|Photo illustration by John Seaborn Gray|
|The chicken is Photoshopped. The swimsuit, sadly, isn't.|
Guess what you're missing if you haven't picked up the latest copy of Rolling Stone
? Go on, guess. All right, we'll tell you: according to their website, you're missing the lowdown on John Mayer's "journey from bedroom guitar player to the most angst-ridden playboy in rock." They've quarantined the Rocks Off wing of Houston Press
HQ because all morning we've been making sport of reading that sentence out loud and throwing up on each other.
Admit it, you can feel the bile tickling the back of your own tonsils right now. What makes John Mayer such a sad sack, you ask? Is it drug addiction? Family problems? The death of a loved one? Oh no. It seems our plucky, hapless pop star underdog is addicted to jerking off. This comes as no surprise to anyone who has ever heard one of his aimless, noodling guitar solos, but evidently Mayer is "the new generation of masturbator."
He goes on to say, "I've seen it all. Before I make coffee, I've seen more butt holes than a proctologist does in a week... I have masturbated myself out of serious problems in my life. The phone doesn't pick up because I'm masturbating." Between this and being unable to get over breaking up with Jennifer Aniston, we've got to ask: when is someone finally going to cut this dude a break?
Here we were, feeling sorry for ourselves for being in massive financial debt and driving around in a car with brakes looser than a 90-year-old with Irritable Bowel Syndrome's stool after a night spent drinking Bloody Marys and alfredo sauce, when along comes Mayer and his chronicles of the hardships of the 32-year-old shirtless rock-star millionaire marathon wanker who has spent the past ten years fabulously rich and adored by countless WASP babes who've decided Dave Matthews is "too ethnic."
The worst thing, when going through an existential crisis of this magnitude, is to feel alone. As a gesture of comfort and goodwill to our friend Mr. Mayer, we've compiled a list of other musicians who, like him, are no strangers to a rousing jerk-off session.
Just by looking at him, you should be able to tell that this is a man who has posted pictures of himself slapping his cock around on the internet. For whatever reason, a few years back Navarro decided that what his image really needed was for him to post a bunch of pictures featuring the erstwhile Jane's Addiction guitarist fondling himself. And just think, before the advent of the Internet, he had no one to share this with.
Rocks Off imagines a lonely, windowless van, prowling the dusty southern California landscape in the 1980's. Whenever a group of schoolgirls is spotted, the van comes to a halt and out jumps a man with a piteously swollen jaw crowned by a goatee that smells like warm leather and bleach, waving his filthy fuckstick around and grinning like a jack-in-the-box designed by an ether-binging Truman Capote. We suspect this is the reason that, even today, Girl Scout cookies are unavailable in SoCal.