Nelly and Joe sat on the steps of a quiet park amphitheater, the evening breeze carrying the faint scent of pine. The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. Joe was scrolling through his phone, chuckling at something, while Nelly sipped her iced coffee, lost in thought.
“Joe,” she said suddenly, breaking the silence.
“Yeah?” he replied, not looking up.
“Do you think geniuses are born once in a millennium?”
Joe paused, lowering his phone. “What do you mean? Like, someone so brilliant they redefine the world?”
“Exactly,” Nelly said, her eyes lighting up. “Think about it—Leonardo da Vinci, a polymath who could paint the Mona Lisa and design flying machines. Mozart, composing symphonies as a kid. Socrates, shaping philosophy itself. And…”
Joe raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“Conan O’Brien,” Nelly said with a smirk.
Joe burst out laughing. “Conan O’Brien? The talk show guy?”
“Not just a talk show guy,” Nelly said, leaning forward. “The man’s wit is razor-sharp. He’s a master of timing, self-deprecation, and absurdity. Plus, he wrote for The Simpsons in its golden age. That’s genius-level comedy.”
Joe shook his head, still grinning. “I mean, I love Conan, but you’re putting him in the same league as da Vinci and Socrates?”
“Why not?” Nelly countered. “Genius isn’t just about inventing or philosophizing. It’s about shifting perspectives, making people see the world differently. Conan does that with humor. He’s like a modern-day Socrates, but instead of questioning the Athenian elite, he’s roasting celebrities and making us laugh at ourselves.”
Joe leaned back, considering her point. “Okay, but if we’re talking about a once-in-a-millennium genius, shouldn’t they have a broader impact? Like, change the course of history or something?”
“Comedy changes history,” Nelly argued. “Think about it. During tough times, laughter keeps people going. It’s a survival mechanism, a way to cope. Conan’s humor isn’t just funny—it’s smart. It’s layered. He’s like the da Vinci of late-night TV.”
Joe chuckled. “So, in your book, it’s da Vinci, Mozart, Socrates, and… Conan.”
“Exactly,” Nelly said, grinning. “Though, if we’re being fair, maybe we’re overlooking some others. Like, I don’t know, Beyoncé.”
Joe laughed again. “Okay, now you’re just naming people you like.”
“Maybe,” Nelly admitted. “But think about it. Genius comes in many forms. It’s not always about big inventions or grand philosophies. Sometimes, it’s about making life a little brighter, a little better, for everyone.”
Joe nodded slowly. “You might be onto something. Still, I don’t think Conan would put himself in that category.”
“Which is exactly why he belongs there,” Nelly said with a wink.
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the last rays of sunlight fade.
“You know,” Joe said, breaking the quiet, “if Conan ever hears about this conversation, he’d probably make a joke about being compared to da Vinci.”
“And it would be genius,” Nelly said, laughing.
1984: The Late-Night Dystopia
The year was 1984, and Joe sat at his cramped desk in the Ministry of Truth, rewriting history for the Party. The telescreen on the wall droned endlessly, broadcasting the face of Big Brother—or rather, the face of Conan O’Brien.
Conan’s image was everywhere, his ginger pompadour and mischievous grin a symbol of the Party’s omnipresent authority. His booming voice filled the room, delivering monologues laced with cutting humor that somehow made the oppression feel both absurd and terrifying.
“Remember, comrades,” Conan’s voice declared, “War is peace, freedom is slavery, and laughter is mandatory!”
Joe suppressed a groan as he adjusted his glasses. He had grown weary of Conan’s relentless jokes, which were designed to mock dissenters while keeping the masses entertained. The Party’s motto, “Doublethink Through Comedy,” was etched into every facet of life.
But Joe couldn’t laugh anymore. Not after what happened to Nelly. She had been dragged to Room 101 for laughing too hard at one of Conan’s jokes—a violation of the Party’s decree that all laughter must be “moderate and controlled.”
Joe’s thoughts were interrupted by the sudden blaring of the telescreen. Conan’s face loomed larger than life, his eyes piercing through the screen.
“Ah, Joe Smith,” Conan said, his tone mockingly jovial. “Our Ministry of Truth superstar! How’s the rewriting going? Still erasing inconvenient truths?”
Joe froze. He knew better than to show fear, but his hands trembled. “It’s going well, Big Brother,” he said, his voice steady.
“Good, good,” Conan replied, his grin widening. “Because we wouldn’t want you to end up like… oh, what was her name? Nelly, was it? Such a shame. She had a great laugh.”
Joe clenched his fists under the desk, rage bubbling beneath his calm exterior. Conan’s jokes always hit too close to home, twisting the knife with a smirk.
