John Mayer, Cannibal
A hallucination brought on by mushrooms, John Mayer's illness, and the Huffington Post.
Reading the Huffington Post a while ago I came across the story--the horrific story--of a mixed martial arts fighter who did mushrooms with his buddy and some time in the night he wound up cutting his friend's heart out and cooking it. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/06/01/jarrod-wyatt-murder-detai_n_596263.html
(The comments section of that story are a frightening, toxic hoot, by the way. Highly recommended if you're looking for a cheap laugh that will haunt you for the rest of your life.)
Was it the illegal drugs? Was it the mushrooms? Or was he a sociopath who would have done this one way or another anyway? Was it steroids? Are all martial artists savage fiends from the start?
Anyway...
I shook myself free of that morbid, ghastly story and continued perusing headlines. I came across what would turn out to be an innocuous headline upon a second reading:
John Mayer Sick: Mystery Illness Causes Cancellation of European Shows
Except after reading about the guy who ate his best bud's heart out, I read the headline as:
John Mayer Sick: Mystery Illness Causes Cannibalization on European Shows
Sick, indeed.
And, I mean, it made sense at first. I mean, the pressure and all, of being a rock star, and he had that little verbal implosion a while back in the form of an interview in which he discussed his masturbation habits between dishing out some rather tasteless racial ... thoughts. I could see that perhaps, given the way he ate his own heart out with guilt and remorse following the great tasteless interview, perhaps John Mayer had been stricken at one or more of his European stops.... Madrid, say, or any German city... and in a fit of Ozzy-bathead-biting-esque concert madness, I could see it.
John Mayer had simply pulled some young fan from the audience, sliced open his chest with the same virtuosity and precision his guitar playing is known for, and ate the guy's heart right there on stage. All along sustaining that soulful, hangdog look in his eyes, and making you think in the back of your mind of how hot he must look masturbating. Because he's a star!
I imagine the next night, at his next gig... perhaps Vienna, perhaps Milan... John Mayer apologized. For several minutes while his all-black back up band just kept repeating the same eight bars. Thought bubbles would appear above their heads.
"What's he apologizing for this time?"
"I don't know. I stopped paying attention to him a long, long time ago, shit."
"John Mayer, cannibal rock star, 21st century soulful man, is sorry, people. He's sorry."
"Can we get going with this song now? And hope he doesn't eat some poor fan's heart out again tonight?"
Finally, that night, John Mayer would finish his apology and they would play another show without incident; but the next night things would turn out differently and John Mayer would snap again. He'd say something about sniffing Pam Grier's panties, stolen from the set of some picture, express his terrible guilt for this, and then he'd pull some fresh-faced 23 year old onto the stage, slice him open with maniacal, almost Johnny Depp-like glee, and eat his heart out right there on stage.
This time the police would have to be called. Rock Stars Who Are Sorry are typically allowed one cannibalistic fan killing per tour in Europe, and John Mayer had crossed that line. Now he was going to face the heat.
But of course he'd have to be allowed to continue his tour, what would Roman Polanski think? And sure, perhaps he could hold off eating a fan's heart out on stage for two, maybe three, shows, but four? Once a rock star gets a taste for fan heart or publicity, this blood thirst is a pretty difficult thing to stop. Security would be as tight as the Reverend Phelp's asshole by this time, of course, as is often the case when you have a serial rock star as cannibal killer. It's for the children, you see. For the future. They bring out the best for them.
And that night, the night of the fourth concert, would play out for most concert goers and officials like the third act of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. From fans to police to concert producers and promoters, from roadies to groupies to bass players to the lowliest minimum wage security guard, all would be waiting for that bomb to go off, the one Alfred Hitchcock, or in this case, the God of Madness and Soul Music, had planted in the drawer back in the first act.
'Will John Mayer choose one of us tonight?' Fans will think. `Will John Mayer eat one of our hearts tonight?'
The musicians will think: `Will Herbie Hancock call me for his late summer tour? Please?'
And of course every camera phone in the house will be at the ready to record it. John Mayer, his fingers smoking on the guitar strings all night, his voice wretching up the strangled echoes of musical madness through the ages, will suddenly start talking, and the musicians will look at one another and hold the song in stasis for a while while John Mayer talks...
He'll apologize for his addiction to Pam Grier's panties and remark upon the Texas textbook controversy, confess to envying Rand Paul's free spirit, and then he'll lunge between two stunned security guards and before they can do anything to stop it, John Mayer will pluck another hapless-yet-willing-for-the-camera fame virgin from the crowd and up onto the stage, slice his chest open with that same stunning quickness, all within two beats of the band's dreary "hold music" measures, and he will eat, my friends. John Mayer will enjoy his still-beating feast.
Tears running down John Mayer's face, blood dripping from his mouth, as he's dragged away he blurts out a quick dissertation comparing the complete history of the cumshot in heterosexual porn with the complete works of Ayn Rand, yells, "Discuss!" to the crowd, and is whisked away to be detained in some lonely cell between a terrorist on one side, and a blood diamond exporter on the other.
Both of whom will leave him the fuck alone.
