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.

A 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).

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.”

John C. Mayer, you are providing the Internet with more happiness than I’d ever thought possible from someone who emotes to his guitar and writes songs about wonderlands and bodies and previously made Aunt Becky want to vomit. I hope that you know, John C. Mayer, that in the minds of 95% of people I know, John C. Mayer, you and I will be forever linked. That, John C. Mayer, is your legacy. Apparently, it is mine, too.

I only wish, John C. Mayer, that I had chosen a better, more douchy target to use for Pulling a John C. Mayer, like Dave Matthews, whom I still hate with the fire of a thousand flaming STD’s. Because the more I think about you, John C. Mayer, the more I really do like you.

So, Pranksters, we’re still going strong with the John C. Mayering of the Internet. How could we not? (I’m still adding posts to the original John C. Mayer call for posts page, so please, leave comments, links and track-backs if you have not).

—————-

I’ve gotten a couple of nervous comments about the new site, Band Back Together, and I wanted to make sure that you knew, Pranksters, that you are personally invited by me, Your Aunt Becky, to write there. A lot of the submissions that we’ve received thus far have been of stories that are very tragic and heartbreaking and I’m proud to have them over there as I think that the site is going to do so much good.

But.

I want you to know that even if your problems, your stories, don’t feel like they stack-up, and you don’t feel like they are as important as the ones you have read, you are wrong. I cannot begin to tell you how wrong you are.

Because you never know who is on the other end of that Google box, searching desperately for someone to connect with, someone who may have exactly the same problem that you face, and whether or not it’s “stacking up” against someone else, that’s not going to matter at all to the person on the other end.

And frankly, it doesn’t matter to anyone else either. This isn’t a Pain Olympics. There’s no judgment of who is more worthy of our sympathy and support. There’s no prize for Saddest Story.

We want your stories. We want you.

We’re none of us alone, remember. That includes you, not just the person who is deeper in the shit than you may be. Please, stop worrying about whether or not you deserve to be on the site because if you feel like you want to be there, you already belong there.

There’s light in every word, every single word you write, and somewhere, someone is reading what you say. You never know who is connecting with you and who you are helping when you open that blank document and start typing out your story. If one person – one single person – reads one post on the entire site and decides to get help, feels less alone, or makes a positive step, you know what?

We’ve done something good.

And there’s no way of measuring which post that is. It may be the one floating around your head. The one you’re afraid to write because you don’t think it’s enough. It is enough, Prankster.

So GO. And Write Hard, my Pranksters. Believe me, we want your stories. All of them. Old stuff, new stuff, any stuff you want to give us. We want you.

And while you’re there, please, pass on the word about the site.

———————–

Friday, I sold my car.

Not my Honda Odyssey or my CR-V, but my Acura.

I’d been meaning to sell it for years. It’s been sitting in the garage, unused, since Alex was born. It was impractical for driving my two crotch parasites around. Shoving three of them in there was laughable.

But this was more than a car for me.

I am a wanderer. This car was my lifeline.

Nights when I couldn’t sleep, it was me and my red car, nothing but endless black sky above and the road slipping by under my wheels, the hum of the engine keeping me company as I shifted seamlessly from second to third, third to fourth and finally fourth to fifth gear. The car and I were one.

The discs in my CD changer would flip quietly to the next as they each finished their set and we’d drive on into the night, wandering. Just me on my red horse. The nights were silent then, peaceful, the green glow of the dashboard my only company as the wheels turned on and on, the road whispering, beckoning, just a little further, kid, what’s down here, let’s take this right, you haven’t been here before.

I had a baby. Another. Yet another. The nights were complicated, full of colicky babies and ghosts. My car cried from the garage, come on kid, let’s go out, let’s take the night back, reclaim it for our own, let’s wander, just you and me, for old time’s sake. I’m gassed up and ready for you, kid, and you need me. I know it.

And I did. I still do.

