(When Georgia O’Keefe met Courtney Love, the painter went into a horrified stupor. When she awoke, she found she had painted this. The artistic release failed to soothe her.)

The Widow Corbain has recovered from a two week bender and, for the second time in as many months, crawled out from under her rock to contribute her eloquence to a subject we’ve all already forgotten about. Seems Courtney Love  just got around to reading John Mayer’s playboy interview, in which he praises Jess Simpson’s “sexual napalm” and said his dick was a “white supremacist,” and she has… thoughts? An unreasonable facsimile, at least. From her Twitter:

“do you ever feel like spite hate fucking @johncmayer just to put hi in his place, hes a better guitarist than me but not better in bed !… but like say your fucking @johncmayer totally throwing him around the room in bits and then you just BAM punch him in the face? good times”

If you can’t shut your mouth when nobody is talking to you, I’m going to find something else for it to do. Like gnaw on a Milkbone. What? I’m not sticking my dick in there. Might as well tell the doctor to fire up the ole circumstraint and set it to 3 inches, and don’t skimp on the battery acid. If she could see less than three of everything, she might have thought to say, “I’ll show him sexual napalm!” and then squat, dripping steaming holes in the carpet.

First of all, we have to do away with the terminology “hate fuck,” given the circumstances. Just like crime. All violent crimes are hate crimes, and adding extras to the sentence falls squarely into the category of most asinine legal moves in this country’s history. Just so, any fuck from Courtney Love is a hate fuck, engineered to apply the greatest possible shame, pain, and self-loathing imaginable. Kurt’s shotgun was just one big dildo designed to bring about the ultimate masochist climax available. Contributions to the Batman & Robin soundtrack was Billy Corgan’s, but to be fair, he found Jesus or some shit. Hint: He hides in the dryer, because He has the mind of a child.  “Let the children come to me, and pick sides for dodge ball!”

“BAM punch him in the face”? Mayer would probably embrace a punch from Tyson if it would blur his vision of that toothy, hair-lipped hell-maw you call a chatch for a few blessed seconds. In the past, I too have expressed a brand of hatred for the musician, though never to the point of arousal. My problem with him before was that he wasn’t using his demigod blues guitar powers for good. It’s like when Hulk Hogan turned bad, and still kicked ass, except Mayer’s bad was channeling the spirit of Mississippi John Hurt to waste on shitty sentimentality, landing himself in thediscount bin in the Adult Contemporary section. If Hurt had written “Your Body Is A Wonderland,” the title would have been, “You’re Pussy Is Real Loose, But Oh Well.” I don’t even want to think what “Daughters” would have been about.

"... and fathers go down on your daaaaauughters too... no matter how thick they thighs."

But John Mayer’s cheeky antics this year have redeemed him eleven-fold. Publicly swearing off relationships so he can get in as much pussy that isn’t attached to Jennifer “I’m Surprised She Isn’t A Cutter” Aniston as possible; Announcing onstage his intentions to impregnate at least one fan that very evening; Releasing a sugar-coated single about pinchbeck pillow-talk and getting stoned; Hell, “my penis is a white supremacist” is merely a direct, if entirely impolitic way of saying he has a type. How does Courtney Love not get behind that shit?

“oh dudes Mayers a little bland for me and youngish ill do young, but hes neither Yale Harvard Oxford and hes not really rock, so not for me,” she wrote. And to a fan who asked her to clarify hate fucking, she wrote, “hate fucking is an art like ‘the pit’ meaning you rape each other and then beat the shit our of each other so u can feel shit.”

Should have asked her to clarify “rock.” Let us know if the second side of Pretty On The Inside qualifies, seriously, because if it does, I know a 3 year old banging on his mom’s pots and pans with his dented skull that needs a career. When you die (I’m like a Catholic kid on December 20th for that), donate your brain to science so we know where this comes from. Isn’t a qualification for a university to be Ivy League a standing restraining order against you personally? Also, in your “The Pit” style hate fucking (the only thing you remember from the ’80s is The Pit? Jesus), who plays the autistic kid? “They don’t eat chocolate bars. You know what they eat?” All the shit Courtney Love seems to want to beat out of John and then “feel.”

