he gonzo box office success of Lions Gate Entertainment’s new film The Hunger Games has drawn criticism from North Korea’s beloved madman Kim Jong-un this week, as the diminutive leader called bullshit on the killing of teenagers in ritualized sport suddenly becoming cool after his country had been doing it for decades.

"Once again a Hollywood movie has made a mockery of the glorious North Korean lifestyle," griped Kim. "Same thing happen in Dark City and Mad Max."

Kim Jong-un, back in power after the nation’s failed experiment with Megaupload founder Kim Dotcom was rapidly abandoned due to Dotcom being jailed for paying to see The Smurfs, violating North Korea’s longstanding policy regarding the mandatory pirating of Hollywood films, added that The Hunger Games was "popcorn bullshit" and that unlike Westerners, the fortunate citizens of North Korea don’t have to pay exorbitant movie theater prices to see that kind of thing every day.

The insular nation, which subjects its citizens to harrowing games of life and death on a daily basis, is no stranger to televised competitions that would probably be called The Hunger Games if they’d thought of that first. These include the capital city’s weekly "Fight For Your Food Fun Fight" events, which critics have condemned as a natural result of the state’s failed economy and collapsed chain of food production disguised as a trumped-up game show where regular citizens punch each other to death over the last canned ham in the entire city. Regardless, the North Korean tourism board has been quick to capitalize on the success of the Hunger Games film, already advertising tourism packages where Hunger Games fans can tour the Pyongyang Deathdrome and kill an actual North Korean teenager with their bare hands for less than the average New Yorker spends on "Whoops, I ran over another homeless person" insurance.

The Hunger Games opened to a gangbusters $155 million in its first weekend in theaters, a figure described by Hollywood pundits as "fucking bananas" and "bigger than $154 million," and representing the biggest box-office opening in history for a non-sequel film. Critics dispute the importance of this claim, however, since it was also the first non-sequel film to be released since 2007.

Based on the first of a berserkly popular series of young adult novels by writer Suzanne Collins, the books and film alike have been criticized for being heavily derivative of previous source materials, such as the Japanese film Battle Royale, the American films The Running Man, Series 7, The Condemned, The Most Dangerous Game, Lord of the Files, The Truman Show, Spartacus and Death Race 2000, the Italian film The 10th Victim, the Stephen King story The Long Walk and the Shirley Jackson novel The Lottery. In honor of this long chain of shit being ripped off, the CW has already begun filming the pilot for their own Hunger Games knock-off television series, The Selection, which involves a cast of lesser-known actors rehashing the plot of The Hunger Games on a weekly basis.

When asked recently if she thought her novels were derivative of these previous works, Collins responded "What? I can’t hear you because of the noise from all the money I’m drowning in over here," before literally drowning in an avalanche of hundred dollar bills. Funeral services will be held Tuesday at the cash landfill in North Hollywood where rich people are buried.

In spite of the author’s death, the white-hot success of the first film all but guarantees that Lions Gate will return to Collins’ grave at least twice more to adapt the other two books in the series, 2009’s Catching Fire and 2010’s Oxycute ’em! in hopes of sating the bloodlust of twelve-year-old American girls. Stars Jennifer Lawrence and Josh Hutcherson have reportedly already signed on for three sequels, with a uniquely ironic clause in their contracts stating that if they back out of the sequels for any reason, they’ll be hunted by hordes of teenaged fans out for blood.

Meanwhile, North Korea’s Jong-un has demanded that Hollywood filmmakers stop ripping off ideas from his country for their dystopian sci-fi visions.

"You get your own ideas," the beloved "Supreme Tall Sunshine Man" spat into a microphone shaped like a hamburger. "I don’t want to see any more movie with robots that look like humans but are spies for government, or people with clocks stuck in their arms ticking down to time when they die, or genetic-engineered battle giraffes, or desalination plant that run on dead babies."

"In closing," Jong-un decreed, while eating a roll of Fruit-by-the-Foot, "I also downloaded bittorrent of The Smurfs, and there’s not goddamned thing you people can do about it."

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Many readers have an unshakeable image of me from reading my column. They see Rok Finger as a cool, collective individual with a good head on his shoulders, by way of a stodgy little neck. A tough-as-nails, yet sensitive and insightful observer of human nature, in the least effeminate way possible. A creature of perfection, who could not get any better. But you could not be further from the truth.

Like anybody else, I try for improvement. New Year's is a time for me, like everybody else, to look within using my mind's eye, which has X-ray vision, and ask myself, "What would Rok Finger do?" Meaning to make himself better. Me better. I speak of New Year's resolutions. Let's make them together, shall we?

Chief among my New Year's resolutions is to cut down on use of the third person when I speak. It just gets too damn confusing. Maybe in return I could increase my use of the second person. You can do it, Rok! There. That sounds more supportive already.

