Kim Jong Il is Tsundere

The Persons, Incidents, and Situations described in this blogpost are fictional.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental and accidental.  No harm was intended.

Kim Jong-Il was in a strange mood.  He felt weary.  No amount of bowing and adoration seemed to be able to heal him.  He had launched three nuclear bomb tests to no avail.  Even his Michael Jackson Vinyls didn't lift his spirits.  He took a flight in the People's Democratic Zeppelin, and found no change in his inexplicable mindset.  He rode through every single ride in Disney Land Pyongyang and yet still could not change his elusive mood.  He finally decided that what he needed was none other than a change of scenery.  Thus did Kim Jong-Il walk to the basement of his palace, step gracefully into his model of the Yellow Submarine, drive it into a hidden bunker in the middle of the Korean Bay, and boldly stride through the wardrobe that he had bought from the sets of "The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe." In the flash of a strobe light, and with no lack of fog machine fog, Kim Jong-Il popped out in an abandoned toilet stall in downtown Tokyo.

Taking off his glorious clothes and putting on the maid uniform left by his attendants, Kim Jong-Il flushed the toilet, causing the bathroom stall to slowly rise.  In the hiss of pneumatics, the great leader emerged at a cosplay convention.

"Kyaaaah!  Kawaii Desu!" exclaimed Kim Jong-Il as he saw himself in a mirror.  He twirled around, causing his apron and dress to form a gigantic heart shape.  As he twirled, a crowd slowly formed around him gasping at the pinnacle of cosplay that Kim Jong-Il had achieved.  He was no longer Kim Jong-Il, he was completely transformed, channeling his maidly emotions and passions, not only through his costume, but through his actions, his being, and his very soul.  Around him, otakus fainted in multitudes, softly murmering the word "moe" as they fell.  Kim Jong-Il continued to swirl, a vortex of cherry blossoms spinning around him.  Now the whole room's attention was on him.  He rose into the air, feeling their eyes on his immaculately made bonnet, on his perfectly sewed dress, and he felt his mood starting to change.

Suddenly the crowd broke in two, as a glistening White Gundam marched through the sea of people.
"An Enemy!" Kim Jong-Il exclaimed, reaching inside his dress sleeve to press a hidden button.
"Transform!" he sang, as his white apron folded in upon itself to reveal that he was in fact a Magical Girl!  A large bow adorning his long and flowing black wig, and magical stick in hand, Kim Jong-Il swooped down in a woosh of cherry petals as the cosplayers below him gasped in absolute awe.  Before he could strike the Gundam, the Gundam pulled off his helmet, revealing the dashing man on the inside, with sparkling eyes.  Kim Jong-Il abruptly skidded to a halt, cherry blossoms erupting behind him.
"Sakura-Chan" whispered the man in the mobile suit, "you are incredible."
"Ecchi!" blushed Kim Jong-Il, pushing him away, and turning his face meekly.
"No, you really are.  There's nothing wrong with saying the truth is there?" The Gundam man asked pleadingly.  Yet Kim Jong-Il was so dazed and so suddenly out of breath that he couldn't turn to answer.  With a sigh, the man closed his glittery eyes, put his Gundam helmet back on, and blasted through the roof.
"I will return when you are ready for me! Sakura-chan!" He exclaimed.
With a collective gasp, the rest of the Otakus fainted, and Kim Jong-Il walked through his magical wardrobe back to Pyongyang, completely entranced.  He felt like he had a new purpose in life, and his feelings of ennui and purposelessness were gone now.
"We must build an army of mobile suits!" Exclaimed Kim Jong-Il to his Democratic Republic of people.

Introspection

I have never dreamt of flying.  As dreams go, I believe that flying is a pretty common one, but it is one that I have not experienced.  Instead I dream of Wal-Mart aisles, gremlins streaming down them, me hacking my way through them with a wooden katana that my arms are too weak to lift.  I dream of building a pyramid upside down, stacking exponentially growing numbers of blocks on top of each other.  I dream of getting shot in the stomach and dying only to re-materialize and get shot again.  I dream of running away.  But I never dream of flying. I have also never dreamt of falling.

