Justin Bieber
The time has come to celebrate. The international nightmare known as Justin Bieber has entered self-destruction mode. By the time you read this, there’s at least a 50-50 chance this talentless pile of wuss will be dead, maimed, jailed, held in a basement by crazed adolescent lesbians or crucified by hordes of Beliebers for changing his fucking hairstyle. Even atheists should start praying he circles the drain swifter than Lindsay Lohan on her way to BevMo.
But wait a second. Why do we give a shit? Because in this apparently meaningless phenomenon, there’s a dire warning: Our country is now populated by infantile drones. Quality is dying. What matters is how well you can hit the lowest-common- denominator, two-dimensional image and make the idiocracy piss away a million dollars a minute.
This Auto-Tuned asswipe is currently the entertainment industry’s premier profit whore, despite the fact that—according to a Public Policy Polling survey—a solid majority of Americans actively hate him. “Haters are just confused admirers,” Bieber retorts. We must be very, very confused.
But majority opinion doesn’t matter because Bieber heads a greed-driven promo machine of musical pedophiles. They tap into the pliant minds and emotions of young girls, exploiting their natural insecurities along with the nascent fantasies that the poor kids don’t yet know have zero to do with reality.
Wait, you say, don’t smut peddlers do the same thing? No, we prey on pathetic grownmen. That’s why it’s called adult entertainment. Adults have legal decision-making power. Why should underaged girls get to decide what gets shoved down our collective cultural throats?!
If you think something like Ass-to-Mouth Whores From Planet Cumguzzle is disgusting, try listening to Bieber crap like “Baby” or “Rich Girl” all the way through. The vomit will project from your belly like a ballistic missile headed for North Korea—a place, incidentally, Bieber knows all about: “Whatever they have in Korea, that’s bad,” he’s said. When drugs and stupidity finally deep-six his career, he can always host a show on Fox News.
Which brings us to the best reason to hate Justin Bieber: He’s a Ted Nugent in training wheels. As his testicles drop, so does his IQ. Already a Jesus freak, to the point of tattooing the phony savior on his leg (always classy), he’s also thrown in with the gaybashers, pro-lifers and rape apologists. “Everything happens for a reason,” squawks the Christian parrot. The subject gave birth to a classic Bieberism: “I don’t really believe in abortion. It’s like killing a baby.” That one no doubt prompted a sweaty booty call from Pat Robertson.
Speaking of failed abortions, there is a reason to let the kid off the hook: his fame pimping mom, Pattie Mallette. She likes to brag that she refused to abort Bieber. But like most white-trash pro-lifers, her parenting skills were dead on arrival. Did the kid have a chance to not be trash?
“Baby,” coincidentally, was Bieber’s first monster hit. Let’s speculate on the psychological buttons that song pushed. Even more than they do his music, his Beliebers love him. They’d chop off their limbs for him and bleed out blissfully as he rifled through their pockets. Why? Do his hordes of teen fans fantasize about being knocked up with a Bieber baby that would tie them to him forever? Or is he the baby millions of Beliebers have already aborted and feel guilty about as they huddle in the corners of their pain and reread their Twilight books?
Whatever the sad fantasy, one thing is certain: He’s an empty thing to project their pathetic needs onto—like a pet rock but with less talent. As any con man can tell you, preying on shriveled dreams is a frickin’ gold mine.
But like most buttholes that get used up and blown out too fast, Biebs the person is starting to rebel against Biebs the commodity. Nearly every tab loid move he makes these days is a blatant effort to pull the escape hatch.
No. 1, he adopted a monkey— a more evolved creature than most of his fans—apparently to prove he’s on the Michael Jackson fast track to Whackoville.
Exhibit 2: Bieber has been leadfooting his cars down L.A.’s already deadly freeways in an apparent attempt to show that if James Dean could merge his body with metal at the height of his fame, so can he. He even roars around his gated community, nearly mowing down the local brats. When his neighbors confront him, he allegedly spits at them like a meth freak on bath salts. Hulking ex-NFL wide receiver Keyshawn Johnson even chased the Biebs down—raising hopes that the Canadian curse would be shipped back home in a body bag. Sadly, Biebs ran into his house like a little bitch and locked all the doors.
Thirdly, Biebs the moneybot has been malfunctioning. He shows up late for shows or cancels, ends up passing out or puking when he does show up, has sudden freakouts at photographers, and pals around with a black kid so he can blame everything on him. (That last bit he learned from Lohan.)
At press time the Biebs was trying to blast himself into space by jumping onboard the Virgin Galactic. How obvious could it be? The kid wants out. Bieber is aware that Bieber has become a colossal asshole, and to escape Bieber, Bieber may have to kill him.
Alas, we suspect the nice youngster from Ontario is already dead, consumed by the overgroomed, swaggerized narcissist that carries his name.
It’s just a matter of time before what’s left pulls a Britney Spears, shaves his head and descends into total incoherence. Not even that would be original, but it would be better than Bieber releasing any more so-called albums. All hail the downward spiral. Short of going back in time and convincing Pattie to have that abortion after all, it’s our only hope.
