, Ned either sacrifices a virgin or deflowers a town crier, or both at one moment in stereo, whichever them situation calls. Usually one of them and a yellow pie puts Ned back into high kippers for the brand new year, ready to plan out again the next Next Yesteryear shindig proper.

Ah, tradition.

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Please, George, watch that disgusting mouth of yours. Nobody cares if it's the truth, they don't want to hear it anyway. The truth is not always beautiful, George, and in this case, it's positively sickening.

Do you really think anybody wants to hear about your medical history, your sexual proclivities, or a combination of either? No, George. Giving you the simplest, quickest answer: No, they don't. That sound you hear isn't the whisper of a freshly-created buzz, or catty town gossip. It's dry-heaving, and you've caused it, George.

Let's assume for one second you even had a reasonable excuse to mention you've recently begun taking that Cialis drug—and that's a big enough if, George. Bypassing that, was the look of disgust some clear signal you should proceed with the story, adding even more detail and description when possible? I think not. Did the way my face flushed red and the gasp that came out of my mouth, did these things beg for elaboration on your fascinating story about the dick pills? Because I personally fail to see the encouragement.

I was watching the crowd reaction, perhaps better than you were, and I didn't see anyone asking to hear about your erectile dysfunction, either with words, facial expressions, or body language. It's possible, I suppose, given that my eyesight is not what it used to be, some schmuck far in the back of the crowded room wore a T-shirt asking for you to tell us more about your floppy phallus, but we've had discussions before about you following the advice of a T-shirt before, so that certainly can't be it.

Maybe you assumed, incorrectly, people would be fascinated with the articulate description of your medical exam. Nope, George, a resounding nope. The image forced upon our minds of a doctor with his hands squeezing your furry scrotum is only slightly more appetizing that the unwelcome imagined sight of you with your pants around your ankles, your withered drumstick cranking up for action.

And if it needs saying, thank you so much for dragging me into your embarrassing reality. The fact we showed up together to the soiree, even forgetting our marriage of seemingly endless years, automatically leads people to assume you would be using that deadly medicated erection on yours truly. Did I warrant your hate so much as to make people think we have sex together? Not even on our best day together, George, not with a belly full of booze and a borrowed dick. But I hardly had time to explain that, did I? Agnes was too busy asking us to leave for me to assure her you and I have never even been naked in the same room together. And if only I could have gone a few more years, I'm sure death would have claimed me and I would have avoided the ugly prospect of having to imagine you unclothed. I want to check with your mother, bless her piteous soul, and make sure you actually were born naked. Even God would not be so cruel as to do that to a woman—perhaps you emerged from the woman with a seersucker suit made of placenta. It's the one thought that gives me hope for a heaven.

Everyone at the party lived in a happier world before you arrived. The mere notion that something resembling a penis lives in your pants is more than anyone should have to live with. I can never go back to the childlike innocence I once held, and even saying the word "erection" should bring me post-traumatic flashbacks for the rest of my life. A life, by the by, which will be dedicated to making you one hundred percent miserable from now on, of course. The game starts here, you dangling dandy.

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