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.)  


The Ballad of Two Shoplifters, or Crime Doesn’t Pay But the Hours are Good.


The wind chill, it was bitter; the snow had drifted down,

When the Bad Girls drove in to the prosp’rous little town.

They ate a meal at Denny’s, and paid the check with cash;

Then at Kohl’s Department Store they collected their first stash.


Oh, they were very clever; these daring racketeers;

They boosted dresses left and right, and swiped five chandeliers.

Their vehicle was parked away from prying spying eyes.

They had no trouble packing up their predatory prize.


Next they struck a Walmart, and stole fine jewelry;

The clerks were careless, on a break, or some tomfoolery.

Their luck held with Cabela’s; they looted it in style,

Secluding tons of spinner baits as they walked down the aisle.


At Target it was cell phones; at Lowe’s a sack of nails.

At Barnes & Noble they made off with books about Versailles.

Their crime spree wasn’t over; they couldn’t stop themselves –

They had to visit Walgreens and swipe Bag Balm off the shelves.


Their car was near to bursting, but one more heist they gaily planned;

They’d sneak into Schmitt’s Music to kidnap a baby grand.

Although it was fantastic, they did turn the trick by golly –

And even got a salesman to transport it with a dolly!


Their wiles were subjugating the whole retail industry;

Was there no way to prevent their sad skullduggery?

The big box stores laid traps amain, but it was all in vain;

These female kleptomaniacs had good fortune as their swain.


But at last the fates decreed these women bandits must

Be thrown down from their pedestal and eat a peck of dust.

(For ev’ry epic ballad must detail the rise AND fall

Of the bad and prideful, of the tyrant or gun moll.)


And so it came to pass that our two scofflaws one day went

Into a nearby dollar store to buy some Pepsodent.

But force of habit made them hide two tins of plain sardines

In the pockets of their stolen, stone-washed Levi jeans.


Alarums sounded ev’rywhere and cops showed up in haste.

They put the two offenders in a dim cell, cold and chaste.

They’re locked up until sunshine comes in many hues of green,

Until the big box stores decay . . . and Congress grows serene.

Rich or Poor; it’s hard to tell anymore. Poem.

Dives and Lazarus.
Dives and Lazarus.

Who is rich and who is poor is hard to figure out.

Do cell phones and a laptop mean you have financial clout?

And if you eat out once a week at KFC or Wendy’s

Are you still a pauper or belong to the effendis?


Walmart clothes the beggar and the tycoon both in style;

You can’t tell a tailored suit from bargains on the aisle.

Bristles on the chin or tattered jeans don’t make a bum;

In the Dale of Silicon such persons sip on Mumm.


It isn’t what you HAVE that makes you rich or makes you poor.

A couple bucks, and you’re a king down at the dollar store.

But should you need a doctor for a certain diagnosis,

You’d better have the wealth of Carnegie or that of Croesus.



You may work out at the gym and look like svelte Jane Fonda,

While you’re living in the backseat of your rusted Honda.

Or if you plan on college without loans that are defaultin’,

I hope to god you do not work for Mr. Samuel Walton.


Ready of Not, Here Comes Online Voting!



Those of you old enough to remember a time before ATM machines and debit cards may recall how the media dithered over the prospect of “taking money out of machines” and “never having to carry cash again!”  Some talking heads said it would never work out, and others said get ready for the Future, cuz it’s coming.  Then eBay happened.  We are shopping and paying our bills more and more online, and greenbacks and coins are nearly becoming collector’s items.  The Internet can only expand in our lives – it can never shrink.  Just think about Bitcoin a moment . . .

So it’s time to address the issue of online voting in elections.  The country of Estonia has had online voting since 2007, with few problems.  Of course, a country where every noun is spelled without consonants is probably not the best role model for the United States.  Estonia is also pretty small and homogenous.  Still . . .

If they can do it, why can’t we?  The pundits say that it would open the doors to massive election fraud.  Really?  You mean we haven’t ALREADY had massive election fraud in the last 20 years?  Over 90% of the nation’s polling, with such respected companies as Gallup, is now done online – not in person or over the phone or by mail.  It seems to work okay; Gallup is still in business.  As are Walmart and Amazon and numerous other enterprises that are conducting business online.  Yes, there have been some major glitches and leaks, and yes, black hats could certainly screw up the election results if they set their minds to it right now.

But at some point, and we’re guessing it will be in the next ten to twenty years, security on the Internet will fully mature, despite Chinese-sponsored interference.  It will then be relatively safe to beam your grandmother via the Internet from Duluth, Minnesota, to Homasassa Springs, Florida, instead of flying her in a plane (if the Star Trek technology advances as much as we hope it will!)

In ten more years America should be fully integrated into the Internet, with free wifi almost everywhere and pc prices down to less than fifty dollars.  Even the homeless will have tablets with them in their cardboard boxes.

We contend that this is the future and it’s no use fighting it.  Let’s prepare for online voting by becoming better citizens ourselves and teaching our children the responsibilities of a vibrant democracy and the possibilities of online voting.

Let us put it to you this way . . . if there had been online voting in 1993, with every single citizen over the age of 18 able to vote with the click of a mouse, do you seriously think Bill Clinton could have gotten into the White House?