Dear President-for-Life Kim Jong-il:
Geez, I envy you. President-for-Life. But that’s not why I’m writing. It’s about all this nucular stuff.
My vice, Uncle Dick, and his boys are worried that the American people are going to start putting two and two together in regards to your country and that other Axis of Evil bunch over in Iran—how we pussyfoot around your real WMDs at the same time we plan to bomb the hell out of their nucular weapons program that they stopped working on four years ago.
What the American people don’t understand is that we got you to say “Howdy,” and all that that Iranian president with the funny name can say is, “Death to the infidels.” You’re our only success story in the whole wide world, and to show that I’m really sincere, I’m going to sign this letter myself. No big deal to some, but a first for me.
By the way, our best intelligence says their would-be nucular bombs are bound to be dirty, while we trust yours to go off as clean as the ace of spades. Best of all, intel says it’s the Chinese, not you guys, who are selling nucular technology to rogue nations around the world, despite all the evidence to the contrary.
I’d like to throw a Bar-B-Q for you at my ranch in Crawford, Texas. I’ve got a great bunch of Secret Service guys that are a lot of laughs. I put on my red-and-white checkered apron and poofy chef's hat and big padded mitten and whup up a batch of ribs. I even serve them. That’s what my job is really all about, serving people. Maybe I can give you some pointers. But that’s another letter.
Finally, I take back all the nasty names I’ve called you, like “pygmy” and “tyrant.” And I don’t really think you’re “a spoiled child at the dinner table.” I’m an authority there — that’s what my Mommy used to say about me. As for maintaining “concentration camps” and “starving people,” I’m the last one to be casting the first stone. You know the old saying about the pot calling the kettle black.
May all your fortune cookies be good ones.
George W. Bush
P.S. Call me "Dubya"