I don't know who it was that told John Mayer that he could pull off a pompadour, but I got news: He can't. And whoever told him he could obviously hates him very much. (Wait a minute, was that person me????) I don't know what it is about this dude that makes me want to rip up daisies and yell at fluffy kittens, but something about his very presence makes me want to run right out and do this:
Then find John Mayer and engage in a tad of this:
With just a dash of....
That. After which I am sure you all would do this:
And I would reciprocate your thanks like this:
Wait...what was I saying? Oh yeah, John Mayer: I hate him. Here is he is West Hollywood last night looking like the poor man's Fonz and asking people to take his picture while repeatedly chanting "Do you know who I am?!? I am John Mayer! I make music that can make the blind to walk and the crippled to see!" John Mayer. Ugh. I loathe him. So why am I writing about him when I abhor the very sight of his face? Because the only thing I asked for this Christmas was for Santa to make John Mayer go away. Obviously he could not take the time out of his busy schedule of eating Rolos and pounding Shame Sticks to fullfill that one tiny wish, so this post is to say screw you Santa. Screw you. You are officially off my Christmas card list and I am immediately returning your gift basket from Russell Stofer's for a bucket of carrots and lemon water. In other words, I'm giving you the Victoria Beckham special, biatch.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Posted by Mrs. M. at 3:31 PM