THE LIFE STORY OF KIM JONG-UN, THE SAVIOR OF NORTH KOREA. Chapter One.

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Kim Jong-un was named at birth Gae Kwok Mug Wump Ring Ling Moop, which, loosely translated into your decadent English language, means “Hope of all Vivisectionists”.

His parents were the illustrious Kim Jong-il and Toy Bote Wong. He was born in the Year of the Rutabaga, otherwise known to Western barbarians as 1983, in the small village of Hungadunga, in the Province of Hungadunga (and not McCormick, as some misguided scholars claim).

He was a precocious child; uttering his first words at the tender age of six days, when he reminded his mother as she was sweeping out the ashes from their humble fireplace — “Look for rice grains, mother — it’s going to be a long winter.”

When only three months old he single-handedly met in combat a Madagascar Hissing Cockroach as it tried to purloin the family chamber pot. The babe, still swaddled in his native bamboo nappies, grabbed the enemy insect and strangled the creature with his bare hands. Then threw the carcass into the stew pot as a welcome addition of protein to the family’s spartan diet.

At six months the infant could walk, recite Shakespeare, and whip up a mouth-watering chicken paprikash. His father, the illustrious Kim Jong-il, was mostly gone, running the country and preparing it for war with the drunken sots of Western Democracy, such as America and Walmart — and so could spend very little time with his newborn. But such is the power of the pure mountain air of our North Korea, that little Kim Jong-un was able to absorb by osmosis most of the sound doctrine and Marxist purity of his hallowed father.

At the time of his birth, North Korea had been infiltrated by numerous spies, lechers, eavesdroppers, and snarling assassins, mostly sent from the running dogs of capitalism in South Korea. They spread havoc throughout the land, sowing seeds of discord among the working class and murdering elderly turtles in their shells.

Not only that, but even the weather had turned against the doughty peasant farmers who kept the entire country well-fed on broken rice husks and thistle roots. Several typhoons, sent over from Hawaii by the perfidious Americans, laid waste to much of the countryside, so that the only thing farmers could harvest was mud.

This mud was sun-dried into nutritious bricks and distributed to the grateful populace by Kim Jong-il, even though he himself was suffering from a terrific hangnail. Everyone ate mud soup and drank mud beer with a quiet determination to defeat the heterodox weather patterns. And in the end they succeeded!

There were only 2 or 3 million deaths attributable to the venomous weather.

Filthy rumors were spread by the spies, lechers, and assassins that Kim Jong-il lived the life of Riley in his gigantic palace in Pingpongyang, guzzling fine wines and dallying with retired soap opera stars in the midst of unimaginable luxury.

Of course, no one in their right mind believed such incredible falsehoods. The wine was domestic, and there were no soap opera stars to be found in the Pingpongyang palace — just a few stray models from former L.L. Bean catalogs.

Before being sent to Switzerland at the tender age of 2, loyal son Kim Jong-un suggested to his father the best method for recognizing spies and lechers. The spies would never giggle — and the lechers were always giggling.

Acting on his son’s brilliant advice, the father quickly executed everyone who was caught not giggling. And then those who were caught in the act of giggling were also killed. And so the country had peace one more!

In Switzerland, our hero studied mechanical engineering, the sonnets of Rudolph Friml, and finally took a degree in Advanced Pothering.

Among his teachers, he was noted as an aggressive bibliophile and among his fellow students he was nicknamed “Snuggie” for his wide smile and bad haircut. He excelled at winter sports and was briefly considered for the Olympics as a sockdolager. But at the last moment he sprained an ear lobe and could only look on from the sidelines.

Although completely contemptuous of the decadent Western culture he was surrounded with, Kim Jong-un found time to fall in love. She was a beautiful Swiss maiden named Hilda Flunkenhead, who was two years older than her bashful swain. She worked as frostbite manager in the local schmaltz factory. When her parent forbade her to have anything further to do with Kim Jong-un, the impetuous feature ruler of North Korea eloped with her to Struedelburg in Southern Germany, where they were secretly wed by an atheist with pretensions.

This episode caused the only known rift between illustrious father and illustrious son. Kim Jong-il sent a platoon of Confucian scholars to remonstrate with the boy about his rash marriage. But the son was adamant; he would not give up his yodeling bride for anything in the world.

And that is why Switzerland no longer exists. You cannot find it on any map or mentioned anywhere on the internet anymore. The unhappy father simply had all traces of the country erased, and had pixie dust sprinkled over his son so he would forget his Swiss bride.

It worked like a charm, and to this day no one knows exactly what happened to Switzerland. And, when you have a wonderful person like Kim Jong-un to think about all day, who really cares what happened to such a dinky little country or the bride that mysteriously disappeared without so much as saying “Gesundheit”?

While in Switzerland Kim Jong-un learned how to play the ocarina, and founded the Berlin Orchestra so he could play ocarina solos during intermission.

But this happy idyll soon came to a tragic end, when news reached him that his beloved mother, Toy Bote Wong was deathly ill with hiccups and was not expected to last more than twenty years.

He took the first boat for home, bringing back with him some fond memories and the secret formula for Swiss cheese.

(Editor’s note: The manuscript copy of this incisive piece of biography was smuggled out of North Korea inside a bamboo flute.  The author is one of the higher ups in the North Korean Politiburo, by the name of Won Hung Loh. We obtained the copy through massive bribery, intimidation, and good old-fashioned hornswoggling. It has been translated by Otto Bubbling, of Nomen Global Institute for Advanced Nitrates. We hope you enjoy it, and don’t really care if you believe it or not.)  

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My Name is Othman Othman

My name is Othman Othman and I am a refugee.

I’m coming to the Vaterland from far across the sea.

Why do you think that Moslems are your mortal enemy?

I’m only looking for a home without brutality.

I promise I will get a job as soon as I am able

and raise a fam’ly thriftily and remain quite stable.

What matters where I worship — all of them to you are fable.

Never will I raise some Cain, but be instead like Abel.

I know you Germans have a past which you cannot redo.

Perhaps by helping me you’ll wipe past crimes from out of view.

I will learn the Deutsch Sprache till I speak it just like you.

(And soon I’ll have 100 cousins also coming through.)

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