That life, I miss that life more than anything. The wanderer is in my bones. Staying home, being Mommy, that’s something I do, but it’s not what my soul cries for at night, when the hours yawn on, the numbers on the clock seem to stand still and the road beckons me like a siren.

The van is a van. The CR-V is a truck. They won’t know me. They can’t wander. They don’t hug the road like a tight red dress, screaming with pleasure as I power-shift from second to fourth. They’ll never beg me hey kid, take the long way or go down that road down that way just to see what’s down there.

Eventually, I’ll get another car and I’ll start wandering again. I can’t deny myself forever; it’s in my blood.

The red car went to someone who will love it and for that I am happy. But my heart, my heart is sad.

It still longs to wander.

————

I finally got the links to my Ford Story: What Women Want interview, and it’s up over here, at We Know Awesome, if you want to take a listen. If I sound douchy, blame John C. Mayer and the tornado.

So, today I have a guest post, which is good for you, Pranksters, because you can get some time away from the constant John C. Mayer-ing (no you can’t) and work on pulling your OWN John C. Mayer Prank after you read one of the funniest guest posts I’ve had. I’m not just saying that because John C. Mayer and I found this after I was all, “dude, where was that super-funny guest post I had?” and then I found it in my folder that says “GUEST POSTS, MOTHERFUCKER” because that’s where John C. Mayer and I put guest posts.

It was too obvious.

But you need to read about the other Pranksters Pulling A John C Mayer here.

I have fallen to #4 in my John C Mayer quest to be #1 (damn you John C. Mayer’s publicist!) but am getting screenshots (email me one when you get to #1 or on Page 1 of Google) and reports that you are all victorious in your quest to be NUMBER ONE! when you Pull a John C. Mayer!

But better than that, Pranksters, look at what Prankster Kayde did.

I’d tried to get Urban Dictionary to add it myself, because frankly, they add fucking everything, and yet, uh, NO. Kadye PREVAILED, though, because she is full of the awesome.

You know what else is awesome? Band Back Together, the new group site. In a week, we have now 128 posts up and counting. It’s pretty amazing over there. Now, we have an Ask The Band section, too, which is a place to ask questions of the whole INTERNET and John C. Mayer. So, please, come have a look around. Stay awhile. Let me know what needs to be done over there.

I got a new button made because the other one was borky:

<a href="http://www.bandbacktogether.com/"><img src="http://www.bandbacktogether.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/button150.jpg"></a>

Then, FINALLY, my Toy With Me column, about Low Libido in Men, something I KNOW John C. Mayer and his Magic Peen don’t have any issue with.

And here I will shut my whore mouth and let my darling friend (not John C. Mayer) Meredith, who’s body is a wonderland and her awesomely awesome guest post which defies gravity take over.

——————-

This isn’t Aunt Becky, yo. This is Meredith (aka Mrs. Call Me Crazy). I just wanted to introduce myself and say, “Hello, Pranksters!”

Or would it be more fun with a British accent? ‘Ello, Pranksters (like ‘ello, Gov’na).

That was bloody fun! Rightio!

Isn’t it fun to speak with accents when you’re drinking? Do you think that’s how Madonna started with her fake accent? As I write this, I am drinking a Bass beer, so I will be British. When I drink vodka I am the drunken Russian hooker who is looking to become the next mail order bride (for John C. Mayer). You get the picture.

Anyway, I am so flattered that Aunt Becky has asked yours truly to post something on her blog. I feel incredibly famous. Like Amy Winehouse (but with bigger tits and flatter hair and less heroin-y). I’m really from Ohio, so I am not used to this kind of attention. I feel like I have won some sort of award (like John C. Mayer). Like I should be making an acceptance speech, “I would like to thank the two people who actually read my blog for stopping by and supporting me here. Hi Mom & Dad! Hit the rock, Jesus.” There, I feel better.

