Do not panic, self, there's nothing creeping up on you.

There! There's it is again! Did you see it? Bending over nonchalantly looking for a four-leaf clover. It is a leprechaun. A leprechaun is stalking me. This is, like, the third time this has happened.

I thought we settled all this during the Great Leprechaun War of '02. I send them a fat check twice a year, they keep out of my way, everyone's happy.

Come to think of it, I've been seeing way too many leprechauns in my peripheral vision lately. When I'm in a crowd, signing autographs, there've been little bearded red-haired dudes in ridiculous hats glaring at me, shaking their heads disapprovingly.

Is he coming over this way? He is! Oh, goddammit. Think, Bono, think! OK, I'm running. Ugh. I forgot how much I hate to move. Maybe if I drop some change while fleeing, he'll stop to pick it up.

*pant pant pant*

My, he is fast.

As a songwriter, I live and breathe metaphor (not literally). But finding the right similes, analogies and metaphors ain't always easy. The most annoying simile I've unleashed upon the world was actually something I saw on a bumper sticker in Atlanta (a.k.a. "Hotlanta" to those in the know): "A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle."

I don't know what I was thinking when I stole that and slapped it on "Tryin' to Throw Your Arms Around the World." Of course fish don't need bicycles! How would they pedal, with their fins? Oh, Bono of 1991, how you vex the Bono of today.

If ever I complete my time machine, I will go back and tell Bono of 1991 that women, unlike aquatic cycling enthusiasts, absolutely need men. WE (dudes) have penises and THEY (babes) have vaginas. To amend my previous error, I'm trying to work in the heckatight simile "A woman needs a man like her vagina needs his penis" into a song on U2's forthcoming album.

In case you haven't heard, the above untitled abomination can soon be yours.

No, I did not vomit after eating a beet, banana and blueberry salad. But you'd be forgiven for assuming so. After all, I eat a lot of strange combinations of produce, have terrible allergies, and this painting looks like vomit. If anyone can tell me what's going on in that painting, please, keep it to yourself. To me, it looks like a retarded Jesus chasing an equally retarded bird as depicted by a retard playing with finger paints.

Am I right or am I right?

Ahoy cap'n!

I just found out U2 is not, repeat NOT, scheduled to play John Mayer's next cruise. Rather, it appears he booked Guster. A quick glance at the Guster songbook did not turn up "One," "Lemon," or any other awesome U2 songs.

However, they do have one called "Red Oyster Cult," a not-so-clever tune about never growing up, which is the fantasy of most rock stars, stuck in adolescence's ice like a caveman. Me, I'm 48 and proud of it! In short, I am to healthy adult rock stars what Jennifer Aniston is to sexy. And that's why U2 deserves to play Mayercraft Carrier 2.

Confidential to my former pal John Mayer: Dude! Can't you totally see us dueting shirtlessly on "Your Body is a Wonderland" while Jennifer, assuming she's there, hears how my rich voice subtly drowns out your raspy whisper? I can.

I'm on the South Beach Diet and doing crunches every morning, so my abs are in tip-top shipshape. I'll send you a jpeg.

I love you, Paul McGuinness, all 317 pounds of you. But the title of this post is my way of saying I also hate you a little. You've always been like a band manager to me, which means you're a glorified Reuben Kincaid, so how and why is it you're stealing my rightful press all the time lately?

 You've been making too many headlines. Bitching about ISPs? Claiming that Radiohead's pay-whatever-you-want-for-our-majorly-gay-album-In-Rainbows was a failed enterprise? Well, at least we know one thing: Turns out you CAN give away Radiohead's muzak.

Who knew, right?

Once I figured out who Chris Martin is, I was extremely flattered that he dreams about me. It's always a beautiful day when I have something this validating happen to me.

He doesn't, like, out and out say he has wet dreams, but I know a nocturnal emission when I smell one. You can't travel with three other dudes in the close confines of private jets for 40 or whatever years without becoming intimately acquainted with all kinds of smelly fluids, sticky substances and poo.

For the uninitiated, Chris Martin is the young man -- is 31 young these days?  -- from Coldplay. Or, as I now call them, "Couldplay ... with my balls."

My trip to Japan is turning out to be the Best. Trip. Guess who planted a tree whilst in Japan?!!

ME!!!

You're probably wondering about the white gloves. I have a dirt phobia, but I bravely did my share for some cause I don't really understand. Anyone know what the hell a sea forest is?

I also earned -- well, received (same diff) -- a Doctorate in Law from Keio University, roughly the equivalent of the vaunted  Phoenix University in the States. The little guy who bestowed it upon me said some B.S. about said degree being "honourary," but that's just a technicality, I'm sure.

Go ahead and make a good "passing the bar" joke at your favourite Guinness-chugging rock star's expense. I'll wait. Again, billable hours are applicable, and I round up.

I got married way too young, and I didn't do much experimenting (sexual, that is). I missed the "Am I straight or am I gay?" window, a brief period when young men mess around together and make up their minds about which holes they prefer, and on what gender.

If my long-time missus, Ali, weren't so totally hot and into my favorite sport, there are a few guys I would totally be into being into -- besides my bandmates. You guys are always my aces in the hole, so to speak.

1) Eddie Vedder

Definite Pro: There's just something about his cheeks -- upper and lower decks. Also, had an awesome album, Ten; subsequent work mediocre enough not to threaten me.

Possible Cons: Weight seems to fluctuate; friends with smelly hippie Neil Young. Also, there's that bass player with the silly hats in Pearl Jam. I fucking hate that dude.

2) Jason Bateman

Definite Pro: Handsome, well-spoken, funny. As everyone who stuck with U2 after "Pop" knows, I love a good comeback.

Possible Con: Occasionally looks like smug dickslurp.

3) George Lopez

Definite Pro: Hairy Latino.

Possible Con: May accidentally shout out "Mencia" while we're in sexual conflagrato.

Even though she’s on her way to prison for a couple decades or so, I must give a tip o’ the hat to Lori Drew. This is the American mother who managed to drive a teenage girl to suicide through good old-fashioned MySpace deception.

This week, Lori was indicted on criminal charges of conspiracy and so forth. But before you all join in with your condemnation of Lori, I say to you: Are there any among us who have not terrorized our enemies via MySpace? That’s what I feckin’ thought.

I’ll be the first to admit it. Occasionally the edge (no I do not capitalize) will have the balls to give me attitude, saying that “my fake piousness makes his soul hurt” or some such rubbish. It’s times like these that I use MySpace to recover the dynamics of the band.