Pop Rocks: Dear John...Mayer

I'm sorry, but this isn't working out.

I think I speak for bloggers everywhere when I say: we had a great thing going. Every so often you'd tweet something borderline repulsive about farts or Miley Cyrus, and we'd dutifully respond. Usually with some sort of mock indignation about "TMI" and then by calling you a douchebag. Then you'd appear on TMZ and complain about all the negative attention, which would only set us off again. It was a comfortable cycle of mutual self-abuse, and everyone was happy.

But then you had to go and do that Playboy interview.

At first, it almost seemed like a gift from the gods to every "kid" who ever called you names on his "terrible blog" (your words, not ours). By our count, the expression "douche bag" was used 11 times, and there was reliable mention of bidets and your compulsive need to tweet/discuss every conceivable detail of your personal life. This would, unfortunately, come back to bite you on the ass:

MAYER: Someone asked me the other day, "What does it feel like now to have a hood pass?" And by the way, it's sort of a contradiction in terms, because if you really had a hood pass, you could call it a nigger pass. Why are you pulling a punch and calling it a hood pass if you really have a hood pass? But I said, "I can't really have a hood pass. I've never walked into a restaurant, asked for a table and been told, 'We're full.'"

PLAYBOY: It is true; a lot of rappers love you. You recorded with Common and Kanye West, played live with Jay-Z.

MAYER: What is being black? It's making the most of your life, not taking a single moment for granted. Taking something that's seen as a struggle and making it work for you, or you'll die inside. Not to say that my struggle is like the collective struggle of black America. But maybe my struggle is similar to one black dude's.

You can take the boy out of Bridgeport...

It was bad enough you dropped the dreaded n-word in an interview not directly related to the history of racial epithets, but when the interviewer tried to steer you back on track by alluding to your cred in the hip-hop community (maybe so you could fall back on the old "I have lots of black friends" defense) you shoveled another few hundred cubic feet of dirt out of the hole you'd already dug by speaking with authority about the "black experience."

Your pathological inability to shut the fuck up was always one of the things that made our relationship so much fun, but your little problem finally reached critical mass as you went on to discuss your "David Duke cock" and then described kissing Perez Hilton "like you hated fags," an interesting comment considering that earlier you talked about how you want to (metaphorically) fuck all your girlfriends' exes in the ass.

I probably don't need to remind you about it at this point, but some of the last few guys who felt they could toss around words like "nigger" and "fag" with impunity were named Axl Rose and Michael Richards. Neither of which have graced an Entertainment Weekly cover in a while.

So we've got to end it. Your self-imposed exile from Twitter and meltdown in Nashville might have carried more weight if they'd come before everyone started piling on. You could've issued a swift, pre-emptive apology, put your head down, and continued making your unique brand of adult contemporary "blues" music and -- possibly -- put the incident behind you.

But that didn't happen, and now we have to turn our back on you. Because what was once a relationship based on shared goofiness -- like two friends going to parties and taking turns doing naked keg stands -- has now become one of one-sided embarrassment, like when one of the friends gets drunk, paws through the host's underwear drawer, and tries to fuck the dog.

Douchebags we can handle, John...dog fuckers, not so much.

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Peter Vonder Haar writes movie reviews for the Houston Press and the occasional book. The first three novels in the "Clarke & Clarke Mysteries" - Lucky Town, Point Blank, and Empty Sky - are out now.
Contact: Pete Vonder Haar