Today, a strange boy came and visited my house. At first, I feared it was the Nazi party and their leader, because the little man-child that barged through the doors was bizarre in his commanding nature and displayed numerous latent homosexual tendencies comparable to those of Hitler. I was so terrified while he and his large friends, whom he referred to as “bodyguards,” wandered through my home. I was forced to hide in the closet. I immediately regretted my chosen hiding spot, because I feared this boy was no stranger to the insides of closets. Luckily, he and his friends, who collectively had the brain functioning of Terri Schiavo, became bored with me and my past after about an hour. The man-boy mentioned something about there being “too much reading” for his liking and decided to leave with his “posse” of idiots.
Before he left, he signed the guestbook people have been keeping for me. Normally, I’m delighted to read the messages people leave, rambling on and on about how amazing I am. Not to spin my own dreidel, but I’m kind of a big deal in some circles, so I’m rarely shocked by the adoration and love people pour into the guestbook’s pages. Naturally, I was eager to see what type of message my newest visitor had left for me.
Kitty, you won’t believe what that arrogant little fuck wrote! “Truly inspiring to be able to come here. Anne was a great girl. Hopefully she would have been a belieber.” I immediately had to figure out what the hell he meant by the word “Belieber,” because I’m positive he wasn’t speaking Yiddish, Hebrew, German, or even his evil native tongue, Canadian. No. He had written a word he made up on his own to refer to the thousands of tweens who are fans of his music. A tween, Kitty, is just a teen who hasn’t given a blow job yet, as I learned from one of our own, the great Joan Rivers.
I am absolutely disgusted that the boy known as Justin Bieber would be so stupid as to turn a trip to one of the most famous historic sites in the world into another chance to expand his already larger than life ego. Hopefully I would have been a Belieber? Kitty, that makes me GLAD I never lived in his world, where girls stuff their training bras and apply too much eyeliner as he uses the word “swag” repeatedly in a song called “Boyfriend.” I’m having mein own kampf here dealing with the fact that there are people in this world who pay him to make appearances and put on performances for them. There’s no way he could ever be entertaining and this is coming from a girl who has spent the majority of her time staring at the floorboards of an attic.
I spend most of my days afraid for my life, making astute observations about the world around me. As I understand, this is a little different from what these “Beliebers” do when they take to Twitter and threaten to run away from home because the Biebs smoked pot. Indulging in marijuana may be his only redeeming quality, anyway. I’m pretty sure the local vegetation is more cannabis than carnation based, but if I had the opportunity, I would pick a few flowers and spark up. Certainly it would get me closer to the mindset of a Belieber, because apparently when your inhibitions are lowered, you’re susceptible to liking dumb shit such as terrible pop music made by Canadian boys whose balls haven’t dropped yet.
Maybe I am being too judgmental, Kitty. Maybe there is something good about the boy who speaks some hybrid blend of Canuck and Ebonics and seems unable to find a way to keep the waist of his pants above his thighs. Maybe I’m being too harsh. Maybe I should give his “music” a chance.
Kitty, this is catchy. Oh, baby, baby, baby. Oh! I BELIEBE. I get it now! His ability to repeat simple words in a rhythmic manner is absolutely entrancing. I’m turning this up louder! The rest of town needs to know how he wishes I would always be his, as he keeps telling me in his song.
Oh no, Kitty! The Nazi guards were so irritated by my music they’re coming to see where it’s coming from. I shut it off as soon as I heard them yelling from the door, but I fear it may be too late. Kitty, they’re ravaging the house, and it’s only a matter of time before I’m found. If I have to leave you, dear friend, please don’t forget about me. If anyone finds you, I hope they can learn about my struggle and my life.
Kitty, they’re here. I just need to leave you with this one final message and if these are my dying words, let it be known: Fuck Justin Bieber. The only comfort I can take in my impending doom is that little mother fucker is still a five foot tall Canadian and few things can be worse than that.
- Image via Edmond History