The sympathy notes have been streaming in from all corners of the world since the announcement a couple of hours ago that my favorite chubby dictator has gone and taken himself a child bride. Turns out the mystery woman pictured with him last week was neither sister nor slutty concubine, but rather lawfully wedded wife, Ri Sol-ju.
Ms. Ri not only seems to be quite lovely in photos, she’s also a hell of a lip syncher. Witness this catchy little number, Soldiers’ Footprints.
It’s probably better that KJU and I didn’t end up together anyway. My go-to karaoke number, You’re So Vain would probably be misconstrued by my dearly beloved and would lead to all sorts of marital troubles and maybe even an early death (mine) shrouded in suspicious circumstances.
I’m going to send KJU and RSJ a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey as a wedding present. Judging by the high cultural standards in the fine nation of North Korea, I have a feeling that pile of horseshit is going to really knock them out.
If you are looking for me today, I’ll be on the computer Googling the crap out of “single dictators” and crying into my Taedonggang. (That’s North Korean for beer.)
Originally posted September 28, 2010
I get practically giddy each and every time North Korea makes any kind of official announcement. So it won’t surprise anyone that the news out of North Korea yesterday was the highlight of my day—Kim Jong Un, the youngest son of Dear Leader, had been made a four-star general in the People’s Army.
Now I learn he has been named vice chairman of the ruling Workers’ PartyCentral Military Commission. Man, I haven’t been this excited by a news item since those grainy photos of Lindsay Lohan with a syringe in her arm.
After my post a while back about the fashions of Dear Leader himself, Kim Jong Il, a friend mentioned to me that though my acid tongue would never earn me an invitation to sit at Anna Wintour’s table, I just might get myself a surprise trip (as in, kidnapping) to North Korea. Oh, I should be so lucky!
Of course I would want to bring my imaginary BFFs Trey Parker and Matt Stone with me, for it is their puppet version of KJI from Team America: World Police whom I picture in my mind’s eye whenever I think about the littlest despot—which is alarmingly often.
But I digress (per usual). My only problem with all of the KJU news is there really aren’t any photos of the little prince. He is the youngest of KJI’s three sons and is thought to be 27 or 28. His name in Chinese characters means “righteous cloud.” And hey, if you don’t support a guy named Righteous Cloud, you probably don’t believe in unicorns either.
He is also said to look remarkably like his father, which would make sense why he and not one of his two older brothers is being tapped to take control of the country should anything happen to Daddy-O. KJI is nothing if not a narcissist.
In my search for KJU photos, I came across the now standard-issue shot of him as an 11-year-old, and then I got a load of some official photos that have been released to alert the world to the Workers’ Party gathering. In the first one, I was struck not only by the enthusiasm of the delegates as they rush off to the aforementioned meeting but by the fact that apparently wheelie luggage has not yet made its debut in North Korea.
All those eager delegates, and not a single one is experiencing the joy and reduced shoulder pain associated with wheeling one’s luggage rather than toting it by hand. Hmmm, could this be true? Or is this photo from ye olden times when wheeled luggage was just a pipedream in Samsonite’s corporate noggin?
Today’s photo from Dancing with the Kims (a new reality show I plan to launch once I’m ensconced in the palace) highlights the not exactly slimming silhouette of the Hanbok, the traditional Korean dress. I am thinking of getting a couple of these brightly colored numbers to wear for my now surely imminent trip to North Korea.
With that full skirt, I can probably smuggle a couple of wheelie suitcases under there and become a folk hero to all those dudes with bad shoulders in the first picture.
Originally posted August 30, 2010
It is the morning after the Emmys, and lots of TV types are probably waking up with a hangover right about now. Oh relax—I’m not suggesting that anyone overindulged on the happy juice. Besides, half the town would have to run to a “meeting” if that were the case.
I refer instead to how much people’s heads must hurt from looking at dresses like that number January Jones wore that was constructed out of cupcake-tin liners and hot glue or the sequined football shoulder pad number that made Anna Paquin look like a linebacker for the midget squad that comes out to entertain during halftime.
