I’m sorry, Bono, but I’m your friend and you need to hear this

So my pal Bono has been calling me all bummed out lately cause he’s getting all this bad press, with stories like this one about him suing some babe to get back some stuff he gave her a long time ago, and this one and a zillion others like it tearing him a new one for moving his company to the Netherlands to avoid paying taxes in Ireland, after badgering the Irish government and everybody else on God’s green earth to pay more taxes so we could feed the starving Africans. “Oh, Steve,” he goes, “I’m gettin fookin crucified over dis tax thing! Jaysus!” I told him hey, don’t read the papers, but he can’t help himself, he reads everything, and he takes it all to heart; I mean it really, really hurts him.

But here’s the thing. I can’t bear to say this to Bono in person, so I’m using my blog as a way to do it instead. Bono, the reason these stories strike a nerve is cause they’re kinda true. Bottom line: You’re cheap. There. I said it.

Fact is, Bono is without a doubt the cheapest bastard I’ve ever met. Tighter than a duck’s ass, and that’s watertight, as they say in East Palo Alto. I mean I’ve seen him take bread home from restaurants. Says he’s gonna give it to homeless people. Instead he puts in the trunk of his car. Then he drives around with bags of leftovers in there, piling up. Yeah. He’s that kind of cheap. The weird kind. The kind who asks for extra peanuts on flights, and keeps them, and uses teabags twice, and drives around trying to find out which station has the cheapest gas. The other guys in the band used to call him “Ken,” as in “Ken I bum a fiver?” And guess who’s always hitting me up for free Macs and iPods? “Oh, Steve, me cousin Siobhan wants an iMac, can you send me one over? The one with the giant screen. She saw it in a magazine and she says to me, `Oh, Paulie, don’t it look just like a fookin telly!’ Oh, you should meet me cousin Siobhan, Steve, she’s a hoot. Total Northsider. Oh, and can you send one over for me cousin Donal in Howth, and his wife Niamh, and their daughter Sorcha? Tanks, pal. By the way do you know how a Northsider proposes marriage? He goes, `Yer fookin wha?’ Ha! Get it?” And I’m like, Hey, cool, Bono taught me a new joke; now I don’t feel so bad about sending over ten thousand bucks’ worth of my precious computers.

The other guys in the band are just as cheap as Bono. Friggin millionaires and yet they’re the biggest sponges you ever met in your life. The Edge steals packets of Equal from Starbucks, I’m not kidding. And basically I’m the way they do their Christmas shopping every year. Hey, if any relatives of U2 members are reading this, I’m the one who should get the “Thank you” cards this year, okay? That’s right. Steve Jobs, aka Santa Claus, c/o the North friggin Pole. Or maybe you can send email if you don’t want to pay for a stamp. Goddamn Larry Mullen sent me a list last year, all the people who he needed to send gifts to and which model each one wanted. I’m like, Dude, should I gift wrap them for you too and fill out the cards, or can you handle that part yourself?

Couple months ago Bono calls and says, Hey, Steve, I wanna give iPods to all the crew, sort of a tankyou fer the toor and all, whattaya think? I’m like this close to telling him to just walk into a store with a credit card and friggin buy them like everyone else, but you know how it is. So I wussed out and sent him thirty iPods. And I swear he sold some of them on Ebay. No kidding. He’s got an account.

Only time Bono isn’t cheap is when he’s drunk. Then he spends money like, well, a drunken Irishman. I mean I’ve seen him stumble out of a bar and walk across the street and buy a Mercedes for a girl he’d just met a half hour ago. Crazy shit. But sober? You couldn’t pry a dime from between his ass cheeks. Now he’s suing some dame to get his Stetson hat back. And scamming on his taxes. Bono, I love you. You know that. But you need help. I’m not even gonna get into it with the gambling problem and the eating disorder. One thing at a time, right? And hey: How does a Northsider admit he’s got a problem? He goes, “I’m fookin wha?” Ha! Get it?