How are you? I’m good, thanks. I haven’t seen you since summer camp in the 7th grade. I hope everything is good. Remember when we had that epic food fight during that last dinner, and I got that fresh squeezed boysenberry juice in my eyes? It stung something horrible, and I was afraid that I was going to go blind. But you stayed right by my side, calmly spitting in my eyes trying to flush the pain out. Eventually you decided to use the glass of water that was literally in your hand the whole time. That worked a lot better, but the spit was appreciated none the less. Well, maybe a little the less.
How about the night of the big talent show? That was a crazy night. I never would have guessed that you could lip-synch so well, but it just seemed to come second nature to you. You were so nervous before you went out on stage but you killed it!!!
You. Killed. It.
The way you owned that crowd was amazing to watch. Your medley of Culture Club hits was inspirational to all. My favorite part was I’ll Tumble 4 Ya. But it was all really good. Your ability to pretend that you were actually singing was only eclipsed by your ability to look like you were really dancing. I only wish that YouTube had been around back then. Because that shit would have gone viral, big time. I think it would have had even more hits than that Gangnam Style song that you recorded last year. What was that thing all about? I didn’t get it. Sorry, pal. Just being honest, like a friend would be. I thought you would want me to be honest with you.
When you got off that stage that night, soaked in sweat and smelling of success and Aqua Velva, you seemed to stand six-foot tall. But I saw your smile quickly fade as your shoulders slouched. When I asked what was wrong, you played it off like you were just coming down off the high of your performance, but I knew better. You were upset because you knew your father, Kim Jong Il, was displeased with your lip-synching lifestyle and had forbidden you from doing it. But it was a part of who you are. You could no more just stop pretending to sing lyrics to other people’s songs as much as you could just stop masturbating on things that didn’t belong to you. It’s in your blood. It’s who you are.
Even though your dad wasn’t there to see you that night because he was too busy tyranically oppressing everyone back at home, you knew that he would find out about it. You were worried that if he discovered your secret that he would disown you, and you wouldn’t be able to succeed him when he died. Just like Raul Castro did for Fidel in Cuba or Baby Doc did for Papa Doc in Haiti. Or Tommy Boy did for Big Tom Callahan in Sandusky, Ohio.
You knew that acting like you had musical talent was your God-given talent. (I know that you think I’m talking about your grandfather, Kim Il Sung, when I say God, but I’m not. I mean the real God. I’m talkin’ ’bout George Burns, Willis)
No matter what your daddy said, you promised to keep on mouthing the words to Top 40 pop music 4-EVA. “I’m not gonna let that heartless son of a bitch take the music away from me Billy. I swear to you that I will always look like I’m singing a song, no matter what”.
That was thirty years ago Kim, but I remember it like it just happened in my head right now. I’m sorry we lost touch, but it’s so incredibly hard to be pen pals with someone in North Korea. Not only do all the letters get confiscated and edited by the government (you), but it’s also wicked hard to figure out the proper postage. Do I need five stamps for this? Or six? Plus, where do you even buy envelopes anymore?
When your pops died and you took over, I meant to hit you up on Facebook or Twitter, but once again, your intense hatred of the interwebs prevented me from sending my congratulations. I really don’t understand your mistrust of the World Wide Web. I mean, it allows people from different countries to exchange information and ideas on how to improve their lives. Oh yeah, that’s why.
I saw on the news a few weeks ago that you and Dennis Rodman are friends now. That’s nice for you. I like to know that you’re doing well and making friends. A man with no friends is no friend of mine, man. That’s what a friend of mine said, man.
But now I hear on the wisecracker line that you’re talking all kinds of craziness. Nuclear bombs and what not? This kind of crazy business does nobody any good. We all got to just calm down, maybe go outside for some fresh air. Perhaps you want a rip off this bong? Yes? No? Maybe? Alright, maybe it is. I’ll just leave it here on this table. There’s a lighter in the draw. Just don’t steal it. It’s the only thing I have from my father. It’s kind of my birthright, I guess. Like you get North Korea from your dad, and I got a Zippo from mine. Not a bad deal…… All right, it’s a Bic.
I’m just kidding. I got nothing when my dad died
When you start talking all this gibberish about attacks by a “smaller, lighter and diversified” nuclear force and warning, “The moment of explosion is approaching fast.” I get a little worried. Is this the same Kim Jong Un that I went to camp with all those years ago? Was this the same little guy who not only looked like he sounded like what Boy George would sound like but also sort of looked like he looked like what Boy George would look like thanks to some glitter, paint and a little old-fashioned elbow grease. This can’t be the same kid, can it? The same kid that stayed up all night long because he wanted to tape Billy Squire‘s Rock Me Tonite off of the radio so he could practice learning to look like he had learned to sing it? That can’t be him.
But it is you, I can smell the Aqua Velva.
C’mon buddy, everything you need to know about the horrors of nuclear war can be learned from Nena’s hit song 99 Luftballons. I know that you must know the lyrics, right?
Jeder war ein grosser Krieger
Hielten sich fuer Captain Kirk
Das gab ein grosses Feuerwerk
Die Nachbarn haben nichts gerafft
Und fuehlten sich gleich angemacht
Dabei schoss man am Horizont
Auf 99 Luftballons
I couldn’t have said it better myself. Captain Kirk, man.
Captain fucking Kirk.
Think about it pal.
Your Friend ,
Bill McMorrow (dot-com)