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?

This 1982 piece of shit -- er, piece of art -- is something Adam Clayton found in a New York gallery in 1989, a year he must have been smoking a lot of crack. Perhaps not coincidentally, its painter, Basquiat, died of an overdose.

It's been hanging in our Dublin studio for nigh on two decades, and I finally put my foot down. I told Adam, Edge and the drummer, whatshisface, that I can no longer work with this cursed albatross jinxing me. I screamed, some people got scratched, Edge pulled my hair, and three U2 members may have cried. But in the end we resolved that it would be auctioned by Sotheby's July 1 for what could amount to millions of dollars.

If it were up to me alone, I'd accept a few gift certificates to McDonald's and call it good. But whatever you pay for this painting, trust me, it's too much.

I'm not a philistine. I mean, art, aesthetics, beauty, sure, they mean a lot to me. With that love of beauty and the arts comes the inevitable debate about what constitutes fine art. One of those arguments I am ALWAYS getting into, like whether or not Del Taco trumps Taco Bell.

Despite my considerable brainpower, I haven't figured out much about art. But I know this much is true: Pretentious, climbing idiots will pay anything for any art if they think it will impress other idiots.