Little Rocketman: The Story Behind the Beef Between Kim Jong-un and B.A. Skritter
- brietter
- Jun 6, 2018
- 5 min read
Because the impeachment trial of Bill Clinton started on January 7, 1999, many other important historical events of the time did not receive much media coverage, including the story I am about to tell you.
To most people, the name of our hero in this story, B.A. Skritter, is synonymous with "best athlete to have ever been banned from all major sports leagues because of character issues." If you have not heard of Him, it can only be attributed to your ignorance or, possibly, the lack of publicity he receives (due to being blackballed by all media outlets). The day was January 8, 1999. This was the birthday weekend of a one, Kim Jong-un. Kim was a nerdy, awkward, lonesome rich kid. However, he was known to throw the best parties. Our hero, B.A. Skritter, received a hand-delivered invitation made of solid gold a week before the party. Later that night he received a phone call.
"Hello?" answered our hero.
"Are you coming to my party?" a nerdy voice said on the other end.
"Maybe," said B.A. as he hung up the phone.
It was a perfect sunny day when Skritter woke up the morning of January 8th. Just as He opened his eyes the piercing ring of a phone penetrated the peaceful vibes and ended the morning songs of the doves.
"What?" said Skritter as he answered the phone, clearly annoyed to have had his tranquility disturbed.
"Are you coming to my party?" the fat face on the other end asked.
"Who is this?"
"It's me, Kim," the boy replied.
"I don't know, bruh bruh. What are we gonna do?"
"Well, my dad restocked the bar. There's like, 20 bottles of Hennessee. And maybe we can play some ball."
"Sheeeit, there gonna be any hoes there?"
"Of course, my very good-looking friend! I invited all the girls from school. Even Kim will be there, oh, boy! I plan on asking her out at the party. She is the love of my life. Her and I will get married someday, and have five ch--"
"Wait... Hold up. You like a girl named Kim? And you want to marry her one day? You're both gonna have the same name, what kinda shit is that?!" Our hero reminded the nerd. "Aight. I'll be there. Be ready to play some ball, bruh bruh. I'ma take yo' lil ass to school."
"What are you going to wear, Skritter? Maybe we can mat--" Click.
Nevertheless, Skritter got ready for the party and John Travolta picked him up in his private plane.
"Yo, John. Take me to North Korea. And don't be doing none of that weird shit," Skritter demanded. John Travolta is known to do some weird shit.
All eyes gazed upon the tarmac as Travolta dropped Skritter off at the emperor's palace. All the girls drooled and readjusted their undergarments as B.A. Skritter walked off the plane. There was a commotion as each girl turned to ask her friends if her hair looked good, if there was anything in her teeth, if she needed to reapply any make-up. 'He's so hot!' 'What a hunk!' were some of the phrases heard among the horde of women.
And there he was: Skritter's fitted plaid trousers enhanced the muscles in his legs and buttocks. As the sun shined on Him getting off the plane, His silk white shirt intensified the size of His pectorals, chiseled by Michelangelo, himself. His shoulders were built by a simple weight training regiment: Shoulder presses at three sets of 10 reps. The amount of weight he used, in case one is curious and wants to start working out, was 5.972 sextillion metric tons. The weight of the world.
As Skritter walked into the ballroom, he received his usual hero's welcome. Women wanted to be in his presence; men wanted to be seen with him. He walked over to the bar.
"Garçon," the Hero called, in his godly voice. "Henny, please."
"Skritter! Ermahgerd! You made it!" the nerd said, excitedly.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. When are we gonna ball, Kim?"
"Whenever you want, my gorgeous friend!" the nerd replied.
"Aight, bet." Skritter finished his drink in one gulp. "Check it up."
"But Skritter, there is no ball. Nor a hoop to play on," worried the fat, rich birthday boy.
"Real ballers don't need a ball to ball. It's just a way of life, bruh bruh."
In that instant, in front of every girl, boy, man and woman in that ballroom, Skritter jumped into the air. His Brooks Brothers alligator loafers were not made to play ball. But in that moment, those loafers withdrew from this universe and skipped to a parallel universe where they became Air Skritters. As he soared through the air, his back hair like an eagle's feathers embracing the crisp, cool air up there, Skritter cocked the imaginary ball behind his head with both hands. He rotated like a tornado. First, 360. Then, a 720. This merciful god chose to stop at 1080. And, with a force unseen by any soul on this side of the universe, a power that would cause the destruction of a pygmy planet, Skritter dunked on little Kim Jong-un. The birthday boy could taste mountain oysters, Skritter's family recipe perfected through each generation. It's peach-fuzzed deep-fried skin shocking Kim's taste-buds and reverberating through his skull, like a concussive blow from the late Sean Taylor. And a ball, from whatever parallel universe Skritter just transported to and fro, hit the hardwood floor of the ballroom.
A laughter, reserved only for those timeless, classic moments in life, circulated through the crowd faster than a Thomas Paine pamphlet in 1776. The pointing. The mocking. The gasps of people trying to catch their breath. The holding of their stomachs, guts busting. All in a unified syncopation.
The birthday boy came to his senses to a sight that forever changed him. The love of his life, Kim, had her tongue down Our Hero's throat. She was the Wayne Gretzky of tonsil hockey, and Skritter left an empty net.
Little Kim Jong-un let out a whimpering cry, like a wolfen having her chastity infringed upon by a rival pack.
"EVERYBODY OUT NOW!!"
The tears streamed down his face and into the corners of his mouth, washing away the taste and residue of the Skritter Sauce that temporarily inhabited that crook of his fat face.
"And you," he said, pointing at Skritter. "You are forever barred from entering my country."
The fat little tyrant walked over to Skritter's basketball, still lying in the place where it landed after its metaphysical trek. The heir to North Korea cocked his stubby little leg back, and with all the might his feeble body could summon, he kicked. And he missed, falling flat on the hardwood ballroom floor.
He felt Charlie Brown's embarrassment, except there was no Lucy pulling the ball away as he whiffed. There wasn't even a ball at all. It was gone!
"But how?" the fatso questioned, as Our Hero stood over him, Kim(berly) in tow.
"Real ballers don't need a ball to ball. It's just a way of life, bruh bruh.”
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