Is the Universe Trying to Kill Post Malone?

Aug. 21: A plane blows out its tires, prompting a white-knuckle emergency landing. The world watches, breath baited. The plane—thank god—touches down safely, preserving all 16 souls of its precious cargo. When the plane doors open and the shaken survivors file out, standing among them is rapper and singer Post Malone. “I need some beer. And I need some wine. At the same time, mixed together,” says Malone after the incident.

Sept. 7: In the early hours of the West Hollywood morning, two cars collide. A Rolls-Royce flies off the road into the bushes, heavily damaged. Emerging from the crumpled passenger seat is rapper and singer Post Malone, dusting off his knees and chuckling but otherwise unhurt. “God must hate me lol,” he tweets later that night.

Sept. 10: Three men break into a house at night, rummaging frantically through possessions. The men had understood the house owner to be someone rich, someone famous. In fact, the rich and famous rapper and singer they seek had sold the house. As Page Six tells it, “One of the three men allegedly yelled, ‘Where’s Post Malone?!’ before stealing $20,000 worth of cash, jewelry and cell phones.”

Summer 2018 (TIMESTAMP UNKNOWN): Two giggling, full-grown men dance around a supposedly cursed object. One of those men is Zak Bagans, the star of the television program “Ghost Adventures.” The other is—yes—rapper and singer Post Malone. They both—because of course they do— touch the cursed object.

Whatever else one might conclude from this chilling timeline, one simple fact can no longer be in doubt: The universe is trying to kill rapper and singer Post Malone.

He has had, by all accounts a remarkable year: His album Beerbongs & Bentleys debuted at No. 1, breaking streaming records on the way. It remains one of the most enduring commercial successes of the year. If we judge our pop stars by things like “saturation” and “staying power,” Post Malone definitely is one of the brightest.

But at what cost? What unholy imbalance has his success caused, and to what lengths will the universe go to correct it?

The residents of this universe, it should be noted, are not at all in agreement about Post Malone. He is popular, yes, but in that dark way, where his influence is noted and bemoaned in the same breath. A lot of people hate this guy. Some of the hate might be purely superficial: He looks like someone who would be sent home from his job as a supermarket cashier for failing to properly cover up his lip stud. He looks like someone who might approach you at a gas station holding two breath mints in his palm, wondering aloud if they might be ecstasy. He looks like a spurned Hobbit who has abandoned the Shire for the Gathering of the Juggalos.

But for others, the objections run deeper. He is a culture vulture, a rich white kid making bank off of hip-hop while openly disrespecting it. For these people, he is the walking embodiment of a certain unsavory tendency among white rap fans. Post Malone, to them, is gross, embarrassing, lamentable. This is, it must be said, A Deeply Understandable Viewpoint.

In the face of grave danger, however, let us set aside our petty differences. I think we all can agree—whatever his sins, and whether or not you acknowledge “Better Now” is a classic, Post Malone does not deserve to slip on a banana peel and land in a trash compactor. He should not be smooshed instantly by a piano tumbling off the back of a truck. And he most certainly does not deserve to wander, oblivious, into the path of a cement mixer.

Let us all band together as citizens. There are a few months left in the year, yet still countless opportunities for the universe to carry out its intended murder of Post Malone. Surround him in foam padding. Childproof your locks, outlets, and ovens. Scan the sky for meteorites. Keep Post Malone Alive.