kim jong-il round-up

highlights from team america:

so ronery:

king jong-il looking at things:

rooking at rice

kim jong un looking at things

looking at food and crazy dad

kim jong-il’s obituary if it had been written by kim jong-il:

via happyplace


“Kim Jong-Un Privately Doubting He’s Crazy Enough To Run North Korea”

“Obviously, I know I was handpicked because I’m super crazy,” said Kim, the youngest of the late 69-year-old dictator’s four known children. “But my father was just so great at what he did. Did you know the people of North Korea heard his voice exactly once, for like five seconds? How nuts is that? Honestly, I look at stuff like that and I think, ‘Wow, there’s just no way I can ever top Dad.'”

“We’re talking about a world-class nutjob here,” he added.

Kim told reporters that since emerging as the presumptive next-in-line to lead North Korea, he had spent countless hours trying to come up with his own brand of craziness that would honor the tradition set forth by his father and grandfather, Kim Il-sung, but would also set him apart. After discovering that many of his best ideas had already been taken by his father—including making citizens bow toward wall-sized portraits of himself or claiming to be a demigod whose moods directly influence the weather—Kim admitted he had grown frustrated.

“At this point, I’m not sure what’s left for me to do, really,” he said. “I mean, according to the Ministry of Information, Dad hit 11 holes-in-one the first time he ever played golf. I’m dead serious. Dad had never even picked up a golf club before, and he hit 38 under par. Where am I supposed to go from there? I guess I can say I ran a marathon in 20 minutes, but isn’t that pretty much the same thing?”

“It is the same thing, isn’t it?” Kim added. “Ugh.”

(via the onion)

and on a serious note …

As you already know, Kim Jong Kardashian died while fighting a USA-made Godzilla robot on the North Korea border over the weekend and the entire country took to the streets to publicly melt down over the loss of their leader…Since the crazy is all these people have known their entire lives, this seems pretty authentic to me, which is a whole new level of scary.

…North Korea is a fucked-up place where their former leader commanded intense worship from his people or they were sent to special camps, sometimes for life. And we’re not talking Parent Trap-type summer camps (although they might have held an hourly showing of I Know Who Killed Me as a torture method), so this grief is probably real. Or they’re crying out of happiness that the muthafucka is in a box.

Someone liberate these bitches, and explain to them that his insane ass had nothing to do with inventing awesome things like peanut butter.

(via dlisted)

on a truly serious note:

To many, the plot seemed absurd. The hero was improbable, with Babygro zipped-up suits stretched over his pot belly, oversized sunglasses, platform shoes and bouffant hair, all adding precious height and heft to his five feet two inches. For years, too, he was invisible: not seen by the world until the 1970s, improbably taking English lessons from Dom Mintoff in Malta, and never heard in North Korea until he came briefly to the microphone, at a parade in 1992, to cry “Glory to the heroic soldiers!” Yet since the 1960s he had been a feared force in his father’s Propaganda and Agitation Department: eliminating internal rivals, possibly plotting foreign assassinations (the Korean Air bombing of 1987, in which 115 died, and the Rangoon bombing of 1983, killing three South Korean ministers, were both attributed to him), building up the cult of his father in statues and birthday celebrations and, incidentally, stoking high the cult of himself.

Sun and fog

That fairytale film began with his birth, in 1942 in a log cabin frosted with February snow at a revolutionary training camp on holy Mount Paektu: his coming foretold by a swallow, accompanied by a double rainbow and a new star in the heavens. (His actual birth, in Russia’s Far East a year earlier, was dull and forgotten.) He learned to walk in three weeks, to talk in eight; he wrote six operas and 1,500 books while a student at Kim Il Sung University, and scored five holes-in-one in his first game of golf. Apart from being “the greatest writer who ever lived” and “greatest musical genius”, he was, by diktat, the Glorious General from Heaven, the Guiding Star of the 21st Century, and more than 200 other things. His bad temper could shake buildings; his cheerier moods could melt ice; and on a visit to South Korea fog shrouded him to keep him safe from snipers.

His death, too, might well have been scripted by himself: on one of his beloved trains (he feared flying), as he visited his people to offer “on-the-spot guidance”, while a snowstorm paused, and the holy mountain of his birth glowed red with the rising Sun. “Forgive me,” he once said to Shin, as he half-heartedly apologised for kidnapping and imprisoning him. “I was playing a role.” To the bitter end.

(via the economist)

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