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the dada magazine about nothing


Kim Jong-il

A proper seed which is of vital importance in real life may be grasped by a writer who zealously explores new revolutionary subjects by closely examining the valuable life-experience of the working people, who are fighting to create a new society and a new life based on their high ideals. But a writer who does not get into the thick of things and study life will never experience a truly creative impulse.

Guy Debord

In societies where modern conditions of production prevail, all of life presents itself as an immense accumulation of spectacles. Everything that was directly lived has moved away into a representation.

We in the Democratic People's Republic of Korean laugh at the grotesque use of tradition in the United States of America. A holiday that symbolizes helping and supporting your neighbor has become one of greed and violence. Families have been vulturized into picking the commercial scraps of the economic calendar. An officer of the law was dragged by an automobile, a woman is stunned by a tazer, a man is stabbed in a parking lot. Such acts of violence do not exist for us. Due to a government system that puts people first, every family has a flat screen television. By participating in the consuming chaos that follows "Thanksgiving", the American people are buying into the same system that holds them captive and sedated, to spend their earnings on objects that separate them further from reality. They purchase items that only serve to weaken the human spirit. Americans are only motivated by greed and personal gain. The Capitalist system rewards the individual for exploiting their neighbors. Even demands for better wages and working conditions in the midst of "the greatest economic power" only show the weakening bond between the government and the people. No such tensions exist for us as the government and the people only work to serve each other. Our prayers go out the victims of the frenzy and that the American people can realize the trap that has ensnared them. -DPRK

Here’s the thing that most people, most westerners don’t know. By all accounts (inside and out, contemporary and recent) the North was not only doing as well as the south up until the eighties, they were doing better. You won’t be able to find my name on any lists (good luck finding the names of any western officials who had contact with the North’s government before ’82 or ’83, you want to talk about purges? There is your purge!) but I was there. Around beautiful Pyongyang and out into the countryside. I had never seen another country bounce back that fast from a war. The buildings were spacious and efficient, the food delicious and abundant the people were genuinely happy and worked hard. Unlike the reports now, I was allowed to go wherever I wanted, could travel around the villages at night and interview anyone I wished. Granted the Kim Il-sung worship was a little weird but what lengths did the US have to go through to bounce back from World War Two? And we didn’t even take any direct hits!

I even met the guy. He really was larger than life, six seven or so but he had this smile like you would not believe. He radiated this aura almost, you could taste it in the air and when he listened you felt like he was listening to your soul speak. I still consider him one of the greatest friends I have ever had and I met him all of three times. He was always a little hopeful and a little sad. The last time we met he expressed worries that the rest of the world might not be ready for the glory of the Juche idea. That it was too powerful. He seemed wary--some might have called it paranoia, but he seemed more resigned than afraid. He vaguely mentioned enforced isolation, rejection, ‘hermitificaiton’ (he often invented words, not out of ignorance--his English was perfect--he was just that brilliant, that creative, even in an adopted tongues).

Later in the year I was relieved of my position and officially cut from any federal benefits. No explanation was given. Not long afterward great leader was declared dead by the Western media (how was this possible? He had been beaming with health when I last saw him.) all direct relations between The West and the DPRK were cut and the country was reported to have fell into a famine-plagued economic tailspin. An old colleague went back a few years ago to see if the sad reports were true. He said it was strange, how the plane ride from Beijing to Pyongyang (‘Pyongyang’ I should say) took longer than it had before. How the buildings seemed to have aged a century over only a few decades. How (and this was strangest of all) the guides all lacked the refined and soft Northern dialect and spoke with the rough, nasal southern dialect. The lovely mountains surrounding Pyongyang too were either blocked from view or absent, as if the city had been rebuilt elsewhere, a cheap facade.

In The summer of ninety-five I went myself, trekked alone to the northern border. It is true, there were a few times where I was almost caught, but I knew the way well and after two cold and lonely backcountry nights found the huge fence which has been described so many times in the western media. It was strange through, the rows and rows of razor wire were not pointing outwards, as one would expect from the so called hermit kingdom--terrified of spies and foreign imperialism. No the spikes and barbs were facing inward. Some may argue this was to dissuade defectors, to keep in the starving unhappy masses. But there was another possibility. One which met more closely with my view of things. A whole world afraid of the truth, a world afraid of true happiness and spiritual fulfillment. A world obsessed with relying on others and not capable of the glory of the eternal leader, and his message of self-reliance.

