dinner at the ill’s

“Very tasty,” Kim Jong said. Kim Jong the son. “What is it?”

“Fried gook,” his father told him. “My wife brought it in from the south.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jong-Un told him.

“What then?” ┬áhis father, Jong-il asked, as he chewed his Korean.

Mmmnnn. His son moaned, enjoyed his meal as he asked his great sperm donor, “i meant, what body part is it? Tastes like kneecap.”

His proud father smiled. “Ahh, my great son, don’t be so foolish. Just because the Southern Comfort is fried today, this does not make it lower extremity.”

“What is it then great father? I must know. My wenches must now. Field work makes them lazy.”

“My great son. Don’t you know? This is elbow.”

“Elbow?” Jong-Un thought about it. The perplexity confused him. So he asked his father, as he pondered to the point of headache, “Right or left?”

“Ahh,” Jong-il told him. As he nibbled on some nipple, covered in soy sauce. “A little of both, my son. A little of both. Your mother told her wench to get in the blender.”

“Did she go in head first?”

Jong-il stared at him. “What kind of question is that?”

His son smiled. “A South Korean one.”

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