In case Love’s mangling of an innocent metaphor into a gross-fest not seen since Matthew Broderick and his elephantitis stricken mare last coupled didn’t tickle your gag reflex with a rusty saw, she also threw this in:

“my genealogist* and my gynocplogist know i do my Kegals like a snatch the cig off the table thai sex worker,”

For the love of Bacchus, why? To belatedly show your computer is capable of capitalization, despite the fact you have no concept of how to use it? At least the beast what lives between your legs can have a smoke break between scrapings.

*How do you not know that a genealogist doesn’t need access to your vagina to ply his trade? Or is this not a medical thing, and you’re just naming two of the several thousand men you’ve granted access to your twat?

(One of these things is not like the other… From the left: Melissa Auf Der Maur, Ke$ha, and Nick Nolte in drag.)

Persistence and diligence are what is rewarded here at Scumbag Style, and the Widow Corbain has been busy. Since nobody asked her, Courtney Love has decided to announce her intentions to “save” the new pop sensation with the annoying name to type, Ke$ha. Her Twitter the other day was a string of totally sober proclamations, which in paragraph form looks like this:

“Ke$ha is in dire need of a vibe that matches her. shes being moulded into something not her that will fail. I want to save her… fuck Ke$ha I need to school her… Ke$ha I will save you. sweetheart you make me go all maternal, I want to save you from the jaws of impermanence and soul death… When I watched the Youtube of  you I saw a lost little soul… the u tube had a lady from RCA /Jive/ Barry’s nightmare correcting her every time she spoke, they grabbed pushed and she’ll be gone.”

I trust that needs no translation. Love has done a great job of developing a personality that is entirely incompatible with pop stardom, exuding a lack of talent, aging sixty years in a matter of months, and hitting the no-no drugs (there aren’t a lot of those for rock stars) with a dedication rivaled only by fat comedians. In that respect, she’s the perfect role model for Kes$ha, who’s claims to fame already include not physically fitting the popstar mold perfectly. There’s no way Love will ever be thought of as “sanitized,” though I bet anyone in her immediate presence wants to take a whole canister of Lysol wipes to her person, like that one kid in high school with the acne that looked like a burn victim and you just wanted to hold him down and scrub his face with alcohol pads.

Love’s slurring swamp howls do hold a glimmer of insight. True artists would do better to avoid corporate homogenization, and rise above the mediocrity little girls are so vulnerable to. And the best way to make little girls ignore you is to make yourself a heroine pinata that looks like Marilyn Monroe if she lived to be a hundred. Also, if you want to be a respected artist, you have to throw artistic integrity out the door, and definitely alienate everyone with more talent that got you as far as you managed to get before your inevitable implosion. Like bassist Melissa Auf Der Maur, a former member of Love’s megalomania machine Hole, who was not invited on the reunion tour there was such a public outcry for. Auf Der Maur said:

“Honestly, I’m a little surprised by this turn of events. I am disappointed that they are going to jeopardise a real Hole reunion, which I think would be great for fans and fun for us, the band.”

It’s not so surprising when you consider Auf Der Maur is basically the female John Paul Jones, and Courtney Love throws a fit when anybody with talent wants credit for a project she was on. Remember, back in 1998 when Celebrity Skin was easily the only listenable thing Hole had ever accomplished? Everyone wondered how Courtney pulled that out of her ass until Billy Corgan sued the crap out of her for not crediting him for making the album for her while she sat in the shower out of her mind on smack. Then in 2002 the big acts of the time (which did not include Courtney Love until she took over Auf Der Maur’s band The Chelsea) started trading members like Pogs, and Corgan and Maynard Keenen (A Perfect Circle) played god with the careers of Paz Lenchantin, Auf Der Maur, and James Iha, until Melissa got tired of it and released her (pretty decent) solo record in ’04?

Does anybody else remember this? Or, at least follow? The point is, Love’s career started with and revolved around famous, pioneering people being in her immediate vicinity, whom she distanced herself from once they constructed rickety legs for her to stand on. Haven’t bothered anyone in a while? Appear on the Roast of Pam Anderson, messy as hell and ready to show off the shriveled roadie hotel you call a vagina. Or reform Hole without an integral member. Or take an attractive, young up and comer and teach her how to be more like you. Why work when you can convince everyone to do it for you, Ke$ha? That shit’s for uggos like Lady Gaga, and all it will lead to is grudging respect and admiration from the community you claim to belong to. You should marry someone like John Mayer, and then convince him to commit suicide. It’s easy street from there.