She had caught his eye one Saturday night during those parties that lasted 4 days or was it several parties just overlapped. She was in the Evening Affairs Company, Weekend Brigade, Joy Division, of the North Korean Army. The Great Leader did not know her name, nor did he care, for formalities like names are not why girls are chosen for the Joy Division. She was most likely orphaned, her father taken away to the gulags making imitation Nikes, and her mother deceased, no one actually knows. When she was not smiling wildly, she had look of contemplation. The thoughts of the events that brought her here still lingered in her head and only clouded by the thoughts of what was to come. The Great Leader spent most of the party on his thrown which rested on the shoulder of four burly abducted German men. They wore a spiked choke collar, no shirt and uniform pants. Kim Jong-il would tickle their bald heads with a feather in the direction he needed to go. The girls were in formation giving a display of rifle spinning. They used M1 Garands captured, refurbished, from the Korean War. Like the American soldiers, each girl knew their rifle serial number, and reported proudly that the rifles were made in the Springfield Armory, USA. When the rifle precession had finished, the girl stood at attention while the "Executives" danced vigorously to ABBA. The Great Leader motions his bald Germans to stop in from of her, they let the Great Leader down from his thrown.

The Great Leader looked into her eyes and nodded, all she could see was her face in the reflection of his glasses, no emotions, though she felt it. The Great Leader asked if she wanted to be promoted, maybe a lieutenant, a captain, or even a general. A position like that would mean that there was less of a chance of being fucked by the Great Leader, but could only be obtained through that same act, besides she had no say in the matter. Kim Jong-il removed her cap and began unbuttoning her jacket. as her jacket hit the floor, he reached up her skirt rubbing her vagina through her standard issue uniform panties. She of course remained delightful, retaliation was useless. It was the Great Leader's choice when you died. By now her panties were soaking wet, and her shirt draped on her body. The great leader sucked on her supple perky nipples. Every one in the room remained at attention, even the wild dancing was done with a false ignorance for what was happening. Who says one cannot be lonely in the room full of people.

Kim Jong-il summoned for his fainting couch and he and she were carried and laid on the couch. A stickler for efficiency, the Great Leader merely pushed her skirt up to her torso and removed the underwear. He wore her bra, which was in the pointy style, on his head. She tried her best not to make a sound, for she was told that that is what the Great Leader liked. The division had spent many month practicing this. The girls would stand for hours with vibrators in their vaginas, not making a sound, all you could hear were distinctive authoritative pumps clicking on the polished marble floor, and the vibrators. The great leader motioned one of his bald German men to undo his belt and take off his pants. He wore Michael Jordan signature hanes tighty whiteys, a gift from Dennis Rodman. The dropping of the hanes white cotton revealed the great leaders extraordinarily large penis. It was perfect in every way. The center maintain a 4 inch girth, the outer edges of his tip extended past his shaft, the tip was bulbous and red hot. One of the executives having seen the Great Leader's penis before, recalled it being much smaller. This was on a visit to provinces though, and it must be true what was taught in the adult education sessions, that the Great Leader can adjust the shape and size of his penis to suit those of the people's, for the great leader always wants to be just like his people.

Kim Jong-il began to slip his throbbing cock into her. She remained on her back at attention. This was a feeling she was unfamiliar with, all she had had before were fingers and tongues of other woman. The Great Leader fucked like it was the war, a series of hard and fast blitzkrieg assaults, followed by a slow and steady thrusting resembling the stagnate trenches at the end. the affair had left her bloody and split in two. Kim Jong-il weeps thinking about all the brave heroes of the north who died in the war. She still remained at attention, she uttered no sounds.For her service she was promoted and allowed or rather suggested that she stay sprawled out on the fainting couch for the rest of the night. She did so rubbing her vagina, which was wet with cum. the great leader tucked his penis away as Miley Cyrus began to play on the many speakers. He zipped up his pants and began dancing and singing, "It's a party in the DPRK!"

