Dear John Mayer,

Why are you torturing me?  I’m fairly certain I’ve done nothing to offend you.  I couldn’t even have cut you off in traffic unless you were driving incognito in the North suburbs, and what are the odds of that?  Hell, I even defended “You Body is A Wonderland” when it first came out (though I would have called it “Your Body is A Discovery Zone”, but maybe they didn’t have DZ where you grew up).  I half admired your ability to get conservative lite rock stations to play a song so overtly about fuh-kin (as Sarah Silverman would pronounce it).  Granted, this was before I was subjected to lite rock on a regular basis and realized that all they play is songs about fuh-kin (and fuh-kin’s pansy cousin, “making love”).

The point is, I don’t see why you feel the need to torture me on a daily basis.  I come in to work, and you’re whining about your heartbreak warfare.  I file old papers, and you’re whining about how all you ever do is say goodbye.  Gag.  I turn on the TV, and you’re urging Hallmark shoppers to say what they need to say.  Gag me with a spoon.  I wake up in the morning, and your awful melodies are lodged in my brain.  I never asked to memorize your songs, Mr. Mayer.  It’s not my fault my brain picks up jingles quickly. 

It’s the same reason I have it in for South Dakota for terrorizing me with their tourism jingle.  Completely unnecessary.  I don’t even live in South Dakota!  Mind you, I have nothing against our Black Hills neighbors (we save our border-sharing antagonism for those cheeseheads in Wisconsin, thank you very much), but I’m baffled as to why SD has suddenly decided to inundate us with tourism ads.  Or maybe it’s just me.  Sure enough, two bites into my waffles this morning and the commercial’s on again.  You are like that South Dakota jingle, Mr. Mayer, only less catchy. 

So I’m begging you.  Please, please leave me alone.  Go sing your sappy songs and philander with starlets somewhere else.  Rolling Stone tells me you’re an excellent guitar player.  If this is true, why don’t you prove it by shutting your cakehole and plugging in your amp?  And don’t you EVER think about “covering” another Tom Petty song (I put that in quotes because he didn’t cover it so much as shit all over it)!  I’m saying this for your own good, but mostly for my mental health.  Thanks for listening.