Locked Up Abroad: North Korea

Many of you have asked me how I got the tattoo of Kim Jong-il on my left butt cheek.  I’m finally ready to talk.

About three years ago I was feeling pretty down.  I’d just been diagnosed with my 7th S.T.D. in two months, and my self-esteem wasn’t so high.  I started frequenting seedy bars and before I knew it, I’d spent every last dime I had on peyote and duck farts.

It was during this phase of my life that I met Han*, a sexy Communist from North Korea.  He seemed jittery.  In exchange for cash, I agreed to listen to all his warbling about the tortures of living under Kim Jong-il’s nasty regime.  He starting telling me about how he abandoned his family and rode a dolphin or something to the Chinese Border.  Then he robbed a man to get out of the country and into America.  He kept saying how sad he was to have left his children and wife.  Blah blah blah. 

* I changed Park Lee’s name to Han to protect him.

“You gotta get that shit outta your mind Hannie-Han.  I hear babies get eaten in North Korea.  Food shortages and shit.  Just let it go.  You’re with me now.”  I forced his head toward my bosom so he could nuzzle.

I agreed to meet Han the next night for another round of drinks and conversation.  Except this time I told him to take it easy with all the sappy talk.  “Can you do anything else with those lips Han?”  I winked at him seductively, but it’s hard with my lazy eye. 

The next night, Han told me he’d come into some money in New York and that he’d do anything to get it to his family back in North Korea.  He said his family could use a radio, food, and even fuel.

I cut him off.  “How much?” I asked him.

He looked perplexed.

“How much for me to smuggle goods into North Korea for you?  I’m not afraid.  I’ll do it for cash.”

Han agreed to pay me $25,000 wons in exchange for my smuggling services.  I asked him how many US dollars that would be, and he said “very many.”  That was all I needed to hear. 

The next day was a tough one for me.  After purchasing my ticket to North Korea through Orbitz, I started baking lots of tater tots.  I bought the frozen, extra-crispy kind.  Then I smashed them into condoms, tied them off extra tight, and dipped them in vanilla syrup before swallowing them.  I managed to get down about 3 balloons before I felt sort of sick.  I figured Han’s family would be underfed and small, so 3 condom balloons full of tots would be plenty for those crumb-crunchers.

Next, I managed to locate my old iPod, and I slathered it with butter before slipping it between my butt cheeks.  No way they’d find it there.  Since my crack is unusually large, I was able to get a few cigarette lighters in too.  Mission accomplished: food, radio, and fuel.

I sure was nervous going through airport security, but since I wore my American flag string bikini, no one really questioned me.  I managed to make it onto the plane and after about six vodka tonics, I was peaced out.

When the plane landed in North Korea, there were all these soldiers everywhere.  I began to sweat, and before I knew it, the lighters fell out of my crack onto the ground.  Suddenly, there were machine guns in my face.  I understood the soldiers wanted me to wiggle around and sure enough the IPod dropped out too. 

They took me to a holding cell and an interpreter told me I’d get the death penalty if I didn’t tell them what else I smuggled.  I had no choice but to swallow some fiber pills.  A couple hours later, I passed the tot balloons.  The guards’ eyes were big with hunger; one of them poked the soiled tot with his machine gun and it burst open.  Tot was everywhere.

Because I was American, I was given 6 months time in a seedy North Korean prison.  At first I was assigned to hard labor, but after about 2 weeks, Kim Jong-il visited the prison and that’s when our love affair began.

Here’s a picture of Kimmy in my cell an hour after we met:

Kimmy and I had a real connection from the first time he beat me with a reed.  I yelled “Harder!,” and he said no one ever talked to him like that before.  When he insisted I call him “Dear Leader,” and I changed it to “Kimmy Sweetmeats,’” he was smitten.  He brought me some silver chopsticks and we spooned most nights. 

 After a few more weeks of pleasure-seeking with Kimmy, the other prisoners started to get jealous.  Sometimes they’d pelt me with tofu or chunks of radish while I bathed in the prison’s large mudpool.  I began to feel unsafe, and I asked Kimmy if he wouldn’t mind letting me go back to California.  Kimmy was sad, but he agreed as long as he could laser his image into my buttox.  Of course I let him.  I kept yelling “Hurt so good Kimmy, Hurt so good!” while it was being tattood and he squealed like a little girl.

If you’re reading this Kimmy Sweetmeats, I miss you.  Call me.

 

 

 

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