I called up United Nations Secretary General Ban Ki-moon1 this morning, fury dripping from my mouth like drool, and drool dripping from my mouth like... like exactly the way drool drips from mouths, that way.
This motherfucker's 'bout to get rolled on and he don't even know. "Hello," is what Ki-moon would've said if I didn't start screaming nonsensically the second he picked up the phone. After several minutes, when my scream-hunger was satisfied, I let him speak. "This... can't be the phone number you're looking for, whoever this is." "Is this Ban 'Shit-Eater' Ki-moon?" "No one's called me that in quite some... ever, but yes, that's me." "Then this definitely is the number I'm looking for. You really stepped in it this time, buddy boy. Really 'fucked the baby,' as they say." "I don't understand any bit of what you're talking about." "Don't play dumb, General Pokemon. You knew this call was coming. You knew it was coming the second you appointed Stevie Wonder the UN Messenger of Peace." There was a long pause on his end. "This is Dan O'Brien, isn't it?"
"More like 'Stevie Wonder', as in 'I wonder why they chose him, what a blunder." Or, shit, no, stop it, more like 'Stevie Blunder.' And yes, this is Dan." Of course he knew it was me calling. This wasn't the first time the UN snubbed me for their stupid Messenger of Peace award (that I don't even want), and he knows how I feel about the injustice. This is just how it goes. Stage one, I call up the Secretary General and make sure there wasn't some mistake/scream my face off, and stage two is where I start feuding with whatever undeserving chump did get chosen.2 Devotees of my life's work will remember the similar public feuds I've had with every previous recipient of the UN's Messenger of Peace award,3 so this shouldn't really be a surprise to you, either. And, granted, those feuds might have been an overreaction; former recipient Michael Douglas routinely has sex with Catherine Zeta-Jones, and I can't say I can boast a similar claim, so I suppose he deserves the award. But Stevie Wonder? What does he have that I don't have? I'm sure there's a handful of Grammy's sitting around my apartment somewhere, I just don't feel like looking. "We can't keep having this conversation, Dan, nothing about you implies peace." "Man, I shit peace every morning, so don't even tell me. Didn't you get my submission this year?" "First of all," the Secretary General said, "you don't submit anything to get chosen for this. And second of all, you sent poo. That was a submission?" "As a matter of fact, I think it was very effective at showing off how peaceful I am." "There is no way you think you deserve this award." "Wrong. There is every way that I think I deserve every award. And the fact that you didn't even consider me is why I'm mad today." "I guess we never really-" "But that's not even what I'm mad about." "You just said-" "What really makes me mad," I began, "is that I tried to show up to Stevie Wonder's coronation or torch passing or whatever to show my support, and you turds kicked me out. I was planning my sneak attack on Stevie, it woulda been awesome, he never would've seen it coming. But you assmachines stopped me." "Does this mean that you're the one responsible for the fire alarms that forced us to evacuate the building during Mr. Wonder's speech?" Full disclosure, readers: Yes. But I only set off the alarm in the first place because they wouldn't let me in. I had to smoke the ceremony outside, how else was I supposed to flip off Stevie Wonder?
He kept smiling the whole time, like it didn't even phase him. Smug bastard. And I donât even know why exactly they wouldn't let me in. If I had to guess, I'd say it probably had something to do with my particular choice of words when I met the security guards. Apparently, you can't go into the UN and demand entrance to a meeting if you claim that your ideas are "da bomb," or that your new plan for peace is going to "blow this whole stupid building wide open," and that "as soon as I light the fuse, you're all going to be really sorry you messed with me." It's really because I have new ideas, and the system hates new ideas, they're scared of them. I've got a fairly bold strategy for taking peace in an edgy new direction, something that speaks to all young, hip Twitters out there who are sick of old peace and ready for a peace that's more in your face. Dan O'Brien's Peace 2.0 is going to be louder, sweatier and more ready to party than any piece-of-shit peace that dared to come before it. This peace is only for the strong, so if you can't keep up, stay the fuck home. That includes you, Stevie Wonder. I don't care how good you are at Pogs4, this Peace 2.fuck will leave you behind and not even pretend to give a shit. Read my lips, Wonder: The world of peace is not for the weak. And tell that to the rest of your Pog Master buddies at the next tournament. Are there still tournaments for Pogs? Is that even a thing that ever happened, or was Pogs more of a solo thing? If memory serves, all you did was throw stuff at other... stuff. That can't be right, there's no way I spent all of second grade playing "Throw Stuff" with a bunch of cardboard circles, no way. Connect Four used a bunch of circles. Was that too complicated? Did we really need to revamp circle-game technology? I've always been of the school of thought that you should never revamp anything. New ideas are scary, really, stick with the old, I've always said that. Now Pogs specifically, while popular and- "Hello? Hello?" It was a voice on the other end of the phone, most likely responding to the several minutes of silence that had evidently taken place. "And that" I said without missing a beat, "is why my first order of business as Supreme Pog Chancellor would be to take a hard look and seriously consider a reevaluation of the formal Pog rules that reflects our current economic landscape."
"And it's this kind of forward-pogging that our nation needs. America, make me your president." "What? What? What does that even have to do with anything?" "I'm not sure. I got into sort of an exposition-heavy tangent back there and I can't quite remember what I'm mad about. Who is this again? Is this the asshole who does the weather? Tell you that I think you suck." "I'm the Secretary General of the United Nations." "Oh. Well, put your weather guy on, I got a super sweet joke about how his weekly weather borecast is going to be partly boring with a chance of boring, and I don't want to forget it." "You were mad about Stevie Wonder." "OH! The peace thing, word. Yeah, tell Stevie Wonder that he better watch his back, because I'm coming for him. Tell him if he sees a dude with a machete and a t-shirt that reads 'Daniel,' that itâs already too late. Tell him that." "Well, that won't happen for several reasons." "And when I'm through with him, everyone will be all 'Oh, I wonder whatever happened to that nice weatherman.'" "You're thinking of the wrong guy again, it's Stevie." "'I Stevie whatever happened to that nice weatherman?' That doesn't make any sense. I think you're one slammer short of a Pog Sleeve, Mr. Secretary General." "I'm hanging up the phone now." "Haha, alright buddy, see you later!" Without quite knowing what I was mad at, I think it's pretty safe to say that my phone call with President Gordon Brown was a resounding personal success. In the meantime, if you're reading this, Stevie Wonder, know that you're on my shitlist. Nobody beats Daniel O'Brien for Peacemaster, got me? Nobody. I don't care how tasty the groove is in "Superstition," you and I are no longer cool. It's going to start raining fists, if you catch my drift.
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.