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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Sorry, kind readers, but I haven't the time to waste writing for you this week. I have managed to get back on track with the Biggest Conspiracy in the World (BCW, for you conspiracy fans) after losing my foot in the door so tragically this time. I speak metaphorically, of course, and my literal foot suffers nothing more than a dangly, unclipped toenail and a stark and pungent odor. But why am I wasting time like an unaccredited Dr. Scholl's? I have to catch up with all my new contacts, and my column is the quickest and safest way to do. But just in case someone is actually reading it, I'll do everything in the agreed-upon code for all my compatriots.

To the kind and stealthy Mr. Humphrey: It's all set for Tampon, right around Fluff-fifteen. Check the code book I gave you on how to translate those times. But I was lucky to get it set up, so don't go showing up at 4:30 or too early at 4:10. Thursdays are always hell in doctor's offices anyway. Oh, that's right, I forgot to tell you where it is! It's at Pigeon Michaels' office. Remember? Pigeon Michaels, the Ear, Nose and Throat Pigeon?

For Willie and Sanchez: I'll be there at midnight tonight, in the agreed-upon location. And I'll have my bass with me. That's not code. I will be bringing my bass, since my band is rehearsing shortly before the meeting.

Turnip, or Mrs. Turnip: Make sure you have the Glockenspiel properly lubricated. I don't want another rash on my sensitive parts because you didn't do it right.

Anthrog Baker, Esquire: The Cake did not rise. Repeat, the Cake did not rise. Cancel the party.

Shaolin Henry: We're turning away all guests that don't know the Piper. If the Piper hasn't been paid, kick their ass to the curb. Forget them. Don't let them in if they got their hand stamped last night. It's a new night, a new Piper to be paid.

Ronald McDonald and the Hamburgler: The paddies are hot. Don't touch them. I'm not responsible for what happens if you grab the paddies.

Mrs. Turnip: I forgot to ask, can you show me how to bake a proper Cake? Ours didn't rise. It really sucks, because we had to cancel our party and everything.

Fantasia Martin: If you must, you must. But watch out if the dog is outside. He's sitting in the water dish.

Dickless and Assmunch: In regards to last week's queries, no, you can't have your nicknames changed. It serves you right for taking a smoke break while we were assigning names.

Pedro: The border is wide open and fully unguarded. Come home, and come home quick.

Bundles, a.k.a. Monsignor Bundles: Study the Rubicon. We have a schedule to keep, and every day those Chocolate Chips don't come in we lose another 5 million Cancers.

Og the Hog: Call me sometime. Remember me? This is Red Bagel, from Kappa Delta. We need to catch up sometime.

Franco and my Publisher Harold Mortensen: The book is finish and ready to be published. That's code for you, Franco. Normal talk for you, Harry.

Omar Bricks: Get your dead fish out of my office. This is not code, but I can't stand the wait anymore. I've measured it and you're not anywhere near the world's record, even for clear water pond catches.

Blanche: See what you can do about getting me a cell phone. I can't keep in touch with any of the gang. I've had to resort to using my column to keep up the conspiracy messages.

Everyone else: Bugger off. I'll have more to say to you next time.

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Readers and the rest of you, please take a few minutes of silence right now in remembrance of all the dead people out there. And really take it, because if I find out you just read this paragraph and moved on to the next without taking that few minutes of silence, I'll be tremendously pissed. Just being quiet while you're reading doesn't count. It needs to be a few agonizing minutes, looking discreetly at the clock and hoping like hell it will soon be over. They deserve nothing less.

Thanks for that. I didn't mean to be so touchy, sir. It's just that we've had a lot of them lately—dead people, I mean. Whether they've been killed in floods, hurricanes, mudslides, suicide bombs, or by hanging out on a weekend with Omar Bricks, a lot of people, American and foreign citizens alike, have lost their lives in the past few months. No doubt about—death is the number one killer out there right now.

There are some out there who say you can't stop death—to which I say, "you're not the boss of me." Just because it seems difficult doesn't mean we shouldn't try anyway. The first step in our war against death is raising awareness. Sure, you might think everybody everywhere knows about death, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't remind them it's still out there waiting for them.

That's why I've chosen the perfect symbol to be our constant reminder of death—a peppermint ribbon. Why peppermint? Basically all the other colors are taken. But that doesn't mean it's not a perfect choice. I want the peppermint ribbon to be instantly linked to death in the minds of everyone in the world. People lying under some rubble in the Gaza Strip should be able to see a peppermint candy and know that, one day, they too will die themselves.

Actually, it's hard to believe no one's pressed this "cure death" agenda more over the centuries. All this "cure aids," "cure cancer," "cure heart disease" stuff hasn't really gotten us anywhere. I say it's time we take the direct approach. Death is what we're really afraid of, and it's about time we stopped dealing with its miserable toadies. Take out death once and for all and we'll all feel safe. Malignant tumor? Who gives a shit? What's a tumor going to do to you, if death is already vanquished. You go around for eternity with a headache, maybe, but that's a small price to pay for living for eternity. Morticians and Goth music stars may go out of business, but let's face it—these guys were downers at parties anyway.

If you say conquering death is impossible, I'd call you a pessimist. I might feel the desire to call you fatass, too—depending on your physique. But please, let's keep it about the issue, not personal attacks. It just so happens I have some of the leaders in the field of anti-death research at my beck and call, and whenever I beck or call them, and drop them a few hundred dollars for information, they give me the inside skinny.

Yes, it turns out, the final cure for death is just around the corner, according to my contacts. What will it take? Five million? Thirty million? One-hundred and fifty million? Ten dollars? Is there any price too high to cure death? Let's put a limit of five billion on it, right now, just for the sake of not going crazy with this thing. But I say, at this moment, less than five billion dollars would be worth it if we could forever cure death. No more sad losses for families, no more fear of the unknown for all the billions of people out there. And you know, if everybody in the world chipped in one dollar (I'm talking to you deadbeats in Central America, too) we'd have the five billion we needed. That's not too much to ask, is it?

And all I'm really asking for is $25,000 to start making some goddamn peppermint ribbons. When you put it that way, I don't see any reason you can't all start sending me the money today.

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