SEOUL- Following news that North Korea's leader Kim Jong Il has pancreatic cancer, more reports are beginning to make their way out of the hermit kingdom. Disputed eyewitness reports and hearsay describing the declining state of the “Dear Leader's” health have trickled out over the past two years, but the recent admission that the dictator indeed has cancer seems to have opened a floodgate of news.
Perhaps sensing a change in leadership being imminent, once loyal associates of Kim Jong Il have been fleeing the nation in droves, fearful they will not be included in the new power dynamic. Their stories have been startling. Though it is still impossible to verify their veracity, a number of analysts agree the tales are eerily similar to earlier reports floated by defectors and North Korea experts.
In addition to his weekly Brazilian waxing, the dictator apparently enjoys a daily enema administered by the current winner of the country's annual beauty contest. Contestants know that this along will be their only duty, yet ruthlessly vie for the title for the extra daily allotment of rice.
Another favorite ritual was bathing in the breast milk of nubile young mothers, performed ritually each morning in the presence of his ministers and close associates. Teams of “Divine milkmaids” are constantly milking the countryside dry as they search for enough donors to fill the 25 gallon tub he soaks in between breakfast and lunch. For years Kim Jong Il insisted the regiment was beneficial to his constitution, all the while swilling copious quantities of Johnny Walker Blue and eating pound after pound of imported lobster.
Anyone he felt had been disloyal or otherwise displeasing to him could face the hideous prospect of being Kim Jong Il's “chauffeur”. The victim would be forced to provide day-long piggy back rides in the nude for the diminutive leader, who would often ride wearing nothing but high heels which he would dig into the sides of his hapless “horse”, a blood red leather thong, and a riding crop which he wielded mercilessly. One victim that later escaped over the Chinese border still has vicious welts along his backside, along with fingernail marks in his shoulders from where he was clawed for hours as he jogged the streets of Pyongyang beneath his cruel jockey.
But the wild, curious ways of Kim Jong Il may be coming to an end soon. According to one former General now living in hiding in the South, the dictator has been undergoing regular chemotherapy treatments.
“He trusted me”, said the officer. “Every other Tuesday he would cry when he was told it was time for his medicine. Sometimes he would shoot at the feet of his nurses with a pistol. The Colt .45 is his favorite. But I would take his hand and tell him everything would be alright. Sometimes I would sing him show tunes to calm him. Afterward I would drive him home to his castle, dress him in his favorite pajamas and put on a DVD. Usually he chose Magnum P.I.”
Light has also been shed upon a rumored DPRK military biological facility known only as “Unit 260”. The secretive building housing the lab was first identified by satellites early last year and initial fears were that it was working on the weaponization of biological agents. But in a debriefing with the South Korean military, an oncologist turned defector reported the true purpose of the facility is to attempt to develop technology in an effort to restore the leader's beloved buffant hairstyle. Numerous citizen “volunteers” have undergone gruesome follicle experiments, often leaving their hair hideously tasteless and clown-like.
This makes sense, says a senior government official in Seoul speaking on condition of anonymity, given the recently smuggled photograph of Kim's balding, distraught figure. “Ravaged by chemotherapy treatments, diabetes, and a lifetime of poor health choices, his once proud mane has been reduced to a few scraggly hairs even Charlie Brown would be ashamed of.”
The depths of the dictator's ill health may be sinking even further than once thought. A spokesman for Italian fashion maker Gucci announced it had been approached by a shell business believed to surreptitiously acquire luxuries for the privileged ruler. Its request? Customized gold lamé adult diapers. “Though we were never told who they were for, the buyer suggested that the intended recipient was a powerful, proud man, and the use of flecks of real gold in the fabric was hoped would mitigate his humiliation.”
North Korean state media rejects rumors that the leader is incontinent, sternly warning that making such allegations its Dear Leader has been reduced to a piddling old man would be “tantamount to an act of war”.