That night, Joe met with the underground resistance. They called themselves “The Laughless,” a group determined to overthrow Conan’s comedic regime. Their leader, an enigmatic figure known only as “The Straight Man,” had a plan to dismantle the Party’s grip on humor.
“We need to take down the telescreens,” The Straight Man said. “Without Conan’s face and voice everywhere, the people might remember how to think for themselves.”
Joe volunteered for the mission. Armed with nothing but a crowbar and a heart full of defiance, he infiltrated the Ministry of Comedy, where the telescreen broadcasts were controlled.
As he reached the control room, he was confronted by Conan himself, standing in the doorway.
“Joe,” Conan said, his voice low and menacing. “I knew you’d come. You’re not the first to think you can take me down. But let me tell you a little secret: I am the Party. Without me, there’s nothing but silence. And silence, my dear Joe, is the real enemy.”
Joe raised the crowbar, his heart pounding. “You’re wrong. People don’t need you to laugh. They need freedom.”
Conan’s grin faltered for the first time. “Freedom?” he said, almost whispering. Then, with a burst of laughter, he added, “Freedom is overrated. You think you can handle the truth? The truth is, people want to be entertained. They need me.”
Joe lunged, smashing the controls with all his strength. Sparks flew, and the telescreens across Oceania went dark.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, a ripple of quiet laughter emerged from the streets—not the forced, hollow laughter of Conan’s regime, but genuine, spontaneous laughter.
Joe smiled. For the first time in years, the world felt alive.
The Chocolate Ration Incident
In the sprawling halls of the Ministry of Plenty, where every crumb of food was carefully measured and rationed, Inner Party member Conan O’Brien was having a day. The announcement of Big Brother’s latest triumph—the increase in the chocolate ration from 20 grams to 10 grams—was causing quite a stir.
Conan, tasked with delivering the news via telescreen, leaned back in his plush office chair, munching on an actual chocolate bar (a rare privilege of the Inner Party). He stared at the script in front of him, shaking his head.
“Increase from 20 grams to 10 grams?” Conan muttered, smirking. “Who writes this stuff? Oh, right, we do.”
His assistant, a nervous man named Jenkins, stood by the door, holding a clipboard. “Sir, the broadcast is in five minutes. Big Brother expects your usual… flair.”
Conan grinned, his trademark mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Don’t worry, Jenkins. I’ll make it work. Watch and learn.”
Minutes later, Conan’s face filled every telescreen across Oceania. Citizens paused their tasks, their eyes glued to the screen.
“Good evening, comrades!” Conan began, his voice booming with enthusiasm. “Today, I bring you fantastic news! Big Brother, in his infinite wisdom, has graciously increased the chocolate ration to 10 grams! That’s right, folks—more chocolate for everyone!”
A ripple of confusion spread through the crowds watching. Some whispered to each other, “Wasn’t it 20 grams yesterday?” Others quickly silenced their doubts, fearing the Thought Police.
“But wait,” Conan continued, his grin widening. “I know what you’re thinking: ‘How does Big Brother do it? How does he keep giving us more while asking for less?’ The answer, my friends, is simple: magic!”
The telescreen cut to a hastily made graphic of Big Brother’s stern face superimposed on a magician pulling chocolate bars out of a hat.
Back in the Ministry of Plenty, Jenkins was sweating bullets. “Sir, you’re going off-script,” he hissed.
“Relax, Jenkins,” Conan whispered back. “I’m giving them a show. Big Brother loves a good show.”
On the screen, Conan leaned closer, as if sharing a secret. “Now, I know some of you out there might be thinking, ‘But Conan, isn’t 10 grams less than 20?’ To which I say, Math is overrated! Who needs numbers when you have Big Brother’s love?”
The crowd erupted in a mix of nervous laughter and applause. Conan’s charisma was undeniable, even when he was blatantly spinning nonsense.
As the broadcast ended, Conan leaned back in his chair, pleased with himself. Jenkins, however, looked pale.
“Sir,” Jenkins stammered, “the Thought Police might not find this… humorous.”
Conan shrugged, unwrapping another chocolate bar. “If they can’t take a joke, Jenkins, that’s their problem. Besides, I’m an Inner Party member. What are they gonna do? Send me to Room 101 for being too funny?”
Jenkins didn’t respond, but the sweat on his brow suggested he wasn’t as confident.
Meanwhile, across Oceania, citizens gathered in small groups, whispering about the chocolate ration. Some were confused, others amused, but most were simply trying to figure out how to make 10 grams of chocolate stretch for the rest of the week.
In the Ministry of Love, a Thought Police officer watched the broadcast replay, his face expressionless. After a long pause, he chuckled.
“That Conan,” he muttered. “Always pushing it, but damn if he isn’t entertaining.”
Big Brother might have controlled everything, but even he couldn’t suppress the power of a good laugh—and Conan O’Brien was a master of the craft.