Kim Jong Il Claims U.S. Spy Plane Taking Nude Photos

orth Korean leader and Roy Orbison impersonator Kim Jong Il broke the crazy-o-meter this week with claims that U.S. spy planes were provoking war by taking photos of covert military operations and attempting to acquire nude pictures of him in the shower.

Kim Jong Il stated Wednesday that the United States was trying to "start a war" with the prolific spy plane invasions of airspace, and accused the U.S. of 180 such incidents last month. The ultimate insult, Jong Il reported in the official Rodong Sinmun newspaper, was that those spy planes were equipped with high-tech cameras able to peer into walls and photograph him naked. These naked pictures, Jong Il told the country, would be placed on websites to humiliate the North Korean leader and the country as a whole.

When asked for comment, White House spokesperson Ari Fleischer responded: "You want a comment? Come on, people. This is one of those rare instances where you can't possibly expect me to put any spin on the situation. Kim Jong Il certainly has interesting ideas about what our technology is capable of. Just in case he's monitoring our media sources, I will state for the record: This administration has no interest in seeing Mr. Jong Il naked. Under any circumstances, in any setting."

Despite the White House's claims, Kim Jong Il may be able to present proof of his accusations. A search of Google for "chubby Korean man nude shower" revealed quite a number of pictures, any of whom could have been Kim Jong Il.

According to Rodong Sinmun, the voice of the North Korean government, "Americans seek to shame the Korean people and its leader. To see people naked is the only American goal. Elaborate high-tech spy plane will attempt nude picture collection of the great Kim Jong Il, then post him for all to see on billboard Internet, to much laughter, shame, and masturbation. Once Americans feel superior all Koreans will be pictured naked on world wide webs."

Consulted about the accusations, Pentagon officials unequivocally stated the charges were ludicrous.

"Trust me," said Gen. Anvill Poke, "the technology to see people naked, especially through walls, is extremely far off in the future and not a focus of any of our weapons development plans. Jesus Christ, I can't believe I'm even answering this—what kind of newspaper are you from again? Look, if we had the capability to see through walls and take pictures of people naked why would we go to North Korea? Personally, I'd find the address of that girl from J.A.G. and do a few hundred passes over that house."

University of Tennessee Anthropology professor Kristin Blakebobber described the North Korean mentality: "These people are not all that different from us—they merely lack information about the world outside. To them, a very private and nationalistic people, this seems like a particularly egregious insult by the United States, if proven true. They already believe our country despises theirs for their way of life and would like to destroy them. Given their respect for concealing the body and modesty, Kim Jong Il is using a phobia and an existing mistrust to stir the anti-U.S. sentiment of his entire nation. If they believe his accusations, they will follow him in whatever stance he takes against the Western world."

While it was very interesting information, Blakebobber was asked to leave the office and not barge in while the reporters are working; she was told she would be contacted by us when we wanted a quote, and left without incident.

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Dear commune:

You boys is ate up. I read your shit all the time 'cause I know it's know or be knowed in this universe. You know?

My favorite parts is the music reviews where you tell it like it is. Whitney Houston ain't released a good album since before the motorcycle accident in '66. She can still rock okay, but she'll never top her glory days of the Synchronicity Tour. Fuckin A.

I have a problem with your shit, though. Where's the horoscopes? I think there should be horoscopes. If there's one thing I hate it's having no one to blame for my shitty life.

Well, I gotta go. The warden's calling lights out. That guy's a big prick. He says he knows nothin bout all the raping but he's right there watching it. Man, do you get raped in prison.

Speaking of which, here comes Big Henry Brown. I'll see you later. Keep writin and I'll keep reading! Damn!

R.P. McDaniels
Scales, AL

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Dear commune:

I just don't feel like this is going to work out. I'm sorry to break it to you like this, but I knew if I give myself the chance to back out I'd take it. Because there's still something there. But I can't let that get in the way, I know it's over. I need to make a clean break.