LOS ANGELES- Enigmatic pop singer and rising star Miguel Johnson has announced plans to purchase the famed Neverland Ranch from its creditors for pennies on the dollar.Johnson burst to sudden fame last year with his stellar singing voice and lithe dancing moves. His mystique was furthered by his refusal to ever show his complete face in public, instead desiring to keep his visage cloaked at all times. Johnson cited his shyness as well as a reportedly rare disease that affects the pigmentation of his skin. His live shows are a song and dance spectacle. It is now a common sight on school playgrounds to see children emulating his trademark move the “Moonhop”.Clad in his white mask and glittering sequin garb, Johnson said it had always been his dream to live at the Ranch, "Now that the incredibly talented King of Pop is dead, and I've heard several witnesses are willing to attest to this fact in court, I've made my intentions clear to Mr. Jackson's attorneys and creditors that I wish to offer a bid to purchase the mystical and wonderful Neverland.”Johnson dismissed critics that said his offer comes too soon on the heels of Jackson's death, saying that he was Jackson's biggest fan. “He will always be with us. In a way he's with us right here, right now” he said cryptically, gesturing around the room.The offer also contends that all personal effects should remain in place at the ranch, including the many portraits and sketches of the late singer. “He's a beautiful person,” said Johnson. “I can't imagine taking down such works of art.”“I want to restore Neverland to its heyday, and welcome children of all ages to visit anytime day or night. I really can't say how much I love children” gushed Johnson.Johnson's latest album “Rad” comes on the heels of last year's smash “On the Ball”.
CRAWFORD, Texas- The namesake and founder of his newly created George W. Bush Foundation held a press conference in Crawford Municipal Hall today. The news there was big, as are many things in Texas.
As has become common with many retiring commanders in chief, former president Bush is creating his own non-profit organization. He announced the thrust of his brainchild to a hall packed with reporters and celebrant townsfolk. What follows is a transcript of the weighty proceedings as he declared he would personally be overseeing the removal of excess brush from America's lower class residential properties.
Bush-
“Good morning members of the media, friends, family, fellow Crawfordites. My thanks to Sammy's Big Bite BBQ for these great spare ribs. Hope everyone enjoyed them. I'm told there's plenty more sweet tea. Be sure to have some, it's gonna be a hot one out there.
Folks, I've given a lot of thought to what I'd like to do for my retirement. You know, my spare time now that I have so much of it. America's been good to me so I want to be good to her, uh it. So I asked myself should I go the sickly route, with all your cancers and AIDS and ailments you see out there? Lots of bad stuff going around. Noble work, but a lot of folks are doing that already, and I don't know much about germs. Or maybe I'd build things for the homeless. I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty you know, but y'all already got Jimmy Carter doing that. And my Daddy likes him now.
What I'm gonna do, what my Foundation's gonna do, is say you got some ugly brush, some big old overgrown mound of bushes. Not me, he he, I mean the shrubs. We'd come out to your home, if you were the less fortunate, who might not have a chainsaw or the gas for that chainsaw, or maybe you're kind of scrawny or frail and we'd clear that brush away. Maybe you were just too busy to get around to it, don't matter.
By sprucing up the backyards of America, we think you're just gonna be more likely to go out and spend money at a local business. You'll take a gander out at the yard and see there's one less thing to worry about. Maybe then you say to your wife, 'Hey let's go out and have dinner at that new Italian restaurant where the Fashion Bug used to be'. Or maybe you'll decide to paint your house, buying paint from your local hardware store. Painting isn't much fun but it's always a great time going down to the local hardware store, isn't it? Laura has a hard time getting me out of the lawn and garden section. Maybe you'll get that new pickup you've been looking at. Or maybe you'll even decide not to have that abortion, since you now have such a beautiful yard to raise your child in. Who knows?
You ever seen a run-down backyard, one where the brush is just out of control? Or maybe some big vine is snaking along a fence and knocking the planks all off kilter? Puts you in a bad mood, don't it? Before you know it, there's a few torn bags of trash piling up by the shed and your brother's Fiero is sitting on blocks next to the swing set. I've been there. And if you're below the poverty line and in one of the towns we visit, we want to help you. Just that simple.
