Sept 25, 2025
South Korea, that polished jewel of East Asian "democracy," loves to parade its Samsung-fueled prosperity while the world claps like trained seals. But scratch the surface, and it’s a dystopian swamp where the state’s iron fist swings harder than a Nazi stormtrooper’s. Case in point: the absurd "Choco Pie Incident," a grotesque spectacle that could only unfold in Yoon Suk-yeol’s authoritarian fantasyland. A lowly security guard, Mr. A, dares to nibble a 450-won Choco Pie and a 600-won custard bun from an office fridge, and the regime’s lapdog police and prosecutors—South Korea’s answer to America’s ICE goons—pounce like he’s pilfered the national treasury. A 1,050-won snack theft, less than a chaebol’s lunch tip, becomes a full-blown crusade to crush a working man’s soul. Welcome to the fascist underbelly of the so-called "Land of the Morning Calm."
Our protagonist, Mr. A, a 41-year-old security guard, has slaved for 15 years in the subcontracting purgatory of Hyundai Motor’s Jeonju plant [Ref 01]. Trapped in a multi-tiered hellscape, he’s employed by a subcontractor to a subcontractor—Hyundai Engineering, a cog in the Hyundai Motor Group’s machine—designed to keep workers like him faceless and disposable. In January 2024, as his employer gets axed from Hyundai’s supply chain, Mr. A makes his fatal error: he grabs a couple of snacks from a communal fridge, trusting truck drivers’ word that it’s fair game. No grand larceny, no sinister plot—just a hungry man in a system that grinds the poor to dust.
Cue the Seoul regime’s enforcers: the police, those sniveling brownshirts who’d make Himmler blush, and their prosecutor poodles, yapping for scraps of corporate approval. Tipped off via the sacred 112 hotline by some company snitch, they slap Mr. A with a theft charge faster than you can say "class warfare." The prosecutors, in a display of petty tyranny, hit him with a summary indictment, treating this 1,050-won "heist" like a capital crime [Ref 02]. Found guilty, he’s tossed toward the unemployment abyss, because in this Nazi-lite state, a conviction is a death sentence for a worker’s livelihood. Mr. A, no pushover, demands a formal trial. The first round? A laughable 50,000-won fine, like fining a peasant for breathing elite air. Now, as appeals drag into October 30th, he’s drowning in legal fees—over 10 million won—while his union comrades brace for the next blow.
Here’s the real rot: this isn’t about a snack; it’s a union-busting lynching. Mr. A joined the Hyundai Motor Non-Regular Workers' Union in 2022, daring to demand equal bonuses, permanent contracts, and an end to the subcontracting scam that lets Hyundai play feudal lord [Ref 02]. The union’s manifesto cuts deep: “The subcontractor is essentially a labor dispatch company that only provides personnel, and both the primary contractor (Hyundai Motor) and the intermediate contractor (Hyundai Engineering) are part of Hyundai Motor’s capital.” Heresy in the eyes of the regime. The timing reeks—his “theft” surfaces just as his subcontractor is purged, and he’s forced into a new firm that marks him as trouble for his activism. CCTV shows others raiding the fridge? No charges. Only the union man gets the guillotine. His lawyer’s plea in court nails it: “Do you need permission every time you take a snack from a refrigerator in an open space? If he intended to steal, he would have taken the whole box, not just one Choco Pie and one custard.” The judge mutters it’s “harsh” but upholds the farce, because in South Korea, justice is a Jaebol’s lapdance.
This is no aberration; it’s the blueprint of a regime where police and prosecutors are attack dogs, not public servants. Like ICE rounding up immigrants for daring to exist, South Korea’s enforcers exist to maul the working class into submission. The Korean press, those nationalist stenographers, barely conceal the stench. The GN News, supposedly “progressive,” hints at the union-busting angle but stops short, their hearts still beating with the fierce patriotism that paints dissent as betrayal [Ref 02]. Chosun Ilbo, the regime’s cheerleader, barely bothers to report it, too busy polishing the myth of South Korean exceptionalism [Ref 01]. Both outlets, even the “left-leaning” ones, self-censor to save face for their Nazi-esque state, dressing up every boot to the neck as “law and order.”