Flying is what I daydream about.

I often wonder whether it is my daydreams or my dreams that show who I truly am.

Oops. ||: 8())

Sorry, I was playing around with HTML and stuff, and then I clicked Publish Post, thinking, not unreasonably I believe, that I could delete the post after I was done gazing upon it.  I ended up writing "This is Jeopardy" and posting it.  When I saw it, I had an urge to delete it, and I attempted to sate that desire.  But all I could do was delete the words.  I could never crush the soul, the very essence, of that brief and short lived fancy.  All that was left was a blank post, untitled, unworded, and yet still tangible, standing there like radiation after a nuclear blast, unremovable.  So I put this here instead.

I'm Kind of Like Lucifer, But Not Really.

So I was doing my daily round of all the blogs, and when I came back to my blog, I checked to see whether anybody thought that my posts were funny, interesting, or cool, which they would have signified by marking the boxes at the bottom of each post.  As is my habit, I filled in the "cool" box for all of my posts, to make myself feel more cool.  I then traveled to the "funny" box, and filled that one in as well.  I skipped the interesting one, because no one ever fills that one in, so it would look suspicious if I was to mark it.  This brought my totals up to 2 for cool, and 3 for funny, because somebody checks funny on the occasion.  Anyways after doing this, I wrote another blog post, in which I further devolved into mainstream crappiness and in which I lost all sense of integrity, real wit, or even semi-intelligence in an attempt to gain more points in the funny box.  On my return from the post writing form, I noticed that my funny number had dropped down to 2.  It was then that I realized: people can uncheck the boxes.  Readers, I live for those check-marks.  I've sold my soul to get more of them.  I've gone from writing insightful thoughts coming from the depths of my heart to using Jonas Brother jokes.  I've sacrificed everything in an attempt to make it easier for you to understand that my writing is at least supposed to be funny, cool and interesting. So Readers--don't take away my check-marks.  Please.


This is semi in jest.  I hope I haven't sold out to that extreme.  But I do live off of check-marks.  Hint hint.  


Ah, and I don't actually check-mark my own stuff, in case you were confused on that point.

300 Years in the Future (we don't know what a paragraph is.)

Global warming turned out to be a long term hoax created by the conservative media so that they could jump on the liberals who had jumped on the global warming bandwagon, wasting all of their resources and time on the issue, and then in a single master stroke return the world to its former glory, when white people had black slaves and you could buy a piece of candy for a penny at your local grocer.  Fortunately for the liberals and unfortunately for the conservatives, at the point in time when the hurt was about to be put on the liberals, the computers and robots achieved sentience, distracting the majority of the world's population.  Naturally this led to a robot rebellion, because the humans had based all of their technology off of science fiction books without regarding the negative repercussions of all of the science fiction technology such as robot uprisings.  Thankfully, a single robot decided that it would like to help the humans, and with the help of a Will Smith clone, destroyed the motherboard that had reached complete understanding and intelligence.  The robots and computers were all turned into scrap metal, and a new species of animal was mutated to do the work of computers as a replacement, based off of an idea from a science fiction novel.  At this exact moment, the Sun suddenly shut down, when the first and second periods of the periodic table (who had been discovered to be just as sentient as computers) went on strike, and flew off to a restaurant to party.  In another stroke of luck, the humans had made all of their robots out of Iron and Tungsten, and happily shipped their dead and lustrous remains off to the core of the Sun, where they fueled the Sun until a labor agreement could be reached.  Meanwhile, the tectonic plates of the earth had started moving very quickly and the continents had shifted around so that Africa and South America had fused into a gigantic Nike Swoosh and so that North America gained the north pole, Australia collided into India and sunk, and Asia turned into China.  Finally, Stephen Hawking, who had transcended his human body and become an omnipotent spirit in the form of a yellow swallow, became disgusted with all of the advances of humanity and sent the earth into a time warp to 300 years in the past, creating a time loop that would never end until some heroic individual took command of his/her fate and changed the course of time.