Camembert and Lee have suggested that maybe I'm a bit aggressive as a roommate. Well, Lee said it. Camembert couldn't look me in the eye when I was told this, so that's as good a sign as any that he agrees. Is it possible? Are you too strong a personality for weasly jelly-spined lifeforms like Camembert? Not everybody has your self-confidence and dynamic personality, some are overwhelmed. And people don't need to be overwhelmed, they need to be encouraged. So I say, way to go! I will see to it this year that Camembert is much more encouraged to speak his mind. We will begin rigorous training in that department at 0200 hours tonight, right after V.I.P. is over. I'll make it a surprise.

I was talking with my ex-wife Arvelyn the other day—I came down her chimney dressed as Santa Claus as a Christmas surprise, and we had a happy reunion after the pepper spray's effects faded. She confessed to me that, on some level, right below the fear and indescribable rage at my behavior, she still loves me. She even wishes we could reconcile, but she said I'm far too paranoid and snap at the least little thing. I denied it, of course, but after setting fire to the Christmas tree in retaliation I didn't have much of a leg to stand on. I conceded that maybe she had a point, and I would try to improve that in the future—at least until I can find out what her ulterior motive is in this game.

In fact, you could even say that my cat Makeshift is the only one who has no problem with me. Which is why I kidnapped him. Such a good friend and ally should live with me rather than my arch-enemy/ex-wife. "Kidnapping" might be a misrepresentation. Catnapping is probably more accurate, as well as more adorable.

I'm not even getting into what my office mates think of me. So many emotionally-troubled people in one place shouldn't be given consideration, which is the logic I've been using for the Israel-Palestine conflict for years. But each of them is angry with me about something—whether it's my on-target advice on how they handle their personal lives, my complaints about their distracting breathing noises, or my wearing a wire during personal conversations (again, Mr. Bricks, nothing personal, just doing my civic duty), they all have a bone to pick with me. A bunch of lousy bone pickers.

To study myself in this context, this barrage of complaints, you'd think I needed more than a tweak here or there in the Rok Finger personality matrix. I needed a dad-blamed reconstruction. Which makes my New Year's resolutions completely clear, at least.

I resolve, first and foremost, to not let the opinions of others bother me. I must be more sure of myself, I must defy criticism in every form, and I must be steadfast against the corruption of others.

And I'm going back to the third person. Rok Finger was much closer to perfect before this mess started.

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Rok Finger is more full of it than anyone you've ever met—if the "it" in question is charity. I've got more charity in my tax documents than most people have in their whole bodies. And when I heard people somewhere were suffering from something, I wanted to do my part. And your part, too, if you weren't already doing it.

That's why I organized the Concert for New Orleans—just me and a few friends you may have heard of. Like John Cougar Mellancamp? Willie Nelson? Hazel Mertz? Electric Eddie Dumpling? Lee? Camembert? And Alec Baldwin? Okay, you may not have heard of all of them—I understand Baldwin was in a movie called Beetle Jews, so I thought I'd give him a break and invite him along.

Basically what it is, my celebrity friends and Alec Baldwin all got together and decided to play songs, read poems, and do all sorts of interesting crap for charity. All the money that we don't sneak into our own pockets goes to help the victims of New Orleans. Apparently it's been giving some people trouble. I'm not sure of all the details, too much reading required, but I wanted to make sure people who were suffering got everything they needed, and the entire world knew it was Rok Finger who organized the damn thing.

I've got the whole thing arranged, and over three of the announced guests have agreed to appear. We start of things very solemn and dignified, before they get fucking nuts with fun. First, a moment of silence for the victims of New Orleans. More than a moment—an hour and a half. Complete silence. Now that's classy. Then, we start into a real melancholy ballad—I'm trying to reunite Soundgarden for that, since I think the grunge music perfectly represents whatever the cause is.

Next we go into a small skit about the dangers of… well, all the details haven't been ironed out yet. Whatever's the danger that's troubling all the people we're trying to benefit. I'm trying to get Ernest Hemingway to write it, but if we can't get him on the phone, I understand Mariel Hemingway's available. If we can't get her, I'll try Anferny Hardaway. And I'll keep trying names that sound the least little bit similar until I get to Camembert, who will probably end up writing it. After all, he's not exactly going to get a place in the chorus line, and he'd better do something to help out with the charity if he wants his name on the marquee. Under Sting, but over Don Cornelius.

Before you get the chance to ask, and cancel your reservation, Lee's band, Up With Prophets, will be performing. I hope you like Christian Rock! Or maybe "like" is too strong a word. I hope you can stomach it for twenty minutes, because that's all they're scheduled to play for. Got to make way for the celebrities who aren't my friends.

Then, a cavalcade of true Hollywood talent the likes of which you've seldom seen. You'll get pure talent up the whazoo until you want to puke. We'll be doing the whole thing right here at the commune offices to save on the expenses, and because Bagel says it's something called "deductible." There will be so much talent in this group, God will look down from heaven and say, "Shit, when did I drop all that talent down there?"

It's high time somebody did something for the New Orleans sufferers—when's the last time you turned on your TV and saw anybody doing anything? Or even seen it mentioned? But that's the kind of guy I am—all charity. And as soon as we get this New Orleans problem taken care of, I'd like to do something about the hungry. Feed them, or failing that, anesthesia.

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