‘Twas two days after Christmas and all through the house,
The overwhelming presence of a greasy haired louse.
I couldn’t be certain, and my thoughts couldn’t be clear,
But I was filled with a sense of “fuck, John Mayer is here.”
I looked through the cupboards, I rummaged the blankets,
I thought I found him once, but it was just Julian Casablancas.
“Julian Casablancas, what the hell are you doing here?”
“What? Oh hey. Just spreading Christmas cheer.”
“Well…okay. You can leave now. Go ahead and head west.”
“Cool, thanks. By the way, rhyming blankets and Casablancas was tenuous at best.”
Everyone’s a critic.
So, on my search continued, all day and all night.
When I opened my pantry and jumped with pure fright.
There he sat, splay legged, eating my chips.
“What are you doing, John Mayer?” I shouted, hands on my hips.
He looked at me, semi-confused,
Suit rumpled like his famous coif, face mildly bemused.
“I thought you’d be happy. The chicks often are.
I wine them and dine them and drive them in my car.”
“It’s a Prius. I’m pretty into the environment or whatever. Let’s bang.”
“Santa John Mayer. I need you to leave.
This is weird on many levels, and my chips I do grieve.”
I mean, they were the sweet potato beet ones. THOSE AREN’T CHEAP, SANTA JOHN MAYER.
“It’s odd that you’re here, and you’re making me uncomfortable.
Go home to Katy Perry, her bosom so humpable.”
Baaaaybbbyyyy you’re a fiiiiiiiiiiiiiirewoooooooooooooork…
“Don’t send me back there. I am literally begging you. I can only take so much.”
“I don’t care, John Mayer. You’ve got to go.
My husband is coming and you’re a notable ho.”
And then he said to me, “Courtney, isn’t Christmas about more than just stuff?
Isn’t about caring, singing and, dare I say, love?”
And from the trashcan he pulled it, his trusty guitar.
How it got in there, I’ve no idea. This whole thing’s bizarre.
As he began to strum, his heartfeltest tune,
He warbled, lips curled, “we’ve got the afternoon…”
“NO, JOHN MAYER. I SAID SHUT IT DOWN.
Take your guitar, your Santa hat, you manipulative clown.”
And just when I thought things couldn’t get worse,
I glanced down and saw the creature who makes my blood burst.
“GOD DAMMIT, TAYLOR SWIFT. Why are you here?”
“OH, YOU KNOW, JUST SPREADING MY SUNSHINE AND SPARKLES ALL UP IN HERE.”
She looked at John, hope in her eyes, tepid hopefulness stewing.
“Oh. Hey…Taylor…how are you doing?”
“I’M GREAT JOHN, I DON’T EVEN NEED YOU ANYMORE AND I’M AWESOME.”
“…That’s great to hear—” “YEAH I’M SUPER DUPER MAGICAL PETAL BLOSSOM.”
“I DON’T NEED YOU AT ALL, I’M WITH THAT GUY FROM ONE DIRECTION.
SO, I’M WAY OVER YOU AND YOUR ADMITTEDLY RACIST ERECTION.”
“That’s awesome, Taylor, I’m very happy for you—”
“OH MY GOD, JOHNNY MAY MAY, I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU, TOO!”
“WE’LL GET MARRIED AND HAVE BABIES AND HOLD HANDS AND FRENCH KISS.
OUR FIRST DAUGHTER WILL BE NAMED DEWDROP SHIMMERBELLBLISS.”
John Mayer looked at me, fear in his eyes.
“Well, on that note, I better be going, you guys.”
He picked up his satchel and adjusted his hat,
“Thanks for the chips, Court, and…Taylor…good luck with all that.”
“I’m mentally writing a song about us riding a unicorn to Candyland.”
And, with that, he rose up the chimney and out of my home,
Where he rode his magical guitar to the sky, free to roam.
“Merry Christmas to all, you mothers, you fathers!
And by the way, I totally inseminated your daughters.”