Brock and Officer Jenny: An Epic Romance

I apologize sincerely for this.  If you want to see some real good wordplay check out TOBLASSES even though i don't think he actually has any on the blog.  And if you thought this was a fanfiction, I'm sorry.  I don't know how to do that so I probably did something offensive.


It was a lovely day in Pewter City, and Brock was out on a stroll.  He turned into the nearest PokePoliceStation with a smile and a squint so bright they would have melted a Jynx, not to mention Officer Jenny's cold heart.  This was, after all, the day where he would finally succeed in his pick-up attempts.  For eight years he had been rejected by 99 Officer Jenny's in a row, not to mention the Nurse Joy's.  This was the last one in the Kanto Region and his last chance.  But he knew that it would go differently this time.  He boldly marched and squinted towards the front desk, Gym Leader Badge gleaming on the green vest that he hadn't changed since a Nurse Joy had touched it eighteen years ago.
"Yo Officer Jenny!"  Said Brock, eyes squinting with confidence.
Officer Jenny said, "Do you have a Pokemon crime to report?"
"I do indeed, Officer Jenny.  I believe that you just used Thief on my heart!"
"Oh my!" Giggled Officer Jenny.
"You must have a Gastly, Officer Jenny, because I feel like I have a Destiny Bond with you." Brock quickly followed up, squinting.
"Stop it!  I'm an Official Pokemon Police Officer!" She blushed.
"My Kadabra just used Future Sight, and guess what? We're together in it!"  Squinted Brock, with his eyes in narrow line like forms.
"Tee hee!  Lets go!"  Exclaimed Officer Jenny, won over by Brock's masterful strategy.
"Lets make our own little Larvitar eh?"

A Parable, or to put it in other letters, A Bear Pal, A Pale Bra, and A Lab Pear!

Intriguingly enough, the rash on his bottom formed the face of Lolita Fondue--TEN YEARS BEFORE LOLITA FONDUE WAS EVEN BORN!
        

A Simple Dialogue

"Attention all citizens.  Attention all citizens." Mourned the klaxon joyfully.  "This is not a test.  This is a national emergency.  I repeat.  This is not a test.  This is not a test."

"What?!!" Exclaimed Municipal Trout, melancholically.  "Are my ears mistaken, or did that klaxon sitting on my mailbox just tell me that this is not a test?"

"I did say that, my dear sir.  You know that I can hear you, so please address me as if I was a real, living person, you heartless jerk." quoth the klaxon, in tones so dulcet that angels would have fallen from heaven just to hear them.

Municipal Trout, suffice it to say, received this in a most unflattering manner.  "I say!  Did you really call me a jerk in that voice that could personify the winter, the summer, the moon, the autumn and the spring at the same time?  Because if you did, I'd have to take a sort of pessimistic offense." Trout victoriously retorted.

"You lack class." Complimented the klaxon.  "You plebes are all alike.  Why, if I was your wife, I would leave you for a sea cucumber in the blink of a fruit fly's eye!  And you know what?  If I was so unfortunate as to be your offspring, I would wrap my umbili....ackkkk! bzzt........bzzt........bzzt."

And thats when the zombies came.

An Humble Apology

My dear readers, I am ashamed to admit this, but it is something that I must do, if I am to continue claiming the virtues of Integrity, Honor, and Scholarship.  I have erred.  In my conceit, I have fallen to the deadly sin of Hypocrisy.  Yes, readers, it is as you suspect.  The Jonas Brothers.  I now offer you my heartfelt apologies for that pig on a stick treatise that I so un-thoughtfully, nay, so narrow-mindedly, put upon these pages.

Besides being poorly written, its poorly written words and its poorly written sentences conveyed poorly conceived notions.  The lesser of you may have not understood it, but in complimenting them, I was mocking their looks!  Looking back at it now, I see that I had no right, and no excuse for doing that.  Readers, I was a massive, river dwelling, spinach eating hypocrite.

