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| Kim Jong Un with daughter |
In the opulent halls of the Ryongsong Residence, where the walls were lined with portraits of eternal leaders and the air smelled faintly of rocket fuel and kimchi, Kim Jong Un paced back and forth like a well-fed panda on a deadline. The Supreme Leader was facing the ultimate dilemma: who would inherit the throne of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea? His generals suggested his son, but Kim Jong Un waved them off. "Too predictable," he grumbled. "And besides, the boy can't even launch a proper tantrum without crying."
Enter Kim Ju Ae, his 13-year-old daughter, a pint-sized powerhouse with a ponytail that could whip up a storm and a glare that made missiles quiver. Ju Ae wasn't your average tween; she had already mastered the art of staring down defectors on TikTok (North Korean edition, of course) and could recite the Juche ideology backward while juggling nukes—in her dreams, at least. One fateful evening, during a family game night that involved Monopoly but with all properties renamed "People's Collective Farms," Ju Ae bankrupted her father in under 10 minutes. "Dad," she said with a smirk, "you just got owned by a middle schooler. Hand over the keys to the kingdom."
Kim Jong Un's eyes widened. "By the spirit of my grandfather! She's got the ruthless efficiency of a five-year plan and the charm of a propaganda poster!" The next day, in a ceremony broadcast to the nation's one working TV channel, he announced her as the heir apparent. The crowd cheered—mostly because not cheering meant a free vacation to a labor camp. Ju Ae, dressed in a miniature military uniform with bedazzled epaulets, gave a speech: "I promise to make North Korea great... er, greater! Starting with mandatory K-pop bans and unlimited screen time for loyal citizens."
To celebrate this historic handover (or at least the illusion of one, since Kim Jong Un wasn't planning to retire anytime soon), father and daughter snuck out incognito—him in a fake mustache that looked suspiciously like his real one, her in oversized sunglasses—to the most exclusive eatery in Pyongyang: the Best Korea Buffet. Tucked away in a bunker disguised as a noodle shop, it was the only place in the country where you could get "authentic" American-style Chinese food, smuggled in via hot air balloons from who-knows-where.
The buffet line stretched like a border wall, but with more temptation. Kim Jong Un piled his plate high with egg rolls, crispy golden logs of mystery meat that crunched like victory marches. "These are the true weapons of mass deliciousness!" he declared, dipping one in sweet-and-sour sauce that was suspiciously red, like the flag. Ju Ae, not to be outdone, attacked the orange chicken with the ferocity of a hypersonic missile test. Chunks of tangy, sticky poultry flew as she scarfed them down, sauce dripping like diplomatic leaks. "Dad, this is way better than our usual rice and ideology rations," she mumbled through a mouthful. "When I'm leader, every citizen gets a lifetime supply!"
They laughed until their bellies ached—partly from the food, partly from the undercover agents pretending to be waiters who kept refilling their plates with "compliments from the kitchen" (code for "don't choke, Supreme Ones"). By the end of the night, the buffet was depleted, the egg rolls extinct, and the orange chicken a fond memory. As they waddled back to the palace, Kim Jong Un patted his daughter's head. "You've got what it takes, kid. Just remember: rule with an iron fist... and a full stomach."
And so, North Korea entered a new era, where the future leader's first decree was simple: more buffets, fewer boring parades. The end—or as they say in Pyongyang, "To be continued, comrades!"
Enter Kim Ju Ae, his 13-year-old daughter, a pint-sized powerhouse with a ponytail that could whip up a storm and a glare that made missiles quiver. Ju Ae wasn't your average tween; she had already mastered the art of staring down defectors on TikTok (North Korean edition, of course) and could recite the Juche ideology backward while juggling nukes—in her dreams, at least. One fateful evening, during a family game night that involved Monopoly but with all properties renamed "People's Collective Farms," Ju Ae bankrupted her father in under 10 minutes. "Dad," she said with a smirk, "you just got owned by a middle schooler. Hand over the keys to the kingdom."
Kim Jong Un's eyes widened. "By the spirit of my grandfather! She's got the ruthless efficiency of a five-year plan and the charm of a propaganda poster!" The next day, in a ceremony broadcast to the nation's one working TV channel, he announced her as the heir apparent. The crowd cheered—mostly because not cheering meant a free vacation to a labor camp. Ju Ae, dressed in a miniature military uniform with bedazzled epaulets, gave a speech: "I promise to make North Korea great... er, greater! Starting with mandatory K-pop bans and unlimited screen time for loyal citizens."
To celebrate this historic handover (or at least the illusion of one, since Kim Jong Un wasn't planning to retire anytime soon), father and daughter snuck out incognito—him in a fake mustache that looked suspiciously like his real one, her in oversized sunglasses—to the most exclusive eatery in Pyongyang: the Best Korea Buffet. Tucked away in a bunker disguised as a noodle shop, it was the only place in the country where you could get "authentic" American-style Chinese food, smuggled in via hot air balloons from who-knows-where.
The buffet line stretched like a border wall, but with more temptation. Kim Jong Un piled his plate high with egg rolls, crispy golden logs of mystery meat that crunched like victory marches. "These are the true weapons of mass deliciousness!" he declared, dipping one in sweet-and-sour sauce that was suspiciously red, like the flag. Ju Ae, not to be outdone, attacked the orange chicken with the ferocity of a hypersonic missile test. Chunks of tangy, sticky poultry flew as she scarfed them down, sauce dripping like diplomatic leaks. "Dad, this is way better than our usual rice and ideology rations," she mumbled through a mouthful. "When I'm leader, every citizen gets a lifetime supply!"
They laughed until their bellies ached—partly from the food, partly from the undercover agents pretending to be waiters who kept refilling their plates with "compliments from the kitchen" (code for "don't choke, Supreme Ones"). By the end of the night, the buffet was depleted, the egg rolls extinct, and the orange chicken a fond memory. As they waddled back to the palace, Kim Jong Un patted his daughter's head. "You've got what it takes, kid. Just remember: rule with an iron fist... and a full stomach."
And so, North Korea entered a new era, where the future leader's first decree was simple: more buffets, fewer boring parades. The end—or as they say in Pyongyang, "To be continued, comrades!"
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