In your most Pynchon-esque prose...

In your most Pynchon-esque prose, briefly describe a conspiracy theory that explains why he was SNUBBED by the Nobel Committee.

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They decided not to give Pynchon a medal, and then they opened up a can of peanut brittle and a gag snake popped out an everyone laughed

Holy kekistan bro that was like rly gut lmao xD

Literally nothing in my post had anything to do with politics whatsoever
You have an unhealthy obsession and need to sort that out

There's a process that's slowly converges to equilibrium of an array of factors that determine the winner of the nobel prize. Right now there's certain leeway and the recipient of the award is not strictly predetermined but in thirty years such freedom will vanish. As such the comittee carefully picks not best current writers, but rather such writers that the trajectory of future winners would yield maximum discounted closeness to actual best writers. In 2034 there are two possibilities: Sandra Hogol, an austrian child genius terminally sick with Daufen syndrom, will be the laureate, or by then senile convicted pedophile John Green. Choosing Pynchon now will lock in Green later. It was a hard choice, but I think what was done should have been done.

Jesus this was phenomenal

A warm cloud is waivering in her pants, glass-like and smoky-cloudy, spreading between her excitement worn things, oh my lord, she thinks - it's urine! A-and the prize goes to... She can't help but think the real winners prose, the cloud now thick with crotchy saliva... T-the prize goes to... All she can think about is the snake in the box, his snake, for the love of god. Almost betraying her instructions by Them... she sez: Kazuo Ishiguro, and the wet feeling of guilt ridden, betrayal sodden... He should have pinched it.

I think he refers to reddit-like pattern of behaviour of regurgitating memes born and rejected by this site, and wearing them as a sign of belonging (kekistani), but 'jokester' pasta doesn't really fall under this category.

Hewlett Packard-Latrobe stood and watched the flat-screen television set in Manhattan with a combination of dread and anticipation: this was going to be the year his dear friend Gregory Berrycone was to be honored with the world's most misguided award: the Nobel Dynamite Prize for Book Writin' and Political Correctness. Within seconds, the news anchor, a Mr. Cronkite Brokaw made the announcement:

"We have just received word that this year's recipient of the Prize Everyone Cares About out of Some Bork Bork Shithole is: Nippon Atwood, a Japanese man live action role playing as a British servant. Mr. Atwood is best known for having two good ideas and then over-writing them until they lose all meaning. He also wrote a book about kids being raised as organ donors, which was probably swiped from a single sentence in a Philip K. Dick story."

Packard-Latrobe's head hung low, lower than it normally hung. "God damn it you sonofabitch," he grumbled, "Berrycone isn't going to like this."

Ah, a Berrycone allusion. BRAVO! Simply splendid!