“Why didn’t Kim Jong Un allow you to sniff his night soil, Mr. President?” CNN’s Jim Accoster screamed accusingly, piercing the solemnity of the Singapore Summit’s silent opening prayer.
Big D continued praying in silence as Kim’s interpreter explained the question to the Chairman.
“Were you or Secret Service personnel permitted to inspect Kim’s portable privy for hidden explosives, Mr. President?” Accoster whined. “And if not, why not?”
Big D finished his prayer, raised his big orange head, and gestured for my close friend and long-time shrink, Dr. Sarah Bellum, to respond to Accoster.
“Whether President Big D examined Chairman Kim’s stool is a private matter between President Big D, the Chairman and his eunuchs,” Dr. Bellum said, “as is whether or not Chairman Kim and his Chief Eunuch was allowed to examine the President’s own night soil, which, as one would expect, was much, much bigger than the Chairman’s, both size-wise and olfactory-wise.”
“Big D learned that I was our nation’s leading poop-sniffing psychiatric diagnostician,” Dr. Bellum had whispered at our last Mensa Chapter meeting. “And, he said I could bring a friend to Singapore.”
After Big D and Kim met privately for two hours, we gathered again for the signing ceremony. The growling, snapping media horde strained against the velvet rope.
“You’ve been had, Mr. President,” NBC’s “Ground Chuck” Todd hollered as Big D completed his signature. “Look at what we gave up,” Ground Chuck continued, “Chairman Kim got a yellow-face-to-orange-face with the leader of the free world, something President Barry Soweto refused to do.”
“And,” ABC’s George Steppingonthepopulous chimed in, “we suspended our joint exercise with South Korea’s navy. We got nothing, not even a glamour shot of you and Kim making stool together.”
“You’ve had at least four hours today, Mr. President,” CNN reporter Wolf Donner N. Blitzen screamed, “and Chairman Kim has still not denuclearized.”
Big D waited patiently for Kim and newly appointed US Ambassador to North Korea Dennis Rodman to polish off their snifters of Hennesey Extra Old, and for Kim’s interpreter to explain the media’s questions.
Dr. Bellum elbowed me and gestured to the snarling media mosh pit, where a woman in a yellow and orange traditional Korean hanbok, with jet black hair in a Kim Jong Un cut, had burst through the velvet rope.
“Damn,” I said to Dr. Sarah, “that’s the formerly black woman who ran the Spokane NAACP. Looks like she’s now identifying as North Korean.”
“This large orange Occidental is corrupt, Chairman Kim,” comrade Rachel Dolezal yelled, holding a huge artist’s depiction of a 50-story hotel on a North Korea beach, TrumpKim Tower splashed in big bold letters on its roof. “And they insult the Honorable Chairman by not bringing James Taylor to sing for you.”
I watched as a nervous titter ran through Kim’s entourage. The eunuchs started a high-pitched murmur of discontent.
“Hold on,” Big D said. “Chairman Kim and I have nothing to do with the hotel. This is a joint venture of my son Don Jr. and his new squeeze, Kim Guilfoyle. Moreover, James Taylor is bald and unavailable, so I asked Ambassador Rodman to provide the entertainment.”
Rodman ran in, grabbed a rebound, and fed it to M.C.Hammer and Vanilla Ice, then did a nifty three-man weave through the banquet hall.
Chairman Kim laughed and clapped, then leaned over to whisper something to Big D’s interpreter.
“What did he say?” Big D asked the interpreter.
“Honorable Chairman say he will gladly offer to Big D the use of his anti-aircraft gun or his underfed killing dogs to deal with your American reporters.”
“Please tell the Chairman thanks,” Big D said, “but I want them to continue to suffer.”