Posted on 10/24/2012 8:12:27 PM PDT by DogByte6RER
mebbe this was the best the norkies could do, actual bombs being reserved for extra special occasions.
batteries are so brown. no, your sex toys must be operated from clean green solar electricity. /very, very sardonic
“Boy, is he strict!”
Just think, the U.N. is sending observers to the United States of America to make sure there are no voting irregularities, yet the world continues to tolerate, for the better part of century now, a nation that is nothing but a hell on earth, an absolute horror; so horrible that the mind can only comprehend it as a joke.
It would be a mere joke if anyone were free to leave it at any time.
As for these observers, I’m sure the UN will duly tut-tut about the stupid provincial people of the USA when Barack gets his eviction notice this Novermber 6. The UN can have him, he can be the next secretary general for all I care. As long as he clears himself, slow Joe, and his cadre of communist sycophants out of the people’s house.
How the hell did they administer it? Tie it to the guy and then drop him on his head? Or shoot at him?
"Fire"
"Five degrees down."
"Fire"
"One degree down."
"Fire"
"Okay that did it, but we've still got a leg to vaporize over in the next quad..."
I believe that Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il have met justice and are paying the price after standing before the God they denied and having to look at the evil they had committed. In this world, though, I would like to see the Kim family suffer their due. Kim Jong Un is no different than his dear daddy. There were some that thought he might be different, but he’s a chip off the old block.
There is only one country on earth bat guano crazy enough to even try this - North Korea!
I’m thinking they don’t have a lot of extra real bombs to spare on this.
Anything they have that’s really, really good, which means they probably didn’t build it themselves, I imagine is pointed at the South Koreans.
I refrained from drinking during my own mourning period for Dear Leader. That period was between my solemnly intoning my special prayer of grief, “Rot in hell, you pudgy, pock-marked syphilitic bastard!” and the moment the champagne flute hit my lips.
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