John Mayer, you talentless hack
Get off my radio! John Mayer, get off my radio and go away. You are the bland ghost that haunts the airwaves, and your high school probably misses you. Go back to them, John — it's not too late to play the prom.
You are the plain yogurt in my grocer's freezer, and your abilities are snipes in the campground forest. If only I could capture them with a paper bag. Then your music would be where it belongs.
I realize that I live in Atlanta, wherefrom young Mr. Mayer burst out like a thin-walled sewer line. But regardless of location, the observations of a soulless Sensitive Boy should be played with restraint.
I nominate the overnight a.m. dial for this honor. That way, whether John spends the evening moping in his apartment (Mayer favorite pastime number one) or failing to get a girl (number two), he can still hear his adequate Dave Matthews imitation on the radio.