It's not you. You're great. It's me. I'm the kind of person who needs structure. The kind I need is the kind you can't provide. But I can't ask you to change-that wouldn't be fair to you. And all those things that are the problem now are what made me love you in the first place.

I can't tell you any more, I'm starting to tear up. Don't try to contact me, it'll make things harder. If you need to, give all my CDs and clothes to Rick. I'll be staying at his place.

Don't ever change. You'll always be the one I left.

Love,

Vicki Koslowski


Dear Vicki:

We should note to you that the commune is a website. We aim to provide the finest source of alternative news and counter-culture points of view, as well as topical commentary of unpopular opinions. This is not the first time this mistake has been made by readers; we seek to help make this distinction clearer in the future.

We also wish to add: You're afraid of commitment. Don't bullshit us. It isn't us, no fuck, we know that. We treat you like a queen and it's never good enough. Fuck this insane bullshit. You're afraid to be loved. You won't let us get close. Your dad left your mother and she left her next two husbands. It's the only kind of love you know. You need to trust someone and believe they love you. But that isn't going to be us. We can't wait all our lives for you to "decide" we're good for you. We hope you find that love, but not with us, sister.

We can't pretend not to be hurt. You're goddamn right it's painful. We loved you like you'll never fucking know. We're trying to be nice about it, but there is some part of us that hopes you'll fucking choke to death.

the commune

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Dear commune:

The jackals of society are feasting upon our souls right now. The commercialization of each and every individual at the hands of the corporate phantoms is not a vicious torture like electric current applied to the genitals. It is in fact the slow bleeding of society's humanity, a stealing of essence so subtle as to be hardly noticeable. But I notice. And I react.

It is my mission to reveal the horrible robbery of our spirit as a nation to the hypnotized masses. I've tried in the past to inform the public of this nightmare, but they are distracted by the Baywatches and Urkels of the world. The airwaves are filled with tripe meant to keep them occupied and not notice the hands in their pockets and the fangs in their arteries. So I'm afraid I must resort to more violent means.

Intelligent information doesn't hold attention alone. Nor do heartfelt please; so now I am forced to grab attention through violence.

I will continue to present my manifestos to such outlets as the commune, that are truly hard-up for news and filler space that letters can provide. If the commune refuses to print any further chapters in my manifesto, I will thoroughly BEAT UP A HOBO for every week my manifesto is unread. I do not seek to cause pain. I do not like violence. It is my only outlet in a world controlled by power brokers and corporate monsters.

Nor do I hate hobos. I feel they are the scuzzy bloodline of America. But my ends will justify these means. I mean to return America to its glory days. Also, hobos are much easier to find unarmed and asleep, making for easy victims. I am not a large man. Again, nothing personal, hobos.

Heed my warning, America! Your hobos are at stake!

The Hobobeater

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Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for the content of letters or opinions expressed therein. The wacky inbred illiterate fringes of society are responsible, though we have to admit some part in calling our readers "wacky inbred illiterate fringes of society." Let's just call the whole thing even, 'kay?

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Good news, commune fans: You exist! I know, I’d had my doubts as well. But the successful relaunch of the commune proves it: I can barely walk down the street now without being mobbed by commune fans. Maybe "mobbed" is the wrong word, commune fans tend to be of the solitary sort, ungroomed and not always masters of the social arts or their own bodily functions. But boy are they out there, and boy do they want me to pay them to wash my windshield. Which is indeed a strange request when I’m traveling to my destination on foot, but that’s commune fans for you. Irreverent to the last.

These are the salad days, my friends, and not just because I’ve been eating a lot of salads to be able to afford sending Raoul Dunkin jet setting around the country to cover the latest and greatest in the world of news. Thankfully that hasn’t been quite as expensive as you might imagine, since during his last two years in the employ of the original commune, Raoul was paid exclusively in frequent flier miles. Apparently this was a common practice back then, as I’m told Omar Bricks was paid entirely in Camel cash and Boris Utzov was paid in camel shit. I shudder to think of what Boris was doing with all that camel shit, though I’ve heard rumors he used most of it to erect a camel shit statue of Saddam Hussein in the middle of Central Park. As the story goes, this understandably upset the natives, but Boris claimed it was actually a likeness of his cousin Boguslaw Sadowski, which no one could argue with because they couldn’t understand what he was saying.

