Oh boy, so it’s you guys? Welcome to the most demoralizing six to eighteen months of your lives! You only get one shot at a second album, and by the time I’m finished with you you’ll be shuddering at the mere thought of a third.

Let’s start by setting some realistic goals—think a little less The Bends and Nevermind, a little more MGMT’s Congratulations. I mean, you had your entire lives to come up with the two-and-a-half good choruses on your debut, so what you knock out in the spare days between playing 45 minutes of filler-strewn bilge to nobody in particular in Bumfuck, New Mexico, and spruiking Pepsi Zero on Japanese cable is going to be a complete abomination.

I know what you’re thinking—that I’m your game-changing sophomore fucking album and I should sound like an IMPORTANT FUCKING EVENT. Think again. Not even strings from the London Philharmonic scored by Hans Zimmer and recorded by Rick Rubin at Abbey Road will paper over the cracks of the complete and utter dross you’re about to unleash on the world. It’s going to be amazing.

A little about me? Not much to tell really. I’m just a blank canvas, waiting for your narcissism to coat me with uninspired brush strokes of just how tough newfound fame is.

Sick of eating room service? Let’s lead with a viral video teaser of you popping bottles with barely legal groupies.

Airports getting you down? A heartbreaking spoken word album opener collating your most ennui-laden tweets from frequent flyer lounges.

Paparazzi getting up in your grill? Suck it up princesses. Once they hear this train wreck they won’t let up until you’re all punching the time clock at Betty Ford.

I’ve got a whole heap of ideas to help make this the most miserable, soul-crushing experience of your heretofore privileged existences. Partner swapping. Chroming parties. Gated snare. There’s even a vibraslap in the drum room, and you just know that out-of-time motherfucker is going to reach for it in the middle of your touching piano ballad tribute to Syria.

If things start sounding like anything other than commercial suicide, don’t sweat it—I’ve got Goldie, Alanis Morissette and Terence Trent D’Arby on board as mentors. Just the faintest whiff of a radio-friendly unit shifter and they’ll lob into the studio to steer you back towards the righteous path of turgid, self-indulgent, borderline unlistenable piffle in no time.

Anyway, gotta run. Can’t wait to derail your momentum, destroy your career, completely sap your will to live and make you hate your band and everyone in it.

If you need me I’ll be with my bro. He’s been dying to show me what he’s up to with The Avalanches.