Rocketman and the Dotard

It was an uncommon moonless evening in North Korea. Rocketman was fast asleep like a chubbier panda bear. It was an ozone alert, gloomy, hazy and grey day in Washington D.C., and as usual, the dotard was napping. This was his lifestyle. If there were no tv cameras trained on him, he was snoozing.

Jong-Un_Trump.png

“What a crowd. What a turnout.”

The two entities were sharing dream space, and it was not a pretty sight, unless you’re into a barren post-apocalyptic zone. Death and smoldering were omnipresent, lots of smoldering, believe me.


“Deed I do that?” Rocketman asked. He paused expecting a response. Was that not the comical words of the boy named Steve Urkel from ABC’s Family Matters?

The dotard living up to his name replied, “What am I doing here… with an Oriental?” He spasmed in the same way he mocked the mentally challenged. It was a natural response, and in no way intentional.

This, indeed, made Rocketman laugh. He accompanied it with, “What a feeb.” [FACT CHECK: In this case, feeb means short for feeble, and not a mispronunciation of the word fib, or lie.]

It was surprising that the dotard comprehended this. But, it has been said by many close to him, when the dotard is in attack mode, he is laser focused. “Look around you, Rocketman. If you keep attacking me and my country, which I am the president, this will be your fate.”

“You are eencorrect, dotard. Thees vast wasteland ees your proud and patheteec country. Who ees not proud as NBC peacock now?”

The two men [sic] looked around and surveyed the damage. By their facial expressions, it was apparent they were okay with this outcome.

The dotard broke the silence. First, with a rip-roaring fart and then, “So, why is it you have nicknamed me dotard?”

The NoKo Rocketman grimaced. “Funny story, true. Oreegeenally, I meant fucktard, but my advisors warned me that eet would be censored by your media, and thus, get no play. Eventually, I deescovered the most archaeec word only an old doddering man like you would know. Burn.”

They both nodded, one sadder than the other. They locked eyes and shook hands. The dotard took Rocketman’s hand as if it were a handsaw pulling it back and forth over an invisible log. He refused to let go. During this exchange, their minds melded, “That ees one hell of a freaky hairdo.”

Rocketman yanked his hand back. “Now ees the time for me to return to the waking land to achieve eemportance.”

The dotard wriggled his lips, he chose his words wisely, trying to be presidential for the first time in his long life, “Frankly, me too. Later, Rocketslant.”

When Rocketman woke up in bed, he immediately called “his people” and went to work on nuclear testing. When the dotard woke up in his chair, he was frustrated. He couldn’t remember why. [FACT CHECK: It’s because he forgot the killer diss, Rocketslant.] He turned on his phone and resumed his war with the NFL, Puerto Rico, the fake media, Rosie O’Donnell, Hilary Clinton,  people who were captured, John McCain and P.O.W. friends, and the rest of the people of the free world, on many sides, many sides.

MORAL: Slow and steady wins the arms race? Or, pride before fall has no significance when you are a stubborn jackass.

2 thoughts on “Rocketman and the Dotard

  1. Pingback: A Prayer For Alabama | The Home Of DJ Sung Mo Koo

  2. Pingback: Erratum, mea culpa | The Home Of DJ Sung Mo Koo

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