Maybe you left gas in the weedwacker all winter and it's kind of gummed up and hard to start? I might be able to fix that, too. Or one of my guys. I'll be doing it once in a while. I originally thought holiday weekends and such. But some of my good friends still carrying on the fight in Washington asked if I couldn't try to heal America's feelings about, well, past disappointments. What better way to show America I'm here to help than use what some have said are my best skills? It's kind of like Community Service I guess. But not like how the criminals have to do because a judge told them to. This isn't something I need to do, this is something I want to do. I want to give service to my community. That's a big difference you know, from Community Service.
This isn't some long range 'study' or wasteful Washington project you'll never know if it succeeds. We won't have to wait for history to judge if this worked. These are immediate results, easy to see and measure as progress. And I want to start delivering that progress for you now. Thank you, and may God bless America.”
DETROIT- Hundreds of fans, souvenir hunters and desperate looters descended on GM headquarters in downtown Detroit today. While their backgrounds were varied, their goal was the same: bring home a piece of history. And maybe make a few bucks.
Like the fate of so many of its automotive products over the years, the headquarters building was dismantled in record time while the remaining employees watched helplessly, some even joining in the free-for-all. One well dressed participant wishing only to be identified as 'Rick W.' showed off a marble sink he removed from an executive washroom. “Italian” he smiled, patting the fixture.
At one point in the afternoon police arrived to chase away the crowd, which quickly scurried into nearby alleys and buildings. “Once they see a building in a condition like this, they'll have it stripped clean down to the frame in no time” said Sergeant Elwood Barnes of the DPD. Sure enough once the squad cars departed, the participants emerged from the shadows and continued their labor.
First to go were logo items easily sold on the souvenir market, such as the front doors and conference room signs. Next went the office equipment, leather chairs, artwork, even coffee makers. Anything that could be carried was soon streaming out the front gate. Once the easily pilfered items were gone, the scrap hunters moved in. Many brought their own tools, and the sound of portable generators could even be heard echoing from within as they tore at the walls for copper wiring and piping. In a few short hours, entire floors were exposed as windows were torn from their casings for the valuable aluminum channels.
By nightfall even the emblematic GM building logo that for years had commanded a view from hundreds of feet above Jefferson Avenue was disassembled and spirited away by a team of what was rumored to be professionals, given the logistical difficulties involved. With thousands of experienced mechanics and engineers laid off throughout the city, such skills are readily available. The sign could likely fetch tens of thousands of dollars from collectors or museums.
Newly elected Mayor Bing said it “was a crying shame”, watching the mob tear apart what most consider the symbol of the Motor City. He then excused himself to help his assistant stuff what appeared to be a projector screen and an industrial-grade cafeteria food mixer into their city vehicle, ironically a Chevy Suburban.
The date of May twenty-fifth as you most likely are aware, is Towel Day. This author was in fact so immersed in his own Towel Day festivities that he completely missed the deadline and ended up posting this story a day late. But this simple act of sloth in its own way pays homage to the inspiration for whom the very day was named, Douglas Adams, a notoriously tardy penman. In keeping the true spirit of this memoriam to our favorite sci-fi humorist, philanthropist, and oddly prescient technologist alive and well, the management here at the Bunker has brought it upon themselves to add this addendum to the growing compendium of towel-centric knowledge.
Everyone wants to bury their head into a soft, warm wrap after scrubbing up, even as a guest in someone else's crapper. The worst is seeing just a single used bath towel at your disposal. At least with no towels you can broach the subject with the lady or gent of the house. But seeing just that single threadbare body towel dripping on the shower rod is a no win situation. No one wants a deep dry from some dampened rag used moments earlier on the host's crotch following his pre-party schvitz. Is that short, curly hair on your freshly rinsed cheek yours? You struggle to remember old 60 Minutes studies about which germs lived on which surface and for how many minutes. Or was it days? Thus begat our concept of the ideal towel.
One end would simply read “HEAD” in boldface. The kind of boldface that says it's not kidding. The other side would naturally read “ASS” in the same cautionary font. Keeps everything nice and straight before use. Know the terms. That's something that can instill confidence in a man to scrub down more often.
