I randomly wage war on celebrities in the same way that I marry them. Anonymously. Because, who the fuck am I?
It’s mostly on The Twitter, or randomly to people that I happen to be chatting with, and it’s one of those things that you either find endlessly endearing or endlessly annoying, and frankly, it don’t matter none, because I’m not changing. Like my hatred of Angelina Jolie. It burns, even though I’ve tried to overlook it, while I’ve gazed upon her pillowy, do-good, sanctimonious cheating whore lips, I simply can’t.
It’s the same way I’ve pledged to love, honor and repay Dexter Morgan, the murderous fictional antihero television character, for the rest of my life. We’re getting married even though he’s a fake person. It seems easier than having a real husband, you know?
Last night, in a fit of rage, I Tweeted about how John C. Mayer was bullshit. Because he is. You know why? I’LL TELL YOU.
I had to listen to that fucking, “Your Body is a Wonderland,” song for years on the radio and I am telling you that it is one of the worst, most annoying songs I have ever heard in my entire life. You know what’s a wonderland? BEATING THE SHIT OUT OF SOMEONE WHO WROTE SUCH A WHINY PIECE OF DOUCHE ROCK. Like John C. Mayer!
*bam* *thwack* Whose body is a wonderland now, bitch?
Every girl I knew was all, “oh my GOD that song is soo….amazing. It’s like he just…read my mind! I love John C. Mayer and want to make babies with him! They’ll be sensitive babies, like John C. Mayer!!!!” Then, they’d cry.
And then my head exploded into a pulpy mass because that song is so fucking stupid.
My hatred was mighty.
Then, I was watching the Dave Chapelle show, and who should appear, but John C. Mayer himself. And…John C. Mayer, he was funny.
Pranksters, I don’t need to tell you that this enraged me further. I don’t think that someone who writes, like John C. Mayer did: “One pair of candy lips and your bubblegum tongue, uh uh uh,” is allowed to be funny.
But I let it go as a fluke. Dave Chappelle drugged him. That was the only explanation I could think of that made any sense. Or maybe it was osmosis–particles of funny went from an area of higher concentration (Dave Chappelle) to an area of lower concentration (John C. Mayer). Either way, I put it out of my head.
And when “Heart of Life” came out and I heard it for the first time, I had to download it in super-stealthy secret mode. How could I possibly tell the world that I liked a song that had been written by someone who I’d called “as horrible as mayonnaise?”
Simply put, I couldn’t.
The icing on the John C. Mayer cake came when I finally ate my piece of humble pie and signed up for a Twitter account. I’d been mocking Twitter as the most worthless, narcissistic thing since blogging for months. I mean, I cried, how could anyone really want to know when I went to Target? Was I supposed to say things like, “I have to take a shit, PLZ RT?”
It was probably a full year before I realized that certain celebrities also had Twitter accounts. Despite my aforementioned Television Husbands, I don’t actually follow many celebrities, mostly because I’m not a starfucker, but at some point, it came to my attention that John C. Mayer had a Twitter account.
A-ha! I cried. Victory will be MINE!
Most of the celeb accounts are pretty vanilla OR they show that the star is a blithering moron, and this, I was sure, would show me that John C. Mayer had bad grammar! John C. Mayer must spell “a lot” as “alot.” Then I could go back to feeling smugly superior about how much better I was than John C. Mayer and all would be right with the world.
Then, the unthinkable happened. My world came crashing down around me. I read John C. Mayer’s Twitter page. And JOHN C. MAYER WAS WITTY.
I could hardly tolerate the humiliation of knowing that my fake archenemy John C. Mayer was smart. And funny. And motherfucking witty.
It wasn’t fair! I wailed, that someone so douchy could be so fucking witty. But there it was, in 140 characters or less. John C. Mayer. Witty. Funny. Pithy. Smart.
John C. Mayer was someone I could see myself being friends with.
But last night, I went on a Twitter Rampage:
I routinely go through and block celebrities who won’t know or care that I block them because really, why the fuck not? I block and reblock Justin Beaver constantly.
Pants are totally overrated. Like condiments. And John C. Mayer.
Well, karma is a motherfucker. Not only did my server die, then, this morning, John C. Mayer broke my car. The TRANSMISSION on my car.
So, John C. Mayer, I’m sorry. I think you’re fantastically witty and terribly funny and it pains me to say that I’d love to be friends with you.
Even if that song sucks fucking ass.
And then? There’s this (I didn’t get this today, though, because John C. Mayer still hates me), in response to the blogger who stole all those posts from people, including my Mother’s Day post.
So that? Is proof that sometimes you do win.
Even when you piss off John C. Mayer.