Friday, August 15, 2008
Can you REALLY disappear, John Mayer? WOULD YOU PLEASE???
I just saw on Dlisted that, in light of his recent breakup with legendary beauty (and by "legendary beauty" I mean "leathery, shrewish, bitter old maid") Jennifer Aniston, the world's most prominent douchebag has come down with a sudden case of the camera shies and is thus walking around in a selection of exceptionally stupid outfits to hide his precious, tear-streaked feminine face from those annoying paparazzi who keep his ass relevant. Ungrateful loser. I bet he complains all the time about how he never gets any privacy when he's trying to pick out ugly distressed t-shirts at his local American Apparel, even though when he first started doing "the Rachel" his media whore ass was making out with her in every hotel swimming pool he came across.
The other day, he was running around looking like some sort of hipster Jawa, as if he were out scavenging scrap metal and other mechanical detritus to stick in his extra strappy North Face backpack. Maybe pretending to be hard at work in the intergalactic space robot salvage business quells the excruciating pain eating away at his newly single heart. I mean, it's not like he could alternatively go write a cloying, shitty song about it.
As if that creepy outfit wasn't bad enough, he then decided his next clever, inconspicuous disguise will hearken back to his favorite childhood Halloween costume of all time. I can just imagine young Johnny Mayer dressed up as Batman shoving handfuls of fun-sized Snickers into his caterwauling yap and telling everyone through his nasty mouthful of nougat that when he grows up, he's going to be a famous sensitive-boy "rock star" so he can wear this outfit every day.
Why am I not surprised that John Mayer has a fucking man purse–excuse me, I meant SATCHEL–to go with every dumb douchebag hoodie he has? I bet tomorrow when he's snapped skulking around shrouded in a hooded sweatshirt festooned with skulls or Japanese characters or whatever kind of douchey Urban Outfitters-type pattern he rolls in, he'll be rocking some coordinated backpack or messenger bag so he has a convenient place to store his iPhone and Vitamin Water.
Since John Mayer wants so badly to be invisible, I would like to encourage him in this pursuit. Every time I see him, he pisses me off just by EXISTING. Between his staunch defending of Pete Wentz's artistic integrity, his taste in women, his supposedly giant weiner, his ill-advised attempts at comedy, and his insufferable blog that constantly harps on how shallow and pathetic everyone in the world EXCEPT him is (when not documenting his attempts at making "the perfect watermelon margarita" and sucking harder than me on a first date at Grand Theft Auto 4). I have about eight hours' worth of discussion material relating to the topic of John Mayer hatred, and that's not even scratching the surface of his contributions to the genre of adult contemporary–I mean "pussified rock"–music. However, since his carefully apportioned hoodie disguises aren't working, I would suggest that it's time for him to take more drastic measures. I'm thinking something like this:
Unfortunately, if I saw any of these costumes walking down the street, their inherent douchebaggery would make me immediately think "John Mayer costume," thus defeating the purpose entirely. Therefore I can simply beg John Mayer to recognize what a scourge he is to our society and just kill himself. Sure, a pro-suicide position is one I don't usually take, but in this case I must make an exception for the sake of my fellow man. Please, John Mayer, sacrifice yourself so that humanity may continue unmolested by your abject fucktardery!
Labels: John Mayer sucks, retard rage, scathing indictments
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