But then who's our host? The type to play a cute little gag on his unwitting guests? Maybe our roommate here has been using the presumed high ground of HEAD as a bidet sponge this past week, gleefully, often brutally violating its sanctity for his own cruel laughs at your unknowing expense? The HEAD end of this towel smells funny. Sufficed to say an entirely new kind of math comes into play if your host is a member of the desired sex, and is how everyone would soon come to describe as, “towel-sniffable”. A bad SNL skit if I ever heard one.
Despite their many obvious and critical uses, quality towels remain sadly underrated in this society. I've sometimes wondered if their low priority could very well be at the heart of many of the world's problems, like our dear departed Dougie Adams preached. All due respect, naturally. Little do I want to be known as the cretin who first posthumously referred to the man as “Dougie”, like some distant aunt that always sent him a fresh set of pajamas each Yuletide. More the admiring fan who did same.
They've tried everything else to solve our ills, and look at the potholes and dictators still laughing in our faces each day. Why not blow a few billion of the mystical bailout bucks on some fresh new towels for the masses? Don't forget to weave them of some sturdy old Dixie cotton. I can feel the wave of clean faces and souls already.
RIP, Douglas N. Adams
1952-2001
I was a boy scout. My son is a cub scout. I don't know what these kids are. Technically I know who they are- Explorers, the little cops in training. You've probably heard of them, I have. But I've never known anyone involved or truly cared to. I thought they were just kids that rode in the back of cruisers to watch cops break skulls, alá McLovin. Like hall monitors with a few more summers under their big shiny black belts. A recent New York Times article on the Explorers has me thinking differently.
There's nothing wrong with becoming a policeman, I suppose we need them. It's one of those quaint notions many of us grow out of when they see the pay rate, along with firemen, soldiers, and cowboys. It's one thing to encourage a young child that says he wants to become a policeman when he grows up. It's another to issue that kid fatigues, an air rifle and toss him into a training course on counter-terrorism complete with simulated poison gas and hostages. And all before his first pimple.
Of course it makes sense they do it this way, filling out accident reports or learning to sniff out white collar crimes on a ledger just doesn't have the same addictive cachet as storming a bus to “kill” a bomb-toting tango with plastic BB guns. Get them young, give them a thrill, swell the ranks of the Man. Another generation to address the previous' failed policies on substance use, international relations and border control. But listen to me, I sound almost pinko. What proud American wouldn't want his pre-pubescent versed in the intricacies of taking down a lookout before raiding a marijuana field?
Yeah sure, terrorism and border violence and all that can be a problem. Yet one can't help but wonder if we as a society are planting the poison seeds of our own overblown fears into the most impressionable. Do any but the most paranoid and jingoistic of minds really imagine a turban-sporting “terrorist” will be a likely quarry for one of these boys as was in a recent Arizona training?
Do we really want to address these ills by turning out armies of Dwight Schrute over-achievers too young yet to even hear a dirty word at the theaters? Let these kids get laid before setting them irrevocably on the path of crew cuts and authority trips. I for one don't want to be stopped by the smug future officer who first learned to point their gun and expect total obedience from the civilian populace at the wizened age of 13. Teach liberty and empathy and sense first. Then for those still itching to save mankind one misdemeanor at a time, knock yourselves out.
The title of this article is a bit misleading. No one in the Explorers program to my knowledge is promoting the tenants of the National Socialist party. Nor are they required to undergo any oaths of omertà beyond a rote recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance. The Law and America are more subtle overseers than pledging your life to a leader on posters in every room, albeit not totally lacking in their own brand of sinister overtones.
United Russia party has its Youth Guard, Africa has long fostered the child soldier. Maybe it is in our own best interests to not fall behind in the field of brain-washed youth in support of the state. In this fair nation, humanity seems to be losing ground to the “yeah, but it's effective” crowd. Torture isn't wrong if it's “effective”. Letting the weak and destitute rely only on the strength of their bootstraps is “effective”. Mandatory sentencing laws are “effective”. Old ethical dilemmas are shrugged off as a luxury for simpler times. Of course times never become simpler, only our responses to them.
MEXICO CITY- Responding to reports of deep cutbacks in tourism, an industry central to Mexico's economy, this week Rodolfo Torres the Secretariat of Tourism announced a new advertising campaign. The television, print and Internet ads entice would-be visitors to experience the nation's beautiful beaches, extensive history and millions of inhabitants still currently free of swine flu.
