Dear John

I wish you would stop making songs that I like, because you seem like such a skeeze.  Or worse, because it sounds like you’ve committed the worst artistic sin there is: you’ve bought into your own bullshit.  Really, you come off as an arrogant, entitled prick in interviews.  And then there are the stories about you getting off on peeing on your sexual conquests.  Whatever works, I guess, but your fame radically increases the chance that a women is going to let herself be peed on (figuratively, literally, whatever).    And there is something kind of sick in that self-referential cycle.  You’re famous, she’ll agree to anything for a chance with the famous dick,  you’re famous and you loathe how easy she’s making it for you, so you pee on her.  Really, it’s all just…  ew.

And then you go off and write “father’s be good to your daughters” which is kind of a warning to dads around the world.  If you don’t treat your kid right, they’ll end up in bed with me.  But of course no one takes it like that, they think you’re so sensitive and so good and misunderstood and all that other stuff chicks with a savior complex fall for and they part their pretty thighs and you get what you were after all along: free, willing booty.

Next, there is the famous girlfriend thing.  One, being mean to Jessica Simpson is like kicking a puppy.  It’s unnecessary.  Why do it?  Don’t you know you could have established yourself as a man of discretion and integrity by just keeping your mouth shut?  Also, with Jennifer Anniston.  If you’re thinking that bedding the ex-wife of Brad Pitt makes you equivalent to the Zeus-like fame and presence of Mr. Pitt, simply by hooha association, then you also have to accept the hooha associations that come along with Adam Duritz, lead singer of Counting Crows.  Not so much of a sexy beast, eh?   (Sorry Adam.  I would rather bed you than John, but not because you made it big taking off your shirt for Geena Davis.)

Finally, I’d like to recommend a book to you.  It’s called The Four Agreements.  In particular, the chunk of wisdom I’d start with if I were you, is “it isn’t about you.”   All those pretty girls aren’t there to f*ck John Mayer, awkward adolescent turned emo rock star.  They are there to f*ck emo rock star.  Any emo rock star would do.  And if you think that you’re special, that they only would drop their drawers for you because you’re John Mayer, you’re wrong.  It isn’t that you’re that special, it’s that they are that empty.

So please stop making music I can’t help but like.  All those reasonably intelligent lyrics and pseudo-introspective lines.  It’s amazing how a phrase about never loving anything is quite likely true, but also delivered in a tone that invites sympathy and encourages more women to part their pretty thighs on the off chance that they might be the one to turn that all around for you.  While I have no desire to turn anything around for you, I can Photoshop your words onto someone else’s picture and that’s not much of an improvement.

Frankly, it would just be better all around if you would start writing crappy confectionery pop and save me the burden of liking your music.

Sincerely,

entrope.

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Dear John

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