Wait, do they even have such a thing at football games? Because if they don’t, I think I might have just come up with a real moneymaker here—midget halftime entertainment. I’m too lazy to follow through on this, but if anyone else wants to take the pigskin and run with it, it’s all yours. Well, 60/40 split—it’s only fair. This kind of genius is tough to come by.
So given the star-studded night, I should probably do a gown-by-gown rundown, right? Ugh, I’m too lazy for that, too. How about I just say this: There were a lot of bad dresses (Christina Hendricks, how come you look so great on Mad Menand yet you chose to wear Miss Kitty’s rejects from Gunsmoke?) and a lot of shows I’ve never watched (Modern Family) that seem to be popular. Okay, that’s about as much time as that awards show deserves, besides I need to move on.
You know what I really want to write about? This. This right here: Muammar Qadaffi, Brotherly Leader and Guide of the Revolution—or as he’s also known, Guide of the First of September Great Revolution of the Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Jamahiriya.
Yesterday Qadaffi and his lady bodyguards hopped on over to Italy, probably to apologize for the time in the ’70s when he ordered the expulsions of all Italians from Libya. Or maybe to collect some of the $5 billion that his pal Silvio Berlusconi agreed to pay as restitution for Italy’s colonizing of Libya oh so long ago.
Whatever the purpose of his trip (again, too lazy to figure it out and way more interested in making things up), he and the bodygirls clearly got this season’s military-chic memo. I love how the Amazon on the right will be able to hide out should the plane go down in the ocean, while the Amazon on the left is jungle ready.
I’m just wondering why they didn’t coordinate better. Or maybe it’s just best to be prepared for any possible scenario. Qadaffi himself is a clearly only going to be camouflaged if on camelback in a sandstorm.
Now I’m picturing the bodygirls thumbing through copies of Italian Vogueon the flight back to Tripoli, looking for ways to accessorize that don’t involve firearms.
Originally posted May 19, 2010
People like to suggest things for me to write about. Usually the conversations go something like this:
Friend/incredibly twee topic suggester: “Hey you should write about that Nora Ephron play. It has something about clothing in the title.”
Me: “Um, no thanks. A hot poker to my left eye is a more likely scenario. But really, thank you for the idea. It’s so nice of you to suggest I tread lightly onto the shores of mediocrity. I’m sure I’ll be much more comfortable here in the emergency ward with this flaming piece of iron protruding from my eye socket.”
Then the other day, when my esteemed colleague and fellow wacky-glasses enthusiast J Brown sent me an email with a blog topic suggestion, I was prepared to be all smug and, “No thanks, J Brown, I am far too cool for everyone in the whole world.”
But you see, I forgot that me and J Brown are on the same page pretty much all of the time. Yep, old J Brown was on the money, baby! He suggested I write about Kim freaking Jong-il. And he didn’t even know I am mildly obsessed with Dear Leader.
So here we are—me, you and the littlest despot ever to don an olive drab leisure suit, some funky specs and a thinning Elvis pompadour. All I have to do now is try to figure out a way to work in a military-chic reference without seeming like a complete and utter hack.
Okay, here goes: Dear Leader charms his way into my fashion book each and every season. How, you ask? Well, first and foremost, a penchant for wearing fatigue-inspired duds even though he is not exactly active-duty worthy. How Christophe Decarnin of him. Flaunt the olive drab season after season, you little kook. Just like denim, that military chic will come back in style every few years or so.
The number two way Dear Leader hits my hit parade: eyewear that boggles the mind—and doesn’t look right on anyone other than grandmas and old-school rappers. Get a load of the sunglass version. They are like Korean Cazals. Those babies are minty fresh, Supreme Commander of the Korean People’s Army! (The fourth largest standing army in the world, according to a quick Wiki search—not too shabby, KJI.)
And the number three way Dear Leader makes my heartstrings sing: picking a style and sticking with it. Just like Anna Wintour, her banged bob and her beige old-man sandals. KJI only varies his public look by throwing an equally drab parka and a jaunty fur hat on for outdoor sightings. Way to stick to your fashion guns, cupcake.
And the final way His Greatness continues to amaze: the cult of personality surrounding KJI includes the “fact” that Dear Leader once shot 11 holes in one during a round of golf, which is pretty amazing in and of itself. But when you consider that he did it wearing that khaki leisure suit, well, then it’s practically a miracle.