John Mayer Calls His Dick A "White Supremacist"
When he isn't running one of the most self-centered Instagram accounts ever (which is saying something), John "Your Body Is A Wonderland" Mayer thinks about sex. More specifically, he thinks about what he thinks about during sex. Which is to say, other, different sex. When Playboy interviewed him in 2012, he declared that masturbation is just as good as boning to him:
Now re-read that but imagine it's a Ricky Gervais character saying it.
Yes, Mayer would rather stay home and high-five his genitals than go out and meet people. He went on to say that the best days of his entire life were when he dreamed about sex with a previous partner. When he awakens after the dream, he simply cannot keep his hands off of himself. Yes, the tables have turned -- his body has become his own wonderland. But when discussing one's own wang, why not add a little bristling racism out of nowhere?
Note: Nobody has ever asked him that.
So Mayer effectively knows what it's like to walk in a black person's shoes because he's played and recorded with several of them. The interviewer circled back around to sex (this is Playboy, after all, not Der Sturmer), asking Mayer how black women viewed him. He instead unnecessarily referred to his dick as a racist:
To be fair, David Duke does look exactly like an anthropomorphic dong.
The ever-suffering Mayer has enough to worry about, what with having to visualize previous conquests while trudging through sex with beautiful women; now he was to worry about a Mr. Hyde boner that's just lying in wait to hurl an epithet at any approaching woman of color. He is a man of struggle.
The Media's Been Printing Insufferable Lena Dunham Quotes For Decades
Lena Dunham is the embodiment of the out-of-touch, privileged liberal who can't help putting her foot in her mouth in every interview, but let's be fair: she was never given a chance to be normal. Least of all by the NYC media, which has been lapping up her bullshit like a dehydrated cat since she was literally in the sixth grade. For starters, a 1998 Vogue story cast the 11-year-old Dunham as a tragic tween fashion martyr, since there was no Prada allowed in her household and she couldn't afford Manolo Blahnik shoes on her allowance: