John C. Mayer Is Totally Stalking Me

Dear “John C. Mayer,”

I know we’ve had a tumultuous relationship – we’re like when a tornado meets a volcano or um, cheese meeting macaroni, or something poetic, John C. Mayer. Whatever, John C. Mayer – I’m not the singer – YOU are.

For years, John C. Mayer, I despised you. Not because I knew you, John C. Mayer, or even because you, John C. Mayer had done anything personally to me.

Except that you, John C. Mayer did. You wrote that stupid “You’re Body Is A Wonderland” song. I mean, John C. Mayer, how many times do I have to hear my girlfriends ovulate all over the place when that stupid song comes on? How many torturous nights, John. C. Mayer do I have to hear my sappy girlfriends be all, “I *love this song – John C. Mayer wrote this about ME and now I want to have his sensitive babies,” before I snap, John C. Mayer?

Answer, John C. Mayer: about two hundred times.

And frankly, how dare you, John C. Mayer, sir, have the audacity to be both funny AND play the guitar like that? It’s unfair, John C. Mayer, because despite how much, I wanted to hate you, John C. Mayer, I simply cannot. Your humor, John C. Mayer is not a fluke, and you, John C. Mayer, are someone with whom I’d like to be friends.

You may recall, John C. Mayer, when the Internet Pulled A “John C. Mayer” and beat Google’s search algorithm to be among the very top of the search terms for “John C. Mayer.” It was originally an accident, John C. Mayer, but it turned into a prank so large that “Pulling A John C. Mayer” made it into Urban Dictionary. That may be, John C. Mayer, the very pinnacle of my existence.

john c mayerA photo taken during the John C Mayer Prank, complete with my fake cat, Mr. Sprinkles.

Today, John C. Mayer, I checked to see where I ranked on Google. It’s been over two years (I think) since I Pulled a John C. Mayer on the Internet – certainly my page rank must’ve gone down. After all, John C. Mayer, I do not write a blog about John C. Mayer – instead, I prefer to write narcissistically about, well, me. That is what blogging is all about, right John C. Mayer?

(answer: yes)

And yet. And how. And this:

Screen shot from today. I beat out John C. Mayer’s blog AND Wikipedia. John C. Mayer totally loves me.

Anyway, I’m sure that your publicist, John C. Mayer would like me to die in a fiery blaze started possibly by a “malfunctioning kitchen appliance,” because WHOOPS! Behold the Power of the Pranksters, John C. Mayer!

But I’m a little afraid, now, John C. Mayer, that while your publicist may want to murder me with a pitchfork, that you, John C. Mayer may be in love with me. Now, I know what you’re thinking: who isn’t in love with John C. Mayer and his luscious mane of hairs? The answer would be me, John C. Mayer. I am not in love with you. While I do respect your kickin’ guitar riffs and may (or may not)(I’ll never tell) own several of your songs, I am not, John C. Mayer, in love with you.

But you, however, are stalking me John C. Mayer. Why would I say such a thing, John C. Mayer?

Because I got this in the mail. No return address. Just this. Now when I saw that I’d gotten mail, John C. Mayer, I got all happy in the pants because who doesn’t love PRESENTS? (answer people who hate the color blue, baskets of kittens, and/or lemon meringue pie).

John C. Mayer

Yes, that’s right. I got an unmarked life-sized poster of you, John C. Mayer. And I cannot think of a soul who would send this picture of you, John C. Mayer, rocking out besides, well, YOU.

Which means that you’re clearly stalking me, John C. Mayer.

And while that’s well and good – who can resist a chick who gardens in a cocktail dress and chainsaw? – I must inform you that sending me a life-sized poster of you, John C. Mayer is not the quickest way to my bubble gum lips.

Besides, John C. Mayer, I’m engaged. To a Twitter Dog, Dublin Cook.

DON’T JUDGE OUR LOVE, JOHN C. MAYER.

Warmest Regards,

Aunt Becky

P.S. You might want to try sending diamonds next time, John C. Mayer. Works better on loosening up the vaginal bits than a life-sized poster of you, John C. Mayer.

————

P.P.S. The original John C. Mayer Prank was done by accident – I’d written him this letter, which boosted me up to Google’s like 4th search term for “John C. Mayer.” Drunk on my new-found knowledge, I then taught the Internet how to prank Google so that we can get our blogs to be the top search term for a particular celebrity. Whacha think? Should we do it again, Pranksters?

The answer, John C. Mayer Pranksters, is YES. Things have been too damn serious for too damn long – it’s time to do some prankage, Pranksters. YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO.

(Instructions for Pulling a John C. Mayer are here)

So it’s your turn. Link up, Pranksters, and help each other by leaving comments wherein you use THEIR celebrities name a lot in the comments, use Stumble Upon, Facebook, retweet them, you know – let’s get Google good! Let’s get PRANKING!Comments should look like this to get more traction with Google:

“Aunt Becky I can’t believe you’re pulling a John C. Mayer again. John C. Mayer will rue the day that John C. Mayer wrote “Your Body is a Wonderland.”

Quit Playing Games With My Heart.

When the Urgent Care doctor offered me a shot of Dilaudid, I practically jumped on top of him and humped his leg. Had my neck not been spasming so badly, I probably would have.

For someone who claims to “want vodka,” I’m not much of a drinker, so the occasional narcotics use is about the closest I can get to altering my reality, and I was in such excruciating pain that had he told me that “licking the toilet might help a little” you would have found me bathing it with my tongue, no questions asked.

It was my second trip to Urgent Care in as many days and while normal people would have taken care of the migraine that I’d had since the previous weekend, not one of you can call me “normal,” so I’d waited until the pain was bad enough to make me weep. Then I’d gone in to Urgent Care. Twice.

After I’d sat in the grimy waiting room, being exposed to various forms of small pox and the bubonic plague, I was about ready to lop off my head and be done with the whole affair when I was called back and eventually offered the Dilaudid. That’s when the angels began to sing on high and the heavens opened up upon me. The idea of relief was almost more than I could stand.

I’d never had Dilaudid before, but I knew it was The Good Shit, and like I said, the pain was so intense I was about ready to find a voodoo doctor to remove the hex on my neck.

The nurse came in to administer the shot. She warned me that “it might sting a little,” but after three babies and two miscarriages, I’ve had RhoGAM a jillion times. RhoGAM is an immunoglobulin given to Rh-negative pregnant women. Immunoglobulins are thick, viscous serums that are administered via a McDonald’s straw right into the butt muscle. They hurt like hell.

So I was all, ‘WHAT THE FUCK EVER, LADY, YOU KNOW WHAT KINDA PAIN I’M IN?’ but I didn’t say that because if I was rude, she might have withheld the delicious drugs.

But holy fuckballs, that shit HURT. I walked around the Urgent Care clinic, trying to pick up Ebola and Dysentery (Oregon Trail makes it look so glamorous!) to try and get the medication to disperse, but damn, it hurt.

After about ten minutes, it stopped hurting, and then I felt pretty high. Like I might want to start making snowflakes with the picture of the sinuses on the walls so that I could glue them to my body.

I tried to look at something on my iPhone but the words melted together into a deliciously funny singing purple cat. I laughed at the purple cat. Silly kitty, didn’t he know that cats weren’t allowed at the doctors?

Just as I was batting at the bubbles that filled the room, a weird thing happened: my face began to itch. Then my chest. Then my arms. I scratched and scratched and scratched. It didn’t help. It did, however make me look like I’d been stuck in the roto-rooter.

Somehow, the nurse who came to cluck over my insanely low blood pressure didn’t notice my scratches.

But I was forced to sit there, scratching myself like a monkey as the doctors made sure that I streak naked around the clinic screaming about aliens and dingoes. I couldn’t, you see, I was too itchy. Also, where the bubbles that had appeared were once my friends, now they were horrible vile creatures that made me want to puke.

I laid on the cot peeling off layers of my epidermis trying not to vomit as the bubble-people attacked me.

Eventually, the Urgent Care doc deemed me fit to leave and was in the process of being wheeled out when I mumbled, “sorry I look so bad. I’m all itchy.”

With that, I was promptly wheeled right back in and was given a big ass dose of epinephrine and prednisone.

Stimulants.

(CNS) Depressants plus stimulants = a fucking nightmare. My heart raced, I openly wept and I tried not to vomit on myself.

Eventually, I was discharged and crawled into my bed.

The following morning, I made an appointment with a chiropractor.

If this doesn’t work, anyone know a good voodoo doctor?

(also: looking into a breast reduction. No, seriously, the doc thinks it could be my rack.)

————-

If you’ve entered the Pulling a The David Cook for Charity (and a year’s worth of Cold Stone), please go here and double check that your entry is up on the list. If it’s not, due to some error on my end, let me know so that I can add it before I do the drawing.

—————-

Over at Toy With Me, I wrote a letter to the bullied gay teens.

Go Ask Aunt Becky

The David Cook

You know what? It’s DAMN hard to write about nice charity things. It was way easier to write about my ongoing war with John C. Mayer. You’ll be glad to note, Pranksters, that I have resumed my war with John C. Mayer.

I just thought I should mention that Pulling a John C. Mayer and being a snarky asshole is a hell of a lot easier than Pulling a The David Cook for Charity. And it’s a shame, too. I really do like The David Cook and John C. Mayer makes my vagina hurt with his douchiness.