He's John Mayer, after all. He's not just a cannibal. He's a star!
Reading the Huffington Post a while ago I came across the story--the horrific story--of a mixed martial arts fighter who did mushrooms with his buddy and some time in the night he wound up cutting his friend's heart out and cooking it. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/06/01/jarrod-wyatt-murder-detai_n_596263.html
(The comments section of that story are a frightening, toxic hoot, by the way. Highly recommended if you're looking for a cheap laugh that will haunt you for the rest of your life.)
Was it the illegal drugs? Was it the mushrooms? Or was he a sociopath who would have done this one way or another anyway? Was it steroids? Are all martial artists savage fiends from the start?
Anyway...
I shook myself free of that morbid, ghastly story and continued perusing headlines. I came across what would turn out to be an innocuous headline upon a second reading:
John Mayer Sick: Mystery Illness Causes Cancellation of European Shows
Except after reading about the guy who ate his best bud's heart out, I read the headline as:
John Mayer Sick: Mystery Illness Causes Cannibalization on European Shows
Sick, indeed.
And, I mean, it made sense at first. I mean, the pressure and all, of being a rock star, and he had that little verbal implosion a while back in the form of an interview in which he discussed his masturbation habits between dishing out some rather tasteless racial ... thoughts. I could see that perhaps, given the way he ate his own heart out with guilt and remorse following the great tasteless interview, perhaps John Mayer had been stricken at one or more of his European stops.... Madrid, say, or any German city... and in a fit of Ozzy-bathead-biting-esque concert madness, I could see it.
John Mayer had simply pulled some young fan from the audience, sliced open his chest with the same virtuosity and precision his guitar playing is known for, and ate the guy's heart right there on stage. All along sustaining that soulful, hangdog look in his eyes, and making you think in the back of your mind of how hot he must look masturbating. Because he's a star!
I imagine the next night, at his next gig... perhaps Vienna, perhaps Milan... John Mayer apologized. For several minutes while his all-black back up band just kept repeating the same eight bars. Thought bubbles would appear above their heads.
"What's he apologizing for this time?"
"I don't know. I stopped paying attention to him a long, long time ago, shit."
"John Mayer, cannibal rock star, 21st century soulful man, is sorry, people. He's sorry."
"Can we get going with this song now? And hope he doesn't eat some poor fan's heart out again tonight?"
Finally, that night, John Mayer would finish his apology and they would play another show without incident; but the next night things would turn out differently and John Mayer would snap again. He'd say something about sniffing Pam Grier's panties, stolen from the set of some picture, express his terrible guilt for this, and then he'd pull some fresh-faced 23 year old onto the stage, slice him open with maniacal, almost Johnny Depp-like glee, and eat his heart out right there on stage.
This time the police would have to be called. Rock Stars Who Are Sorry are typically allowed one cannibalistic fan killing per tour in Europe, and John Mayer had crossed that line. Now he was going to face the heat.
But of course he'd have to be allowed to continue his tour, what would Roman Polanski think? And sure, perhaps he could hold off eating a fan's heart out on stage for two, maybe three, shows, but four? Once a rock star gets a taste for fan heart or publicity, this blood thirst is a pretty difficult thing to stop. Security would be as tight as the Reverend Phelp's asshole by this time, of course, as is often the case when you have a serial rock star as cannibal killer. It's for the children, you see. For the future. They bring out the best for them.
And that night, the night of the fourth concert, would play out for most concert goers and officials like the third act of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. From fans to police to concert producers and promoters, from roadies to groupies to bass players to the lowliest minimum wage security guard, all would be waiting for that bomb to go off, the one Alfred Hitchcock, or in this case, the God of Madness and Soul Music, had planted in the drawer back in the first act.
'Will John Mayer choose one of us tonight?' Fans will think. `Will John Mayer eat one of our hearts tonight?'
The musicians will think: `Will Herbie Hancock call me for his late summer tour? Please?'
And of course every camera phone in the house will be at the ready to record it. John Mayer, his fingers smoking on the guitar strings all night, his voice wretching up the strangled echoes of musical madness through the ages, will suddenly start talking, and the musicians will look at one another and hold the song in stasis for a while while John Mayer talks...
He'll apologize for his addiction to Pam Grier's panties and remark upon the Texas textbook controversy, confess to envying Rand Paul's free spirit, and then he'll lunge between two stunned security guards and before they can do anything to stop it, John Mayer will pluck another hapless-yet-willing-for-the-camera fame virgin from the crowd and up onto the stage, slice his chest open with that same stunning quickness, all within two beats of the band's dreary "hold music" measures, and he will eat, my friends. John Mayer will enjoy his still-beating feast.
Tears running down John Mayer's face, blood dripping from his mouth, as he's dragged away he blurts out a quick dissertation comparing the complete history of the cumshot in heterosexual porn with the complete works of Ayn Rand, yells, "Discuss!" to the crowd, and is whisked away to be detained in some lonely cell between a terrorist on one side, and a blood diamond exporter on the other.
Both of whom will leave him the fuck alone.
He's John Mayer, after all. He's not just a cannibal. He's a star!