Glorious leader has been a bad boy. Kim’s been naughty and he needs a spanking. It’s tough being the leader of the glorious Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, there are a lot of responsibilities for a bad boy like Kim. So many members of the party out to sabotage the Juche idea, it’s only inevitable that one or two will fall head first onto a bullet every now and then. Accidents happen, and what can a bad boy like little Kim do? Kim needs a spanking. He wants you to give his plump little bottom a spanking rough. He’s blushing with his pants down before the Imperialist American aggressors. His rosy cheeks and plump complexion are a testament to the glorious work of the people, a declaration of self-reliance. Any flaws or blemishes of that glorious little bottom (small and few, if there are any) can be tracked directly to sabotage by American spies and willful inefficiency by enemy elements within the party. Little Kim wants you to paddle him with pride. Pride in the power of the might unified Korean, pride in imported cognac and ski-doos. Little Kim wants a nasty little spanking from your strong white hands, he wants you to colonize his round little bottom with unwavering strength and the unfailing accuracy of a hot-tipped Taepodong-2.

She was called or called herself Don’t Ask, D.A. for short, and so I don’t actually know what her real name is, or, very possibly, her parents simply had a bizarre and somewhat twisted sense of humor, so much time has seemed to past (but in reality hasn’t at all) that I can only be certain of her piercing blue eyes (and even that I can’t be sure of, maybe they were green (?)). She smiled a lot, which really bothered me, but because of my own unhappiness or the fact that she lived with having a stupid name and that seemed really depressing to me, I couldn’t tell. Anyway I thought her smile covered a sly inner break, it seemed like bullshit (how can anyone be happy amid all the death of Oakland anyway?) We rarely spoke to each other but nevertheless I ached for her skin, maybe it was not speaking to her and her distance and sheer dislike of me that made me want her all the more.

We got drunk together one night, but I can’t remember whether I walked in on her drinking or she walked in on me or we decided to get drunk together before hand or a mutual friend was coming over to the house we awkwardly shared, but I imagine it was the latter because like I said, we rarely spoke to each other. Somehow it came out that the last adventure she would go on was to North Korea (I distinctly remember her saying she would probably die doing it but didn’t care, having a strange habit of noting the various death wishes of the people I meet). That’s a thing with traveling as a way of life, you either retire to bitterness, or you seek out death in its most exotic forms. I think I was jealous and bit ashamed. My death wish was killing myself in new York City or (if possible financially) hanging myself from the Arc de Triumph, which now actually deeply disturbs me, seeming like something an SS officer would do in the late spring of 44’.Then I thought to impress her with the previous Kim Jong-il themed issues of Nada which naturally didn’t work at all. I talked avidly about our serious/joke fascination with North Korea, but her attitude just shifted between boredom and that slight puzzled expression that comes over people’s faces when they met a harmless lunatic. I don’t know what I thought would have been a good outcome to the situation; us fucking over the chasm of Kim Jong-il's grey corpse, the black spot of North Korea seen from space, simply the cries of one tortured Christian in a small village prison? At some point I blacked out but when I woke up we still didn’t talk to each other and so I figured at least it didn’t get worse. I vaguely remembered (and truly hope it is just a figment of my own deep seated fears about myself) that I showed her a pdf of the theory of Juche art which was written by either Kim Jong-il or Kim Il-sung, I can’t remember which, and her asking me why I had such stupid shit on my computer. I cried alone in my tent that night (my dog having been there in the beginning, got bored and slept underneath the house).

I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to what I am trying to say with all this. Love and death in the end equals Kim Jong-il (sad but true). That our generation is so fucked up that we have to search out wastelands around the earth (Detroit none withstanding). I wonder now, as I write this whether she made it, if the U.S. caught wind of her plan and locked in a Syrian prison and now they just torture her. Maybe the North Koreans were suspicious of her (especially since she didn’t have a name) and threw her against the wall guns cocked? Maybe not having a name is the best representation of ultimate love for the great leader. Once, in the darkness cradling a greyhound through Nevada I jerked off to her being fucked by Kim Jong-un, and I like to think they are married and happy. She was probably just lying. A few weeks or days (time being like an ocean or a wind storm in the bay) I was kicked out of the squat we shared and was staying at another one, when I came by to collect my things we tried small talk and I think I asked her to send me a line from the DPRK, she smiled and faintly acted like she had no idea what I was talking about. It occurs to me now that neither of us believed the other.

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uoy tuohtiw evil t’nac llits I ,li-gnoJ miK

© 2013 draoB lairotidE adaN 81# 2SN devreseR sthgiR llA

Nada2 18 - Kim Jong-il, I still can't live without you  

someone needs a spanking

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