Let Me Be Your Girl, John Mayer!

By YourTango

Let Me Be Your Girl, John Mayer!

Oh, take me, John Mayer!  Lead me into your lair of tell-all romance and cheesy pop songwriting and show me what it means to be alive.  Your sensuous lips, your earnest attempts at artistry, your lover man rep have failed as yet to pique my curiosity.  Until now, when I can no longer turn the rest of the world up loud enough to drown out reports of your manic, ex-girlfriend dissing Tweets or your face harassing me from magazine covers.  You have wanted to imprint your name into the nation’s psyche and you have succeeded, by God.  You have seeped into my brain.  You are in my soul.  

First, you were generous enough to spread your luscious seed among the most magnificent females our culture has on offer: Jennifer Love Hewitt, Jessica Simpson, Lindsay Lohan.  Goddesses all!  Next, you charmed the Queen of Broken Hearts, the unfortunate Jennifer Aniston.  And we have been lucky to have you share with us every detail of the affair, including its tragic end brought on by your valiant quest to find the “Joshua Tree of vaginas” and your “tweeting too much.”  Indeed, dear John, the world is a cruel place for lovers. 

And now, the admiration you have garnered for your records, your multitude of talents, even your philanthropic gestures has been buried by your douche-baggery.  In a Rolling Stone article from January, you admitted women have begun to consider “blowing me off [as] the new sucking me off.”  You let us in on the relentlessness of your own masturbation, how the act is a “hot whirlpool for my brain” and that you’ve masturbated yourself “out of serious problems.”  

In a recent issue of Playboy, you tell us how much you love porn and how the immensely gifted and unmistakably Venusian Jessica Simpson was your drug, a “sexual napalm” of a woman you say you wanted to “snort,” a celestial being for whom you would “start selling all my shit just to keep fucking.”   

I can’t understand why any woman would repel your advances.  You, John Mayer, are a dream. 

But I must admit you’ve hurt me, dear friend.  When asked about your affairs with black women, you said, “I don’t think I open myself to it.  My dick is sort of like a white supremacist.

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