I never heard of Mayer until I arrived at the place I’m at now. It seemed like everyone loved the guy. And they all referred to him as “John Mayer.” “Oh, I love John Mayer!” “Oh, you love John Mayer, too?” “I would love an orgy with John Mayer!” This is all I heard. I could only wonder who the hell John Mayer was. Then, I heard his music, and I didn’t understand it. There was no skill to it. Nothing amazing about it. And, I was not moved by any of his lyrics.

Ahh, then John Mayer came here. Ahh, it was like God had come down to bless his followers. He performed his concert, and his lovers praised it. “Oh, how he played that soft shit so well!” Following the concert, plenty of rumors swirled around. But, the only one I cared to believe was Johnny Boy’s response to the question “What do you think about when you write your music?” He said, “I do it for money.” Ahh, the musical prostitute is exposed! Well, good for you, Mayo. You’re making a lot of money, have groupies, and earned yourself a Best New Artist Grammy nomination (or, apparently this year, the Crappiest New Artist category).

Well, Johnny Po Poopy, hopefully you realize that you’ve annoyed plenty of people around college campuses. Your music stinks much like your underwear. Good luck with the rest of the career…I’m sure it’ll be much like “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?”…the pick of the litter one year, then shit the next. Well, Johnny Boy, there’s no such thing as a place for you in the Rock Hall, but there is a comfy seat for you in THE HALL OF CRAP SANDWICH!