Bono on ‘malt joy and ginger despair’
p2pnet news view Music:- U2’s Bono decided it was time to give us all a taste of his literary efforts and the New York Times foolishly decided to give it space, printing his ravings without editing, from the look of it.
“You’re better off reading the playlist of the guy with cancer,” said Bob Leftsetz.
“That’s a lot more heartfelt and interesting … AND COMPREHENSIBLE!”
David Cano also saw Bono’s drivelling and did a post.
It’s still up, but today it has the rider, “This post is just for fun, a cheap laugh. If you’re easily offended or are a massive Bono fan then don’t read it and get all worked up. It’s not serious. I’ve already had hilarious amount of hate mail from such people. Bono is famous and rich enough to never read or give a shit about this so don’t feel like you have to defend him.”
No need to be so defensive, David. You’re very far from being alone. 
“I really hate Bono,” he says, going on »»»
If I walk in to a bar and U2 is playing, I have to walk straight out. It feels like a thousand cockroaches are crawling all over me. If his smug, slimy, ever punchable face appears on television, I have to change the channel immediately. His smugness knows no bounds, his ego can not be contained, his messiah complex is all consuming. The man is so completely deluded, so sadly convinced of his own brilliance that he thinks of himself as some sort of poet laureate as well as a saviour of the poor and huddled masses. I hate him. I hate him so very much. If he died tomorrow, I would laugh. I would laugh a hearty, merry laugh.
Image then, my soul wrenching dismay when I discovered that this sub-human fucktard has written a column for The New York Times. Yes, The fucking New York Times. Giving this monster a platform on one of the most important and influential newspapers in the world is woefully reckless. This might actually tip him over the edge and tomorrow he’ll declare himself overlord of the entire universe.
Go ahead, read the column. If you’re particularly sound of mind and spirit, and with a saintly disposition, you may simply laugh it off as the rabid scratchings of a frothing monkey with a pencil tied to his hand. I however, am not. Within the first paragraph I wanted to smash my laptop in to tiny pieces. I feel like it’s tainted for merely displaying this pile of worse-than-shit. It is so poorly written, so utterly pretentious, so filled with pathetic attempts at prose, pointless, non-sensical sentence structure and idiotically florid and moronic phrases that after reading it I think I may be dying. Not figuratively dying, literally dying. My body is killing itself off out of shame and disgust, an internal harakiri. This unctuous prick thinks of himself as some sort of present day Ginsberg or Kerouac. He is neither.
Here’s the first paragraph:
I`m in a crush in a Dublin pub around New Year`s. Glasses clinking clicking, clashing crashing in Gaelic revelry: swinging doors, sweethearts falling in and out of the season`s blessings, family feuds subsumed or resumed. Malt joy and ginger despair are all in the queue to be served on this, the quarter-of-a-millennium mark since Arthur Guinness first put velvety blackness in a pint glass.
“Ginger despair”?!?!? What the shit is “ginger despair”? A ginger child horrified by his own gingerness? Weeping uncontrollably, rocking back and forth curled in the fetal position? Velvety blackness? What a prick.
He then goes on a gushing spunk fest describing Frank Sinatra’s My Way:
Is this knotted fist of a voice a clue to the next year? In the mist of uncertainty in your business life, your love life, your life life, why is Sinatra`s voice such a foghorn?
I don’t know Bono, why are you such a cock? Of course, we find out later on that this whole column is just an elaborate and infinitely smarmy way of him letting you know that he once did a duet with Sinatra.
Throughout the whole column, this nauseating bollocks does not let up. He just hits you with wave after wave of asinine crap. His words are an advancing army of turds. A D-Day of shit. Behold these literary poo-grenades:
Fabulous, not fabulist. Honesty to hang your hat on.
A call to believability.
Singers, more than other musicians, depend on what they know â as opposed to what they don`t want to know about the world.
Fuck you Bono. Fuck you to hell. I would go on further, and I could go on for days, years, in fact dedicate my life to hating him, but I’m starting to feel physically sick.
And to The New York Times, shame on you. The fact that this unforgivable wanker decides that he’s a great writer and instantly gets a column in The Times is heartbreaking. Not just for writers or journalists or newspapers, but for humanity.
foolishly decided to give space – Notes From the Chairman, January 9, 2009
to give it space – Bono embarrasses the New York Times, January 11, 2009
David Cano – Bono – The Biggest Douche Ever, January 11, 2009
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January 12th, 2009 at 4:18 pm
His manager, Paul McGuinness is a douchebag too. That fucktard is working with corrupt governments around the world to get out his vision of censored, throttled and controlled Internet.
http://www.mediafuturist.com/2008/02/welcome-to-paul.html