John Mayer should stop making crappy breathy music and thinking that he’s God’s gift to celebrity women. All that rasping into the microphone makes him sound like he’s choking on a chicken bone (though it’s entirely possible he’s actually chokin’ the chicken; leave it to an egotistical misogynistic artiste to masturbate in the middle of a studio session), and listening to a real-time regurgitation recording kinda puts me off my feed. Then again, Taylor Swift puts me off my feed too. It’s no wonder they dated.
But I digress.
As does Mr. Mayer. Only he does it in song form and doesn’t bother to enunciate his thoughts. Case in point: Har-bray Whoa-faaa. Which is, of course, supposed to be pronounced ‘Heartbreak Warfare’. Whatever the hell that is.
Mr. Schaech is one gift from God I’d like to open.
In case you’re wondering from whence this diatribe originated… This post was written in response to trailertrashdeluxe’s challenge (which was a fabulous excuse for me to post this Playgirl-worthy pose), because he’d rather be having dreams about flying around and having sex with co-workers than composing opening lines of poetry in his sleep. I can relate.