But back to why these are the salad days. Running the commune out of my mother’s house is like a dream come true. It’s an impressive scene I assure you… I wish you could see it. I mean that literally, I wish I had a camera so I could take pictures and post them to the site. That’s a subtle hint for any of you commune fans doing some early Christmas shopping. We could also use a computer, because running down to Kinko’s to upload new articles to the site is becoming a serious pain in both of my balls. News doesn’t always break during Kinko’s business hours, as the old journalism saying goes.

But I assure you it’s quite a scene. When Raoul isn’t globetrotting to bring you the poop most in need of scooping, he’s here, bitching that I don’t even have a computer. But I’m not even here myself, because I’m down at the Safeway checking for new Roland McShyster reviews or down at the library scouring back issues of old porno mags for new-to-us Rok Finger columns. In a side note, I am truly surprised at just how well stocked our local library is when it comes to pornography. If more people knew this I think libraries would be a lot more popular.

But that’s not all! the commune family is expanding like Paris Hilton’s belly after she eats a paperclip. I’m proud to announce that commune favorites Griswald Dreck and Ivan Nacutchacokov have both rejoined the flock, and not a moment too soon! I mean, it’s not the kind of operation someone could join too soon. I suppose they could have joined us before the original commune building burnt to the ground, that would have been kind of strange and maybe too soon, but any point after that was pretty much ideal for us.

Anyway, you’ll never guess where I found Mr. Dreck. A few weeks ago I was eating some garlic ice cream and let me tell you, it left a pretty funky taste in my mouth. So I reached for a delicious hunk of Bazooka bubble gum to tame that garlicy tongue beast and as I was happily chewing away, eager to lose myself in the adventures of Bazooka Joe and his dog, Walkie Talkie, I was instead treated to a byzantine comic about the history of penile implants. Gobsmacked as I was, I still had enough blood flowing to my brain to instantly recognize this as the work of none other than commune answerman Griswald Dreck. I dialed the Bazooka bubble gum emergency hotline just as fast as my fingers would carry me, and after navigating through a bewildering forest of options (If you’re choking on bubble gum right now, press or say "I’m choking on bubble gum right now") I was eventually put in touch with a Human Resources guru. He informed me that Dreck had been fired from his post for drawing comics that weren’t about Bazooka Joe at all, or that covered the origins of things like pencil sharpeners or democracy, or that were too densely packed onto the wrapper to be legible, or, usually, all of the above. Thankfully, they had Dreck’s home address due to him sending them regular letters explaining how their "New Adventures of Bazooka Joe" wrappers weren’t canon and contained factual errors about eye patches. Before long I was in touch with Mr. Dreck himself, and it didn’t take much convincing to get him to travel to Vermont and rejoin the team, since he’d been scraping together a living on the brutal underground bar trivia circuit and was ready for a change.

It was some time shortly after that when I discovered that Ivan Nacutchacokov had been living in my basement the entire time since the original commune folded. This was awkward at first to discover, but it worked out fine since it meant Ivan had to make less of a transition to living in my basement than the others. I’m not sure how he feels about Dunkin and Dreck invading his turf, but there haven’t been any knife fights or anything yet. Ivan agreed to rejoin the commune on the condition that we don’t tell his ex-wife Ivana Folger-Balzac where he is. The truth is she’d already been here looking for him, months ago, but at the time I had no idea he was in the basement so I imagine I provided pretty good ignorant cover. Truth be told I might have cracked when she started hitting me with her car door if I’d actually known he was down there.

And so we’re off. Keep those tips coming, commune fans and assorted law enforcement personnel nationwide. You’ve made my wish come true, and I didn’t even have to get cancer to make it happen. Emil Zender: 1, Make a Wish Kids: 0, for those keeping score at home.

Zincerely,
Emil Zender

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