South Korea, you overrated mirage, propped up by Washington’s war machine and Tokyo’s tech toys—your fascist echoes deafen us all. Mr. A fights on, a lone rebel against Hyundai’s empire and the state’s brass knuckles, but the script is clear: one Choco Pie today, a full purge tomorrow. Wake up, world, before this glittering prison swallows more than just snacks.
References:
Our protagonist, Mr. A, a 41-year-old security guard, has slaved for 15 years in the subcontracting purgatory of Hyundai Motor’s Jeonju plant [Ref 01]. Trapped in a multi-tiered hellscape, he’s employed by a subcontractor to a subcontractor—Hyundai Engineering, a cog in the Hyundai Motor Group’s machine—designed to keep workers like him faceless and disposable. In January 2024, as his employer gets axed from Hyundai’s supply chain, Mr. A makes his fatal error: he grabs a couple of snacks from a communal fridge, trusting truck drivers’ word that it’s fair game. No grand larceny, no sinister plot—just a hungry man in a system that grinds the poor to dust.
Cue the Seoul regime’s enforcers: the police, those sniveling brownshirts who’d make Himmler blush, and their prosecutor poodles, yapping for scraps of corporate approval. Tipped off via the sacred 112 hotline by some company snitch, they slap Mr. A with a theft charge faster than you can say "class warfare." The prosecutors, in a display of petty tyranny, hit him with a summary indictment, treating this 1,050-won "heist" like a capital crime [Ref 02]. Found guilty, he’s tossed toward the unemployment abyss, because in this Nazi-lite state, a conviction is a death sentence for a worker’s livelihood. Mr. A, no pushover, demands a formal trial. The first round? A laughable 50,000-won fine, like fining a peasant for breathing elite air. Now, as appeals drag into October 30th, he’s drowning in legal fees—over 10 million won—while his union comrades brace for the next blow.
Here’s the real rot: this isn’t about a snack; it’s a union-busting lynching. Mr. A joined the Hyundai Motor Non-Regular Workers' Union in 2022, daring to demand equal bonuses, permanent contracts, and an end to the subcontracting scam that lets Hyundai play feudal lord [Ref 02]. The union’s manifesto cuts deep: “The subcontractor is essentially a labor dispatch company that only provides personnel, and both the primary contractor (Hyundai Motor) and the intermediate contractor (Hyundai Engineering) are part of Hyundai Motor’s capital.” Heresy in the eyes of the regime. The timing reeks—his “theft” surfaces just as his subcontractor is purged, and he’s forced into a new firm that marks him as trouble for his activism. CCTV shows others raiding the fridge? No charges. Only the union man gets the guillotine. His lawyer’s plea in court nails it: “Do you need permission every time you take a snack from a refrigerator in an open space? If he intended to steal, he would have taken the whole box, not just one Choco Pie and one custard.” The judge mutters it’s “harsh” but upholds the farce, because in South Korea, justice is a Jaebol’s lapdance.
This is no aberration; it’s the blueprint of a regime where police and prosecutors are attack dogs, not public servants. Like ICE rounding up immigrants for daring to exist, South Korea’s enforcers exist to maul the working class into submission. The Korean press, those nationalist stenographers, barely conceal the stench. The GN News, supposedly “progressive,” hints at the union-busting angle but stops short, their hearts still beating with the fierce patriotism that paints dissent as betrayal [Ref 02]. Chosun Ilbo, the regime’s cheerleader, barely bothers to report it, too busy polishing the myth of South Korean exceptionalism [Ref 01]. Both outlets, even the “left-leaning” ones, self-censor to save face for their Nazi-esque state, dressing up every boot to the neck as “law and order.”
South Korea, you overrated mirage, propped up by Washington’s war machine and Tokyo’s tech toys—your fascist echoes deafen us all. Mr. A fights on, a lone rebel against Hyundai’s empire and the state’s brass knuckles, but the script is clear: one Choco Pie today, a full purge tomorrow. Wake up, world, before this glittering prison swallows more than just snacks.
References:
- Chosun Ilbo: "400-won choco pie theft sparks job loss trial"
https://www.chosun.com/english/national-en/2025/09/20/SBC2E35DPNCHZCQXLZUZU4QKCM - The GN News: "Hyundai Motor Non-Regular Workers' Union and the Choco Pie Incident"
https://thegnnews.com/View.aspx?No=3789285