On a recent spring evening, I successfully crossed the street. Then, a green automobile -- accelerating at a moderate speed, driver unseen -- passed through the exact spot my body had occupied seconds earlier.
I immediately realized that I was a selfish jerk for not allowing that particular car to mow me down, and I owe the human race an apology. Why's that? Let's run the scenario:
#1. It is that same spring evening. But this time, I unsuccessfully cross the street. My body freezes in the grip of history. And although the green automobile is going maybe 20 miles per hour, I am struck at such a violent angle that my skull rockets off like a champagne cork, spritzing the asphalt with a Mephistophelian froth.
This is the car who committed vehicular Dim Mak:
Yes, there really walks among us a real adult who spent his disposable income on a gargantuan DEEZ NUTS window decal. And in a better world, his car murdered the shit out of me.
#2. The police and press descend upon the lasagna that was once my body. I was jaywalking, so DEEZ NUTS gets off scot-free. My family and friends are sad, but even they can't keep their shiva together when my demise makes the front page of my local rag, the New York Post.
"According to sources, the motorist's child is an honor student at Deez Nuts Elementary."
#3. My death goes viral. BuzzFeed, the Huffington Post, and the Daily Mail all misspell my name. Slate or Salon runs a long-form think piece tut-tutting the Post's newsroom of ghouls and bone worms. Mystifying Photoshops of the Post's cover are splayed across Tumblr, where DEEZ NUTS is overwhelmingly piloted by a My Little Pony or Doctor Who. Someone writes a fan fiction about me having sex with the car. But my name confuses the author, too, and I am posthumously depicted as a voluptuous gymnast whose gold-medal ass refuses to quit.
Several thousand people secretly masturbate to the story. The Internet is at peace.
#4. Meanwhile, here at Cracked, the mood is equally celebratory, as my grisly doom gives a co-worker further fodder for a sequel to a popular column. He spends his bonus check on a motorcycle shaped like the Predator.
Flickr/Lee Lilly/Creative Commons
"What? He would've wanted it this way."
#5. Me and DEEZ NUTZ become a national conversation. CNN, MSN, and the Nashville Network pile on my headless corpse like it was a clown car. I'm mentioned on The McLaughlin Group in the context of pedestrian safety laws. Pat Buchanan says DEEZ NUTS 487 times in a span of 30 minutes.
#6. Concerned citizens -- thirsty for grassroots engagement but oblivious to absolutely everything -- plaster neighborhoods with fliers depicting "DEEZ NUTS The Safety Squirrel," a rodent who entreats children to look both ways using his Filbert of Wisdom and Macadamia of Street Smarts.
This mascot becomes short-lived when lawyers notice he resembles McGruff the Crime Dog emitting a sizable cloud of diarrhea.
#7. But the Tree of Knowledge will not be overshadowed by the Kudzu of Ignorance. Terry Gross devotes an entire episode of Fresh Air to the etymology of DEEZ NUTS. She reminds the public that the phrase was popularized by that old guy who makes the headphones, not smug and shitty 11-year-olds playing Halo.
"Who's Dr. Dre?"
"He was in N.W.A."
"Those were Dre's friends before he met Eminem."
"Uh, your dad's Macklemore."
#8. My tale of woe fans across the international news wires. In Munich, Salzburg, and Bern, DIESE NUESSE are on the tip of every tongue. In Abidjan, Vientiane, and Toulouse, people walk with a little more pep in their step, silently grateful that they were not that poor schmo who got mowed down by la testicule-voiture.
#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.
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
Most rich kids just want to be pop stars.
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.
It's easy to work the system and win these awards even if you don't deserve them.