Robbie walks out into view holding the American flag in one hand, a microphone in the other.

Ahem.

This thing on?

Kim Jong sending out a little pawn?

Are we supposed to sit back, watch you and just fawn? A war criminal strutting around teating up the lawn, taking all comers telling them to get gone? Shit, this dude is smoking something, what the fuck are you on? You stand around talking about success and failure, about the way of life in North Korea like we didn't already get it. 2008 called, dude, they said they wanted their headline back. Your urgency is noted, your timing, out of whack. You'll talk about my record, put my reputation on the stack, sir, without acknowledging the perception that you lack, sir, to defend yourself honestly and truthfully from this brutal ass American attack, sir.

Robbie presses a button on his watch, and he instantly transforms into Percival Pringle IV. He presses the button again and is back in his natural Bourbonic form.

Didja miss me?

Didja pucker up them lips thinking maybe he was gonna kiss me?

Come up with some interesting new way to come and dis me? Maybe he'll turn up that flamethrower, come out and roast me 'till I'm crispy? Kick me all across the yard like I was a little pipsqueak? You're a freak. Fuck you and fuck your lack of class. Fuck North Korea, fuck Kim Jong's chubby ass. Every time you open your fucking mouth it's nothing but disrespect, don't push it on the people, stud, that ain't coming here correct, maybe it's the culture clash that causes this disconnect, but the whole world knows Uncle Sam's a roughneck when he's coming to collect. You're getting rekt. Staying home in North Korea sounds smart in circumspect, maybe you should have got your head checked, because from sea to shining sea I'm here to make sure your worthless hateful ass gets decked.

Robbie walks up and throws a haymaker, putting NKWC down for a pin...

Welcome to the melting pot, motherfucker. Tell Dennis we miss him when you report in next time.