That said, I’ll allow a couple more days to win a years worth of motherfucking ice cream for motherfucking charity. Who gives a fucking shit if you’re fucking polite about it and fucking shit? We can be charitable without being all vanilla. And shit.

Dear Aunt Becky,

What would you do if every (almost) morning you get to work there is a human pubic hair on your desk? Most often, one.singular.hair. – Aside from puke in your mouth.

Fact – It’s not mine, for sure! Aside from my overgardening in the pubic region, I don’t generally gear down at work and rub my box on my desk.

There is nothing – and I mean not even listening to the collective works of John C. Mayer – that is worse than finding a rogue pubic hair floating around your space that doesn’t belong to you. Whenever I find one that is very distinctly not my own, I’m horrified and then I have to tell someone that I found it (God knows I need a muzzle).

Here is my question, Prankster: is it the same type of pube? Because that changes my answer entirely. If someone is plucking a singular pube from their crotch every night and arranging it neatly on your desk, well, perhaps they are trying to say, “Hey, I like you, let me show you my genital hair!” Maybe this suitor leaves a single pube instead of a rose!

That’s a very special way of saying how much he loves you! “Let’s get a drink! I’m showing you my pubes first!”

If it is not the same type of pube, if you are getting many different -single – daily pube deposits, well, it appears that you have many special suitors. They all want you to see their crotchal regions before you agree to have a drink with them. Aren’t you so lucky!

Or, perhaps you have a Pube Fairy at work. In which case I suggest you buy a shotgun and a trap. Those fuckers are assholes.

(P.S. I am declaring “Pube” as the new insult. Also: “Crotch”)(because, obviously)

Dear Aunt Becky,

I cannot remember how I got to your Website, I think it was Bloggess, but I could be wrong.  But that is not my question or even really important, sometimes I forget to start with the pertinent items.  Your site, which is way amusing and appreciated by me leaves me with one question.  I hate to ask, ’cause your entire post makes me think I really should know the answer.

Who is this John C. Mayer?  Is it the same guy who talked about J.Simpson as sexual Napalm and who seems to have J. Aniston on booty call speed dial?  If not, is this some other surname for John C. Maxwell that I haven’t heard of?  I need to know, ’cause I’m waiting to read your archives until I find out in advance if you like these asshats.

Thanx!

Oh Prankster, no day is complete without a rousing discussion of John C. Mayer. (I do not, however, know who this John C. Maxwell is, so perhaps you could enlighten me).

John C. Mayer is an extremely talented guitar player who wrote one of the worst songs in the world: “Your Body is a Wonderland.” It may have passed under my radar as only “acutely annoying” if I hadn’t had to listen to it 52,897 while every XX chromosome I knew cried about how beautiful it was.

It was not beautiful. It was stupid. It made me want to heave.

I waged war on John C. Mayer for being a douchy pop star for years. Turns out, he’s actually kind of witty and pretty funny.

Recently, he’s been in the news for making completely inappropriate comments about his penis, and while I appreciate penis comments, even I balked at them. He is the one who called Jessica Simpson “sexual napalm” which is something I cannot actually understand. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I’ve spent nights awake in bed wondering.

WHAT DOES SEXUAL NAPALM MEAN?!?

John C. Mayer is sort of my playful archenemy. It’s always important to have a fake archenemy who has no idea you exist, right?

hey Aunt Becky,

What are your views on porn? How much is too much?

Also, why is casting for Celebrity Rehab so unpredictable? I can’t tell if it’s still a show or when the new season starts. Can’t there be a minor league for instant call up? Always seemed like such a deep, rich vein of TV reality gold .

I find that porn is like bacon: there’s always room for more.

Porn + Porn = full of the awesome.

Unless you have a porn addiction in which case it’s probably not so much full of the awesome.

Also: really don’t need to see close-ups of the ballbags, porn makers. Just, you know, thought I’d throw that in there. Testicle skin looks a lot like chicken skin and while I find it absolutely hilarious, it’s not so much arousing as it is amusing.

Also Also: I just made sure that every male reader will never, ever want to have sex with me.

Also Also Also: Balls are awesome.

And I don’t understand Celebrity Rehab. I’ve never watched it. I’m certain my Pranksters will happily discuss it with you, though.

————————

As always, Pranksters, please pick up where I left off in the comments. Your questions can be always be submitted to Go Ask Aunt Becky.

The Pulling a David Cook for Charity post is here.

And Band Back Together, for any of you who wanted to put your charity posts up on that site, is here.