The relative health of Mexico's populace is being touted as one of the key attractions of a visit to the nation. “The majority of the people you meet on your travels through our country will be welcoming, friendly and on the average free of debilitating fever and coughing fits” assures a soothing voice over from one of the television spots. Following a montage of fun-loving tourists enjoying beaches, pyramids and other scenic vistas, the ad ends in the new tag line “Mexico: You'll probably be fine”.
To placate the worries of over anxious travelers, newly arriving visitors will be presented a hygiene pamphlet outlining some common sense practices. “As a purely precautionary measure, visitors to some of the regions with higher than average reported cases of malady may want to soak body parts that may have come in contact with locals in a solution of bleach and hydrogen peroxide; it is also wise to ingest massive amounts of vitamin C, multivitamins, and Tamiflu. These simple steps will help assure a lowered risk of infection.”
Torres insists fears of contracting the illness are being overblown by the media. “Don't let fear of the unknown dissuade you from your travel plans. It remains much more likely you will be kidnapped.”
Pour yourself a drink and sit back on the couch. Or on the porch. Or the car, hell. Crank up your favorite band. A top two as you're probably being indecisive. Here's the lowdown. You are told by some mystical force that it's time to choose. Some sort of musical faery with a wicked grin says that never for the rest of your natural life can you listen to either of those bands again. The TV starts pumping out an all-time favorite arena rock anthem during a commercial hawking Cadillacs? Change the channel or it will change for you. Old school rock ballad that gives you chills remembering late nights in the park as a teen? Switch off the car radio. Overhear that #1 hit that seemed to camp out near the top of the charts a whole summer? Please put on these soundproof headphones. Stones or Beatles? Debate might about to become moot for you.
OR offers this obviously warped being, you can have a finger lopped off and listen to your heart's content. Just because it's feeling generous that day, you'll be allowed to choose which digit. He knows we all choose pinky anyhow. You have to imagine the proposer of this deal possesses omnipresent enforcement skills, so no cheating. Why doesn't matter, maybe you ate the wrong apple, or crossed the wrong rickety bridge, or committed some other imagined trespass to find yourself indebted to him.
I posed this question to a friend and was surprised at the immediacy of his reply, indicating he'd soon be in the market for some new favorites. Either he had no heart and soul, or possibly I had too much.
Now the method of finger removal might have an effect on your math. I'm hard pressed to say I'd likely vote finger if it was more a surgical procedure than a “Very well mortal, place your pinky into this rusty meat grinder..” I'd still be leaning finger, but I'd be damn sure to tell this sombitch where to stick it once it was his. You don't need to be polite to vindictive magical folk. As the tales all say, they know they've already put you through the wringer.
As a reward to yourself (if reward it could be called, as you were already able to listen all you liked before this damned faery came along), you immediately dig (with your good hand) into your collection, playing all your favorites ad infinitum. Probably until you were sick of them, knowing you. Or one night you push your way backstage at their final reunion tour, babbling some teary-eyed story of why you deserve to have dinner with the band. “I dunno Mick, something about he chopped off his finger because of you. Sounds like a drug-addled freak if you ask me, I'll get him an 8x10 glossy and boot him back to General Admission.”
You get by just fine without the finger, though it makes handshakes squeamish for new acquaintances. Plus you got to use the partial disability check from the insurance to buy a thunderous new stereo for the living room. But you're reminded of your loss every time you tie your laces, or notice the pathetic floppy finger on your winter gloves. Before you know it time passes and you find you can't stand the sound of either of those damned bands any more. Somewhere your poor pinky resides as a leathery, shrunken prize on some cruel deity's mantelpiece. He dusts it every Sunday with a chuckle.
SEOUL- Following news that North Korea's leader Kim Jong Il has pancreatic cancer, more reports are beginning to make their way out of the hermit kingdom. Disputed eyewitness reports and hearsay describing the declining state of the “Dear Leader's” health have trickled out over the past two years, but the recent admission that the dictator indeed has cancer seems to have opened a floodgate of news.
