Like most graduating seniors entering their last semester, this past winter break provided me with a horrifyingly real reminder that my days as a student are just about numbered. Of course, that didn’t stop me from spending a horrifyingly great deal of time tattooed to my couch in varying states of undress, watching a horrifying amount of music television.

Amazingly enough, the inundation of booty-shakin’ and bling-blingin’ actually got my little hamster wheel spinning and, like all great minds, it was on the couch that I concocted a post-graduation plan that would earn me the worldwide fame, legions of adoring fans and obscene quantities of money sought by many but possessed by few.

And the best thing about my plan is that I wouldn’t have to leave the couch at all.

It occurred to me that although it is the youngest form of American music, hip-hop has undergone an exponentially faster maturation process than any of its generic brethren, for better or for worse.

Everything from rock to jazz to country had its pre-recorded gestation, but hip-hop went from South Bronx pastime to major marketing force in a matter of milliseconds.

This has resulted in, among other atrocities, today’s glut of records dominated not by the presences of the original artists, but by featured guest emcees and producers. This is, of course, no strategic revelation: Why take the risk of hitting only a niche of naíve hip-hop fans with Ja Rule’s latest when you can water it down with a little Ashanti and sell it to that many more idiots?

Having nixed the ideal of upholding any semblance of artistic integrity as a musician, I took a cue from Mr. Murder Inc. and set to developing my plot. I first plan to “buy” up ads in a certain college newspaper to get my name out.

They’ll be vague and mysterious, without my picture, and with the superior graphic designers at this certain college newspaper, the reading public will be hopelessly intrigued in no time. (For evidence of this, take as a model “The Simpsons” episode in which Gabbo displaces Krusty as Springfield’s most beloved semi-celebrity before even making an appearance.)

“Who is Nick Marx? Just what kind of music does he sing? What’s he got in that bag?” These and other questions will soon be on the lips of everybody in Madison. And, knowing their proclivity to keep current with Madisonian goings-on by checking out the campus media, I’ll soon attract the attention of hip-hop bigwigs like Russell Simmons, P. Diddy and Irv Gotti.

They’ll dispatch their top-shelf talent to Madison to pull me off the couch and into the studio, but I’ll coolly reply (via e-mail, of course), “Meet me in Hollywood. ‘American Idol’ finals. Only there will I unleash my skills.”

With Nick Marx being the industry phenomenon of the moment, Simon and company will naturally let me bypass the first rounds and put me through to the finals to compete against whatever non-Nick Marx person they’ll choose to lose.

As said person takes the stage, s/he will be greeted with a torrent of catcalls. My newfound collaborators will follow: Ludacris with chants of “Nick Marx y’all!” and Jay-Z with “Uh, c’mon!” all to the beat of ?uestlove on percussion.

As I watch the final from my couch, I’ll make a move to call in and vote for myself but stop when I see that all of America is already taking care of it for me. That and, you see, I’m lazy.

Having secured my status as a national icon without ever being seen, I’ll get to work on my debut album. Wait, no I won’t. I’ll stay at home as Snoop Dogg, Common, Mos Def, Erykah Badu, Eminem and Fabolous all record their guest spots with Timbaland, Swizz Beatz and Mannie Fresh behind the boards. “I’ll meet y’all at the studio in a little bit,” will be my response to their impatient queries.

Contract disputes and an urgency to capitalize on my mysterious aura will rush the album into stores before anyone can think twice. The cover? A blurry picture of me with my back turned. The name? Feat.

It’ll go gold, platinum, quadruple-platinum. The Neptunes will remix it. I’ll be photographed in tabloids flossing with J. Lo and Joe Millionaire, my face always semi-obscured.

Soon enough, record execs will get the hint that they don’t even need to release songs under single artists’ names and begin applying hip-hop’s featuring practices to all genres — the Dixie Chicks will do an album with Good Charlotte, Good Charlotte an album with Kirk Franklin. The “Now That’s What I Call Music!” producers will soil themselves in befuddled angst.

As the checks keep rolling in, I’ll kick back and watch as the entire medium of recorded music becomes one perpetual song featuring everyone fortunate enough to get his or her voice or instrument into it.

And who knows? I might even make an appearance — if I can get off the couch.