Dear Mrs. Vera,
What do you think of the odds that Baby Kim will launch his missile but that it will land on him?
Dear Novacaine Ashcan,
There’s a lot of chatter these days about North Korea’s technoknowledgetical advances, especially since Kim Jong Un got that 238th lovable limited edition Pluto I Am!™ stuffed dog doll (available at The Disney Store™) from Denise Rodwoman to complete his collection. Before we all panic, rudely crushing everyone and everything in our pointless stampeding attempts to survive the coming horrors that the rats and roaches have waited so patiently for, let me remind my readers that some of this chatter is actually the result of a planet-spanning, below-wholesale release of battery operated (batteries are big these days over there, as no one does anything in North Korea unless you hit them a few times first, or at least give them a good shaking) wind-up novelty teeth from the Peony Yang™ Novelty Mart And Manufacturing Concern.
These humorous, toxic playthings are state-of-the-art achievements of engineering, representing the North Korean Military’s stake in the controversial, emerging drone market, and are even more remarkable when you consider that they are crafted meticulously out of, well, mostly spicy cabbage and widow’s tears. Since that is, admittedly, pretty darn impressive, it has caught the attention of the Washington Brassicalati who have been so conspicuously silent recently on their DARPA funded goal of weaponizing broccoli by Mother’s Day 2014, through the relentless efforts of the shadowy Manhattan Bistro Project, an unaccountable XXXXXXX XX XXX XXXXX XXXXXX, said to be popular with Laura Bush, XXX XX XXXX XXX Martini Glass XXX XX Lysol™ XXXX XX XXXX lemon wedge and parasol XXX XX XXXX henceforth of which I deny all knowledge. Along with everything else I am officially instructed to now know nothing about, or ever did, or ever will. It is a ridiculous state of redactedness to be so personally censored, but at least I have been granted permission to express my disfavor (except, of course, when I am playing hide-and-seek with giraffe-sized ravens) at having most of my body covered in giant black Sharpie™ pen stains. Dick Cheney always used White-Out™ to silence me when he was president, but let’s not go there. Besides, when was the last time you saw me play hide-and-seek with polar bears? Exactly.
So we need not worry that the hushed, cl-cl-clattery, treacherous whisperingsss of chilly, free-standing cavity magnets, given that they keep falling off the coffee table, are successfully spying on our every move and action across this nation, saints preserve us all for that small favor! (Or “flavor”, as our greatest Irish president, O’Bama, is fond of saying when making his peoples’ famous traditional potato jelly.) But does that mean there is nothing to fear from this family of roly-poly despots? Alas, I fear that his father, Kim Jong Il (the “Il” is short for “ill mannered”) has raised a bar so low that the bellicose son, Un, must do the limbo in a special greatness trench honoring his tubby perfection if he ever hopes to belly up to that bar without dislodging it when starting a nuclear winter with his ambitions to prove his soft, radiant, flawless porcelain skin and manlihoodedness to his world-wide, captive audience. Where does this pungent, pickled posturing come from, and how can one best compliment its lavish host without getting shot for not saying it right?
Now I’m not saying all of this is Kim Novak’s fault; she was a dear friend and will always be one of our greatest screen actresses, and as you are possibly named after her, I shall endeavor to say this delicately: She was never the same after she lost the role of Catwoman in the original Batman TV series. She swam to Korea in protest, from Huntington Beach, IN! 4! DAYS!, and that did something to her. She secretly bore Kim Jong il a son, and is in fact Kim Jong Un’s mother, and was known affectionately in terror throughout North Korea as Mah Jongg for the tiles she would throw to starving people that she actually painted on and carved out of cubes of nutritious cheese, cubes of hot-pot beef and cubes of smelly daikon radishes. Perhaps if she had spent more time with her son instead of doing guest appearances I was up for on Columbo, The Love Boat and Barney Miller, the world would be a safer place, today, and I wouldn’t have 3 daughters named Emmy. But I’ll always treasure the early days we spent running around Las Vegas with David Niven and Paul Bunyon. Everyone’s gone now except me and Babe, though I still have the gigantic skillet Paul would skate around on, with cinderblocks of butter on his feet, before making us those ludicrous pancakes.
Anyway, I am fairly certain that North Korea’s leader’s handlers will, at some point, launch their missiles. If only to clean under them, and update the launch silo’s kind-of dated, “up with Un” graphics featuring mostly smiley faces, wild-haired trolls and footprint decals, with more trendy painted slogans to be provided by the Bureau of Propaganda, which is (unfortunately) still in the same awkward room as the chifferobe of timely comebacks, that would be the guest bedroom, the one with the green hair dye and all the singleton earrings all over the pillowcases. But like “New Coke™,” these missiles probably won’t go very far before they bring shame and failure to the home office. In the off chance the things still fly after the warranty has expired, and reach the American shore, the statistical likelihood of it landing on you or me, as opposed to Kim Kardashian, are anywhere between two and three or four times less, depending on her due date, and very much smaller, indeed, if Donald Trump happens to be talking at the time. His open mouth is probably our best-case scenario for containing multiple radioactive blasts, and therefore we must pin our hopes for surviving these troubled times upon his location, preferably several miles off the California coast in the open waters of the pacific, dog-paddling furiously, when that bomb goes off, or even if it doesn’t, just in case.
I personally will worry more about this bomb when the missile itself less resembles a cushion fort inside 15 refrigerator boxes taped together. It has a bunch of un-bended coat hangers soldered to a cafeteria-sized empty #10 can of creamed corn radio, reaching all the way back to the control center in the dining room, where there is an awful lot of Cap’n Crunch™ with Crunchberries™ and baseball cards all over the carpets and overturned furniture. And I certainly hope the U.N. steps up its sanctions if and when they have replaced the Westinghouse Basketball Arena room, the all-Carpenters Karaoke Lounge and the cardboard Foosball Nosecone only one person at a time can crawl into, with some wires and lights and junk ‘n stuff ‘n things.
Mrs. Vera Newman is a San Francisco absurdist character, humorist, artist, writer, community organizer, clothes horse and co-founder, with Mister Tina, of The Verasphere. She has been answering the unasked questions she receives from the lonely, empty rooms of America’s heart-shaped circulatory pump room ever since it began beating. Nestled in the politically bent bowels of the Nation since she was a young girl babysitting the very same newborn Nation, her ability to self-reflect about anyone else’s embarrassing shortcomings, inept fumblings or lousy recipes has enabled her invisible rise as a modern-day Cassandra, whatever that means. Feel free to dispose of all your worries by leaving them on her doorstep!