#9. Also, the article you are reading is never written. The 15 Internet commenters who would've otherwise posted "I regret you didn't die so I didn't have to read this unfunny article" are unincensed. They use this spare time to curate salons for the meaningful arts.
A reader who would've posted an ASCII doodle of a monstrously engorged Donald Duck instead wins the MacArthur Genius Grant.
#10. Suddenly, troubled regions across the globe find easy solutions to seemingly intractable hostilities. Rapprochement sweeps the globe, from Cyprus to the 38th Parallel to Nagorno-Karabakh. My idiotic death drills life's fleetingness into humanity's collective skull. The warring lay down their arms, embrace human rights, and promote the artistic and ethical scientific advancement of our species, all thanks to DEEZ NUTS.
#11. A year passes. Earth is a post-scarcity paradise. The U.S. Park Service designates the intersection where I got plowed by DEEZ NUTS a National Historical Landmark. Not to be outdone, the New York State Department of Transportation declares the spot a highway rest area, ignoring the fact that it's located smack dab in the middle of a mixed-used neighborhood in downtown Manhattan.
It immediately becomes a cruising spot for reasons experts cannot sufficiently explain.
#12. Another year passes, and Hollywood finally makes a movie about me and DEEZ NUTS. (Production was delayed out of respect for DEEZ NUTS' driver, who succumbed to infection in 2015 after a botched neck tattoo of Mr. Met.) Not only am I depicted as an enemy of progress, but screenwriters also mistake the aforementioned erotic fan fiction as a primary source. The film makes $0, as money has no meaning anymore. Critics tersely endorse it as "something you are able to look at."
James Bryan Productions
Several million people secretly masturbate to the movie. The world is at peace.
#13. A decade flies by. A well-meaning if misguided death cult pops up. They worship DEEZ NUTS and believe human sacrifices will prolong Earth's new golden age. Zealots lie recumbent in busy intersections worldwide and pray for speeding sedans bedecked with decals like Fred Flintstone urinating on the FC Barcelona logo or bumper stickers that read "GET E-ZPASS, MOTHERFUCKER." A lucky few get pancaked ecstatic. To obviate skyrocketing traffic fatalities, science invents the flying car.
#14. Untold centuries come and go. Me and DEEZ NUTS are forgotten, and the world teeters on the brink of turmoil once again. Fortunately, there is an explosion at a dildo factory with an otherwise spotless safety record. Hundreds die from blunt force trauma, and civilization is able to course correct.
#15. It is a year whose number is so high, they haven't invented it yet. The last Homo sapiens have long gone extinct. Our genetic successors are a race of sentient laughter and smiles. One day, an ambassador pod from just left of Cygnus X-1 lands in the President Busty Flapdoodle Memorial Gardens, careful not to disturb the whoopie blossoms and delicate ha-ha fruit. It turns out that SETI sent out a revised Arecibo message in the mid-21st century. By sheer coincidence, SETI's signal contained what the Zorbox Coalition of Peace-Seeking Planets considers the cosmic word of friendship and the most arousing pictogram in the universe.
Several billion star systems secretly masturbate in unison. The galaxy is at peace.
DEEZ NUTS is not alone in the universe. DEEZ NUTS never was.
Cyriaque Lamar is a senior editor here at Cracked. His last column was about the death of his grandmother. He is on Twitter. He would like to thank Logan Trent for the non-MS Paint image assistance. He is seriously happy he did not get hit by that car, Mom.