Man, so a big brouhaha (one of my favorite words) has developed over Barack Obama’s victory in the race to be most chill. This year, with a late surge (pun!) involving shipping off more troops to Af-shitshow-stan, bombing the shit out of Pakistan’s mountainous regions that are apparently teeming with Al-Qaeda and their groupies, and manning up by having Navy SEALs take out some dipshit Somali pirates who were foolish enough to fuck with us and our ships, Obama has seemingly predictably taken home the Oscar of all Oscars: the Nobel Peace Prize. Blammo, muhfuckas; take that! Peace comes with a priz(c)e, bitches. Barack Obizzle knows this, so he’s been ratcheting up the ballsoutness of our foreign policy and showing those pacifist pansies just what peace is all about. Bro is so prestige that he didn’t even bother to wake up for it. All in a day’s work. The only problem is what if he really, really makes some peaceful shit happen in the future? Imagine if he got Osama and George W. Bush together at The White House for a beer? Now that be some peaceful shit. They could kick back, Osama could have an O’Douls (no alcohol for the Muslims), GWB would prolly go for a Jack straight up and a bump of yayo, and hopefully Obama would stop bullshitting and admit that his favorite beer is Old Style (Chicago Pride, bruh). They could play some wiffle ball, watch Mad Men together, talk about how hot Christina Hendricks is, and have a nice Halal meal prepared by Michele O, while Sasha and Malia played house with Osama’s kids and the Bush twins did keg stands at The White House bar with WH interns. Or, maybe he could have Kanye and Taylor Swift break bread and Kanye could produce her next album, a sweet hybridized country/hip-hop joint with guest appearances by Cam’ron, Garth Brooks, Toby Keith, Leighton Meester, Common and the ghosts of Johnny Cash and Tupac. I’m holding my breath for this one.
Anyway, one thing that I have noticed is that apparently the Nobel Prize still matters to mad heads for some reason. I mean, maybe this reflects my own interests, but it hasn’t been remotely relevant in the literary sphere for hella long. Like, for Christ’s sake, neither Nabokov OR Joyce won that shit. I can recognize no award as legit if they managed to overlook two srsly sick authors like that. I got one phrase: Nah, Brah. Also, who the hell is Herta Muller? Her dad, coincidentally (read below) was an officer in the SS! I’m not saying one’s parents should have a mad important role in the selection of Nobel laureates, but can we really trust the offspring of a Nazi? Definitely gets a nah, brah. Also, my main man Jean-Paul Sartre basically paraphrased me in 1964 when after he was named the Nobel laureate for literature he was like, “Nah, Brah. I gotta write some more shit denouncing France’s colonial ventures in Algeria.” Now that’s the truth.
I guess the NPP has enjoyed a bit more of a positive reputation and has managed to at least give off the sense that it is a meaningful distinction. Still, in 1906 Teddy “big stick, rough rider” Roosevelt won it only years after killing mad Spanish bros in Cuba, and back in 1939 someone even nominated Adolph “worst stache in history” Hitler. I mean, can we really take any panel seriously that had some fool nominate a fascist hater for the Peace Prize? Nah, Brah, Nah. Much like Shakespeare in Love, Crash, that movie about the broke Indian kid who won mad loot on Who Wants to be a Millionaire, Chicago, and The Godfather (JK!), that weaksauce had no business even being in the running. But really, I back Obama like 100 million percent to succeed on all fronts, but I just can’t really get behind this. I mean, bro is chill, prolly smokes a bit of herb, and might even do broga (yoga for you squares out there), but I don’t think he has made the world more peaceful for most of us. More chill, maybe, but more peaceful is a stretch. The high fives I exchanged with randos in Chicago the night of his election were fun and uplifting, but since then a whole lot hasn’t happened.
That said, B.O. should be like, “Yo, Swedes. Peace is a process. My jam ain’t even barely been started. I still got mad work left to do and only three guaranteed years to do it. Get off my tip and let me get to work and stop counting my proverbial chickens before they hatched (range free, btw). I ain’t got time to travel to Stockholm and accept your money (1.6 mil! That’s like, only 9 percent of Alex Rodriguez’s annual salary) and acclaim. I know I’m a pretty baller bro (Harvard!!), and my wife has guns and my kids are cute, and everyone chilled out when I checked out that French chic’s ass, but relax–let me get this shit when I’m retired, bored, writing my third memoir (Fred Douglass set the bar high), and have the time to kick it in Stockholm, see the sights, and peep your womens volleyball team (Don’t tell Michelle!).”
And they would be like, “Lol wut? Oh Barizzle, we feel you. We’ll get back to you in 20 years. After all, Jimmy Carter was old as hell and just building mad houses for broke peeps when we threw this his way.” Then they would all exchange a terrorist fist jab and go their separate ways, while Representative Joe Wilson looked on and resisted the temptation to squeeze Michelle’s ass and then call her a liar when she called him out on it.