President Gag, as expected, is running around telling the world how fabulous he is for striking a deal with Kim Jong-un. And occasionally adding how fabulous Kim Jong-un is. Suddenly, the infantile leader of the Korean peninsula’s hermetic police state is a brilliant, beloved head of state, a wunderkind, really, by the lights of this holy land’s first psychopathological president.
P. Gag sez North Korea’s nuclear threat is no more, an assertion pretty much every expert on this planet is baffled by, considering no pact was signed mentioning the destruction or cessation of Kim’s nuke research and/or deployment facilities.
My knee-jerk reaction is to simply say Li’l Duce‘s lying again. But after a moment’s consderation, I’ll take that back. He’s telling the truth. His truth, but a truth nonetheless.
See, P. Gag has met Kim, shared a laugh or two, been made starry-eyed by the fealty and obeisance the N. Korean citizenry has bestowed upon him. Li’l Duce has sat at a table with the man he once ridiculed as “little rocket man” and found, mirabile dictu, he likes the guy! In fact, Kim’s the leader P. Gag would love to be. Instead, the American president is beset by all these bastards who prattle on about something called the Constitution, whatever in the hell that may be.
The two men discovered, to their surprise, they dug each other, perhaps because they see so much of themselves in the other. In any case, they’ve agreed, tacitly, not to antagonize each other for the nonce. No more name calling. No more threats to blow each’s other’s nation to smithereens. We’re buds, mang! Sympatico. Peace reigns.
The US, by order of the president, is calling off all future joint war games and “defensive exercises” with Kim’s penultimate bete noire, South Korea. We’re also not going to fly over the Korean peninsula with our nuke-laden bombers nor will we pull into S. Korean ports with our A-bomb-heavy warships. In return, Kim won’t brag about being able to incinerate Seattle or LA. For now.
And — you know what? — it’s going to work. Again, for now. Tomorrow? Hell, that’s some other dumb son of a bitch future president’s worry.