The B.O.N.O Syndrome

Rock stars have big egos. They need to; the whole going out and yelling at a microphone in front of thousands of people requires a certain level of self esteem that I will never manage to muster. Not when wearing spandex, anyway.

The problem with Rock Gods (with capital letters) is that sometimes have egos that veer from the gigantic to the humongously megalomaniacal. They are not very happy to know themselves. They don´t just go around proclaiming how big their penis* is. That's not enough to satisfy them. They don't have enough with having mad monkey sex (TM) with thousands of adorating fans. That doesn't fill their ego. They just don't feel fullfilled by being reviled for perverting the morals of kids, destroying western civilization and just being plan fucking annoying.

No, that's not enough. Some Rock Gods feel like they are bigger than that. Some Rock Gods believe that they are powerful. They can move mountain. They can open the seas. They can change the world using the awesome power of Rock. They can muster their charisma, their awesome soundglasses, the deep, intense, cult-like adoration of the fans to change the course of human civilization as we know it.

There is one of these Rock Gods amongst us. He is so fucking awesome that he doesn't even has a name. His name is a latin word for some obscure legal shit or a virtue. He is so fucking amazing that he can make George W. Bush cry. He is fucking Bono, and he can cure cancer with his tears or by singing a little lulaby.

Bono is the best example of what we call Boneheaded Onanistic Narcicistic Oligophrenia Syndrome, or B.O.N.O. Syndrome for short. We find that in many musicians that believe, with all their hearts, that they fart rainbows and sweat expensive champagne and can solve any problem with a bit of music magic. There are many of them, prancing around happily, feeling that they are worth something.

Please, don't touch them. They are fragile. They are not aware that they are mortal. Trying to bring reality to them will probably confuse them, bring them to their knees and take them to the mountains of madness. They are precious, little snowflakes. Don't damage them.

*Side note: the history of Rock is the history of grown men and women discussing how big their penises are. True. All that grief in love songs is in fact disappointment for the lack of apreciation for their penises. True.