For a minute now we’ve been watching the ascent of a one Aliaune Damala Bouga Time Puru Nacka Lu Lu Lu Badara Akon Thiam, bka Akon, from ranks of novelty artist to producer with legitimate jam skills—but events of recent weeks have brought the crashing revelation upon us: Akon has taken over. We’ve moved past the carefree singles featuring a few bars of the dulcet alto that just so happens to sound a lot like when you cut the bottom out of a paper cup and sing through it. We have reached a point in society where people cannot enter a studio without Akon. Gwen? Check. Rick Ross? MIA? Bone Thugs? Check check check! Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston? Not. A. Big. Deal. May we remind you that this is a man who spent four minutes and 26 seconds performing a Village People-inspired spell-off on his album and then sold copies of it to one million humans with money? Not shells, not beads, not stickers: people exchanged legal tender. We are left shattered, confused, broken, but enlightened: America Wants A Club Med Vacation and this is the prophet who is going to take us there. This man, this hero, this Akon has become us. There is no escape, there is no end. No man is an Akon unto himself. Also, he's on tour.