North Korea to Nuke South Korea, Themselves

crewball North Korean leader Kim Jong Il confused the world yesterday by threatening to nuke South Korea, moments before humping a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Marilyn Monroe in front of thousands of onlookers and international news goons. The time-killing standoff between North Korea and the U.S. sped up a tick when Kim, galled by the United States’ demands for the scrapping of his nuclear arms program and South Korea’s calls for a compromise on the matter, pledged to bomb his southern neighbor, and by its close geographical proximity, his own country, to prove to the world that he means business.

Kim was quoted by a drunken German reporter as saying “You Amelicans so clazy! We nukes you in the Mickey Mouse!�

Experts on the Korean situation insist that Kim is serious, in spite of how goofy he looks. They claim that North Korea has the means, the will, and the lack of parental supervision to follow through with its deadly plan. People totally ignorant to the situation, however, insist that he’s full of shit and is probably just taking the country for a joyride while his dad is away on business or something.

Potent images of Kim Jong Il dancing around in his underwear to the tune of Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock & Roll� aside, this reporter had more pressing questions for the North Korean dictator. Like, what the fuck’s up with that name? Isn’t Kim supposed to be a chick name? I bet that got his ass karated in grade school. Unfortunately, Kim could not be reached for comment on this or other girly-name topics.

A source speaking under the condition of anonymity had this to say: “I ain’t shittin’ you, man, this shit’s got to be anonymous, I’m not even kidding. Cause what I gots to say is hotter than Halle Berry with some kind of malarian fever, know what I’m sayin’? Shit. So if I read in your paper that Leroy said this, I come to kill your non-confidentiating ass, dig?�

Kim’s announcement was followed by a gala parade and fireworks show featuring workers dressed as large Korean knock-offs of Muppets with names like Grover the Dog and Mrs. Frogfuck. While Kim snacked on royal salmon caught in the vaginas of beautiful women and wine that had gold flakes dissolved in it just for shits and giggles, acrobats flipped through the air and less graceful workers held up flags detailing the glorious nuking of South Korea and the beautiful fallout that would soon spread to the victorious North. The Mardi Gras atmosphere was marred somewhat by the genital electrocution of several parade workers who dishonored the state by pronouncing the “R� in Korea, but spirits rose quickly when a dancing bear wearing a sombrero rolled in on top of a huge rubber ball while wearing a “Made in Korea� tee shirt.

The finale and highlight of the evening was the forced labor-camp imprisonment of anyone who had ever been to South Korea, and their families.

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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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In the Valley of Sali, beneath a beautiful bridge, lived an Imp named Jojo who dreamed of one day being a construction worker. His daydreams were filled with visions of hardhats and bolt-throwers and rivets shining in the noontime sun. It was a stupid dream, but nobody had the heart to tell Jojo this, since he was the fragile sort and cried at the slightest provocation. Seriously, like when it rained and the ground got all muddy or when the sun came out and the water evaporated. Anything, really. One time he cried for two days because there were an odd number of blades of grass growing under the bridge. Thank God a caterpillar came along and ate one of them, or else Jojo might never have recovered.

One day Jojo woke up and the valley was buzzing with excitement. Really, it was making this sound like a refrigerator with a bad freon coil. There was some kind of problem with the trees being out of compliance, technical stuff. But besides that, everyone was excited. An exciting stranger had come to town, and even better: he was wearing a gigantic Mexican-style hat. Few things excited the people of Sali more than a genuine Mexican-style hat.

The stranger's name was Senior Sombrero ("Touché!" Jojo thought to himself wittily) and he promised the people of Sali (and by "people" I really mean all sorts of magical creatures and different-sized folks, not the boring kinds of people you see every day) many magical wonders if they would only allow him to take off his hat. And the people of Sali were practically starved for excitement, since though they lived in a magical enchanted land, people are people and they were bored with it. So of course they said yes, by all means beautiful stranger, take off your gigantic authentic Mexican-style hat!

In retrospect that was a stupid call, but few of the people had read ahead in the story so they didn't know that as soon as Senior Sombrero took off his hat and set it on the ground, all manner of different-sized and colored snakes would come pouring out of it, flooding the land with snakes extraordinaire. Senior Sombrero laughed a relieved laugh, as he'd been trying for weeks to get rid of all of those snakes in his hat and this was really starting to look like his day. He ducked into a doorway carved into an otherwise-ordinary tree and left his snake-erupting hat and the people of Sali behind. They would never see Senior Sombrero again, except for one time at the mall but that could have just been some guy who looked like Senior Sombrero, nobody was completely sure.

For ten days and ten nights snakes poured forth from the gigantic authentic Mexican-style hat, and the valley of Sali was filled to the brim with snakes. Everywhere you turned, there were snakes. Coming up out of the sinks, raining down out of airplanes, curled up inside the basketballs, they were absolutely everywhere. It was nearly impossible to find a place to sit down and there were major problems because all of the toilets were clogged up with snakes and when it was hot you couldn't turn on a fan unless you wanted to turn your house into a snake-themed Jackson Pollack painting.

All the people of Sali lamented and wondered aloud what they could do to get rid of all of the snakes. Wasn't there some meek little creature who could rise above his fears and save them all, proving everyone wrong who had always said he was good for nothing, and lending a touching conclusion to this dark tale? They often wondered this very aloud while walking past Jojo's bridge, and they sent him faxes musing the same. And they were right. Only Jojo could save them from this dastardly predicament.

Too bad he'd ditched out of town the second all of those snakes started pouring out of the giant Mexican-style hat. Good Lord was Jojo afraid of snakes! And that's the story of the town you know as Snakehampton.

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