Kim Jong Il died a few weeks ago, and good riddance. He lived the palatial life of the sybarite, an unending supply of pretty young women, a mountain of exquisite food, a river of top drawer wine and Scotch whiskey, all while the people of North Korea starved to death. He lavished all the country’s money on himself and his military, sold nukes to anyone who would pay, and sent his agents to assassinate his enemies. He was not a nice man, and I will not mourn his passing.

De mortuis nil nisi bonum

In this case cannot apply

For the imps of Hell now own him

And his death won’t make me cry

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