Mommy Wants Vodka is the best blog name I’ve ever heard. I just love it, love it, love it. When I see it, I am so jealous that I kind of want to punch Aunt Becky in the face. Why didn’t I think of a cool name for my blog? John C. Mayer would have helped me more.

So in honor of Aunt Becky’s spectacular ability to name things, I have interviewed a whole bunch of mothers for this post.

I have asked each mother, “What has your child done that has made you want vodka?”

These were my favorite the best responses…

1. My 2-year old stuck a turd up his nose. I would not take him to the hospital with a ball of poop up his nose, so my husband and I had to pick it out. He was gagging and throwing up the whole time from the smell.

2. I walked into my bedroom to find my son rubbing my Silver Bullet on his head. It was on and vibrating. I just walked away because I didn’t want to draw attention to it. He was 10. One day he’ll figure out what that thing was, and he’ll be very grossed out.

3. My son was potty training and as he was watching his big brother pee in the potty, he put his hands in the pee stream.

4. We took the iPod away (did it have John C. Mayer on it?) from our teenage daughter. She locked herself in our bathroom and refused to come out until we gave it back to her. Teenagers are crazy. And they can hold out for hours.

5. My 6-year old told another kid at school to “go fuck yourself”.

6. My son stuck his finger in our dog’s butt. Often.

7. After buying a bouncy ball out of a vending machine, my daughter bounced it into the plate of a fellow patron at our favorite restaurant. Food went flying everywhere. The lady whose dish was ruined cussed me out and told me I was a terrible parent. I cussed her out as well, but backed down as she pushed her chair out from the table and came at me with her cane.

8. Our teenage daughter, who forgot to open the garage door, drove her car right through it. She totaled the car and caused a $10,000 homeowner’s insurance claim. (John C. Mayer)

9. My husband was following a school bus on his way to work. There was a boy on the bus who was throwing books around, punching other kids, and wouldn’t stay in his seat. At one point, the boy turned around and looked at my husband. It was our son.

10. My toddler dumped a gallon of bleach on the living room carpet. Homeowner’s insurance doesn’t cover that. (John C. Mayer would have)

11. My twin girls decided to make Daddy’s new Saab a playground. They spent the afternoon climbing up on the trunk, jumping on the roof, and sliding down the windshield. This resulted in $3,000 worth of damage.

12. My fifth grader would forge my signature perfectly. I figured this out at parent-teacher conferences when the teacher said that she thought I knew about the in-school suspension and missed homework assignments.

13. My oldest daughter taught my youngest son to wave at Truck Drivers with his middle finger from the backseat. This went on for too long before I figured it out. I am sure people thought we were whack jobs as they passed us on the highway.

14. My son dumped baby powder all over his entire bedroom. It took almost a year to stop coming across baby powder.

15. My son smeared Ben Gay all over our hallway. It smelled like a nursing home in our house for weeks.

16. Our teenager shaved off his brother’s eyebrow while he slept. My poor son was ridiculed for weeks at school as it grew back in.

17. We were asleep when our 2 year old slipped out the front door at 6:00 a.m. and began walking down the street. The neighbor saw him and brought him back home.

18. Permanent marker will not come off of your leather couch. (Like John C. Mayer)

19. My teenage daughter sent naked pictures of herself to two boys on Facebook. They went viral around her high school. I found out when the police called me.

20. My nose has been broken. Not once, not twice, but three times due to being head butted during diaper changes. Thanks, Baby!

All right, Pranksters, now it’s your turn. Tell me, why does Mommy Want Vodka at your house? (besides John C. Mayer)

Oh, and if you like me, check me out at Life’s Crazy Joke. If you didn’t like me, Aunt Becky is coming back real soon (she lives here and stuff).

Cheerio, Pranksters! *in my best British accent*

Keep on keeping on with your John C. Mayer-ing of the Internet, Pranksters. I’ll be adding links all day.

(any additions of John C. Mayer were not of the original post)