Pulling A The David Cook For Charity

When I was in NYC, I was invited to the Bloganthropy Dinner which was thrown for bloggers who use their blogs to make the world a better place. Clearly, they mixed me up with another Aunt Becky. Perhaps Uncle Jesse’s wife from Full House? Not certain. While I was there, I was entered into a raffle, and while they were announcing the winners, I prayed like hell that I wouldn’t win anything, because I need stuff like I need to lose more brain cells.

I totally won.

I won a prize generously donated by Cold Stone Creamery. Pranksters, I won free ice cream for an entire year. A YEAR of ICE CREAM. See, Cold Stone loves charity. I love charity, too (shut your face, Pranksters) and they’re a huge supporter of the Make A Wish Foundation.

CHARITY, FUCK YEAH.

September is Make A Wish Month, Pranksters, and if you go into Cold Stone September 30th between 5-8 PM, you get a free 3oz of Kate’s Creation. Kate’s Wish was to create the World’s Largest Ice Cream Social. Cold Stone? Made that happen. Turns out Cold Stone has been supporting Make A Wish foundation for years.

Ice Cream + Charity = WIN.

I’m highly uncomfortable accepting such a prize. SO, Pranksters, I’m giving it away. For charity. Originally, I was going to have you pull a John C. Mayer** for charity, but when I think “charity” I don’t think “John C. Mayer.” And I am remiss to give John C. Mayer any more publicity, especially since I have effectively won at Internetting. LOOK:

I Win At Internetting!

Last night, I asked The Twitter which celebrity we should choose as our charity mascot and the only person who got multiple votes was The David Cook. That’s handy, because, Pranksters, did you know that The David Cook was my best friend as a child?

Okay, so some of you may say that The David Cook is a common name, and perhaps this The David Cook who won American Idol Season 7 is not the SAME David Cook who was my playmate in the sandbox. Perhaps this “The David Cook” isn’t the same The David Cook whose father was my dentist. Perhaps “The David Cook” is such a common name that I had a hard time deciding how to name “The David Cook” for this prank as famous people named The David Cook are about a dime a dozen.

And you would be right.

Well, since The David Cook WAS my friend as a child, I have now decided that all people named “David Cook” are my BFF for life, which is highly unfortunate for everyone else besides my former BFF David Cook, named “David Cook,” (which, a handy Google search tells me, is a lot). Besides, The David Cook has a Twitter dog. And his Twitter dog and I are getting married.

According to The David Cook’s Wikipedia page, The David Cook does a lot of charity work, plus, since we’re fake BFF and all, I’m naming this prank after him.

For The Pulling a The David Cook for Charity Prank (I wonder if Urban Dictionary will allow us to enter this one, too):

We each choose our own charity to Pull a The David Cook on. We’re choosing a charity this time, not a celebrity.

Write a blog post about your charity.

Stuff it with the words, links and SEO phrases like we did for the original John C. Mayer post and aim to get our blogs on page 1 of Google for that charity.

If you don’t have a blog, you can write a public note on Facebook with the same rules.

I’m going to link back to the John C. Mayer post for more instructions for how to trick the Google algorithm. Let me know if you have any questions.

Link your blog post back here in the comment section and I will add it to the big mother-trucking post (that post hasn’t been written since I am still frantically looking for a charity of my own).

Stumble, Digg, tweet your posts. Because, obviously.

One entry per person, but you can Pull a The David Cook for charity as often as you’d like.

You have until noon CST on October 10 to get your posts up and entered into the Big Mother Trucking Post (will go up tomorrow).

Winner will be chosen via random number generator on October 11.

The aim is to bring some awareness to these charities, their mission, and hopefully in the process, make some connections. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard through you guys about some rad charity or resource out there I didn’t know existed.

Let’s use social media for powers of wicked awesome. Plus, the potential to win FREE ICE CREAM.

Let’s get our prank on, Pranksters.

Okay, and since I am not only annoying but stupid, too, I forgot to mention that if these charities are a good fit for Band Back Together will be added to the resource pages for the site. That’s a huge win for both the charities and for Band Back Together.

P.S. I need a charity to get behind for tomorrow’s post. HALP. ME.

Charity, Fuck Yeah.

**A brief history of the Pulling a John C. Mayer Prank. It began when I wrote a blog letter to John C. Mayer wherein I begrudgingly told him that after I’d spent many years waging war against him, I hated to admit that I found him witty, clever, and hilarious. I used his name about a gazillion times, for comedic value only, and realized in doing so, I’d inadvertently beaten out his website and Wikipedia page on Google.

THEN, we turned it into an Internet Prank. I taught everyone how to use SEO to beat Google’s algorithm and we targeted celebs to Pull a John C. Mayer on. It was amazingly full of the hilarious.