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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"I have long been, and may always be, a confirmed bachelor. But like other people who say that, I am not gay.

I did meet one gay fellow quite a while back. It was 1954 when I met him, an affable fellow named Pitt. He wore bright clothes but that didn't send me any signal that he was gay. To my ears he had no special way of speaking and there was nothing immediately gay about him. I would venture to say if I hadn't accidentally found out through a misunderstanding one day, while we were standing next to each other at the men's room urinals, I would never have found out.

'I can't believe it,' I told him quite frankly. 'Why don't you like girls at all?'

'I like girls, Sampson,' the gay said simply, no less visibly masculine than myself. 'It's not a matter of liking or not liking someone, and it's not a matter of picking who you're going to sleep with. People are just born the way they are, and it doesn't make them all the same if they share one common thing between them.'

He went on to say, as I tapped the water out, 'You and me may be more alike than me and any gay man. We both have sisters named Stephanie, we both have brothers that we're competitive with in our lives, and we both love to just sit and talk about the good ol' days, the 1920s. Why should the one thing that's different about us keep us from being good friends?'

It really made me think, and it hurt—the idea that I, like everyone else in the world, picked one different thing like religion, skin color, or sexual orientation to get all worked up about when in a lot of ways all of us are like one another. From that day on whenever I meet someone new, even if they don't look like me or might seem a little strange at first glance, I put on a big smile and say, 'Hi, there, neighbor! I'm Sampson L. Hartwig. Maybe we're a little different, but maybe we'll find out we're a lot a like, too!'

I might as well mention that me and the gay fellow Pitt didn't see each other after another week or so, when I found out the biker gang I had joined with him was all gay. Only when one of them named Peter couldn't keep the secret any more did Pitt tell me the truth, that they were all hoping I would 'come around' once I got used to wearing the leather. It's just another thing that's different, yeah, but it looked awful painful in all those videos we watched, so I found another crew to ride with."

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"I remember the first poem I ever read. I was maybe six or seven, possibly twelve or thirty-two, sometimes numbers blur together in my head.

It started out something like, 'I think that I shall never see, a poem as lovely as a tree.' Well, needless to say, that turned me off to poetry right away. I have enough nasty thoughts a-tumblin' round in my head without opening my mind to the possibility of sexual congress with a tree. I'm not sure what kind of liberal hoo-hah forced my teachers to include the perverse interest in forestry among my poetic education, but I wanted no part of it.

It was only later, in my college career, that I had a differing point of view put to me. I stopped my English teacher, Gadfly Harpskull, in the hallway and told him I was going to drop out of his class if he kept reading poetry to us, I wanted no part of it. He demanded I explain my disdain for poetry. I did, and he laughed.

'Hartwig, young man,'—he frequently called me Hartwig— 'I'm afraid your understanding of the poem is a little skewed from that of others. Most people interpret Kilmer's poem to be about the loveliness of nature, the inability of creations by man to match the sheer beauty of nature.'

'Most, you say,' I asked him. 'Not all?'

'Well, naturally, any poem is up for a different interpretation. Some of it requires stretching. In fact, it's possible for any poem to be about sex with a tree if your imagination reaches toward that inclination all the time.'

That was indeed what I had suspected all the time. I dropped the class and never looked back."

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