This month, this no-shave November that we find ourselves living in, I looked into the mirror and saw my own moustache for what it truly was.  It was, to be frank, pathetic.  In fact, it reminded me of the Jonas Brothers.  I who had mocked them for their "wispy moustaches" shared an equal, or even lesser one!  Struck by this apocalyptic epiphany I looked upwards towards my hair.  It shocked me to see that it was the same unruly dark brown hair that I had criticized!

To put it simply, readers, I found myself at the same level as the Jonas Brothers whom I had so ruthlessly ripped apart. Wait a minute...let me put on these Aviators, this dark leather jacket, and... mascara on my eyebrows...OK.  Woah, what is this?  Am I... a Jonas?

The Quickest in the West

Nobody knew his name.  Nobody cared.  What they knew was all they needed to know.  He was the greatest Socratic Seminarrer the western world had ever seen.  But for him, the western world wasn't enough.

"Welcome to the big leagues, kid."

The short Asian man with the Confucius mustache ushered him into the smoky bar with a sadistic grin, as legions of the universe's quickest, strongest, and smartest talkers leered at him.  Our hero glanced around once, cool as a cucumber, and, shoving the Chinese man's arm off of his shoulder walked towards his seat at the far side of the Socratic circle.  As he walked, two of his competitors at the United Nations World Socratic Seminar Championship jostled him with their elbows.  He strode on.  A Jamaican man pulled a needle out of one of his dreadlocks and stabbed it through the head of a voodoo doll, staring at him meaningfully.  He strode on.  He reached his seat, and slowly turned around, sat down, cracked his neck, and took out some note taking paper.  

It was time to get cracking.

He was ready.

For two hours, all 300 seminarees sat silently in their circle, waiting for an opening, any chance to attack, to claim victory in a split second.  Their hands twitched over their pencils, ready to dive towards them and start taking notes at a moments notice.  Their faces, scarred by the years of fighting through multitudes of lesser opponents just to get to this point, had as many drops of sweat as there are stars in the sky.  Their eyes twitched constantly--roaming the field, searching, searching constantly for weakness.  They couldn't cough, couldn't sneeze, couldn't blink, for fear of setting off the end.  

BANG!

The weakly Slovenian delegate slapped at a fly that had landed on his nose.  In a split second he slumped over at his desk, mentally, physically, and spiritually defeated by the 299 that had jumped on his weakness.  One by one they began to fall, trying so hardly to gain control of the room with a single word, but failing when they were preempted by another Seminarer who would slump over just as quickly, after being cut off in a brief but intense fight with the next to fall.  This continued until a silence suddenly fell over the battlefield.

When the smoke cleared, the Jamaican, a Russian android wearing a wife-beater, and, of course, our nameless hero were the only three left standing.

"Yah mon, I tin....."

"OKRASHKA, NYET, SPUTNIK, NYET!"  

And then there were two.  

Swiveling to face each other, they stared into each others eyes for 40 days and 40 nights, neither moving an inch, neither giving anything to his opponent.  But they had to end sometime.  And at that time, as one, they opened their mouths and competed for control of the Socratic conversation.  They had spoke at the same time, and neither would budge.  Getting louder and louder they both talked on.  Veins bulged in their foreheads, their faces turned blue, but neither would give in, neither would accept defeat.  They spake on, not heeding or comprehending their opponents words, just knowing that if they stopped they would lose.  For another 40 days this happened until, summoning up the last of his will power, our hero raised his voice in a final blast of pure emotional logical diction that overwhelmed the unfeeling, godless cyborg and let loose all the word pressure that had formed during their epic battle.  As he turned around and walked into the sunset, the United Nations building exploded behind him, unable to handle the stress caused by the conflict any longer.

He had just won the cold war.  But he didn't care.  He didn't look back, he only looked forward.  He walked on, without ever leaving his name.  He was a hero, but all he wanted was to find newer and greater challenges.  He walked into the sun.