Friday, 31 January 2014

More Drugs For Justin and God Take Pity on His Soul…

BieberishIt takes a complete mastery of the modern telecommunications network to ensure that not much crosses this desk headed with Bieber facts or Bieber news. It means I now know too little about Justin Bieber to make any informed comments about his recent arrest. No doubt I’ll struggle to make any cogent points about him in the next 1000 hard fought words but I won’t let that stop me. No sir! I’m determined to do what I’ve set out to achieve and that’s to explain why I utterly despise Justin Bieber, a man I know next to nothing about.

I couldn’t, for example, hum you one of his songs. I couldn’t recite you a Bieber lyric or even tell you if he’s had a Number One hit in the USA or Europe. I recall some small details from news stories that have been on the TV that’s in the same room as I’ve sat brooding away in my hatred of the man. I know that he found fame on Youtube and then he was arrested driving a yellow Lamborghini. I’m also sure some things happened between those two world changing events but I don’t recall what they were. He might have had a relationship with some young actress, singer or model but there I’m really stretching my knowledge and it would be the thick end of guesswork to say if she even was an actress, singer, or model. I do, however, know he used to have a fringe worthy of Lloyd Christmas and now he’s all bad-boy with a razored look reminiscent of the less talented of Elton John’s shaved pair. I think he also owns a monkey and its name might or might not be Bubbles. However, this post isn’t about his monkey. This post is about how I utterly despise Justin Bieber, a man I know next to nothing about.

Thankfully, the reason I utterly despise Justin Bieber has nothing to do with Justin Bieber and everything to do with his fans. I suppose this blog post would more accurately be described as being about how I utterly despise Justin Bieber fans, about whom I unfortunately know quite a bit.

I know, for example, that they descended upon Twitter like a pestilence straight from Ezekiel, their meaningless yay-boo chunnering entirely destroying the social media network in the process. Perhaps they should be commended for turning a bad idea for humanity into an even worse reality but it’s hard to admire the virulency of any plague that turns a place for human communication into a wasteland of nasty hormonal squeaking. It’s hard not to prefer any form of interaction to their screeched outpouring of impotent love, completely devoid of punctuation except when they use it to produce some florid decoration reminiscent of the very worst kind of anal tattooing. Hash hash heart kiss kiss Justin!

I suppose, now I come to think about it, this blog post shouldn’t have mentioned Bieber at all but, since I have, I should say that I actually feel sorry for the poor bastard. Imagine being lusted after by millions of rat-fringed sow-eyed bitch divas, their greased pubescent skin blocked at every pore as their plastered make-up causes god knows what hormonal juices to back up into their brains where it affects them like some exotic frog venom pumped straight into their cerebellums. There is no other reason why they seem to lose all motor functions when Bieber is around. It reduces them to panting hysteria which probably smells as sickly sweet as it looks outlandish and part of the freak zone. I suppose there might be some sweat heaving Japanese businessmen out there who might pay a fortune to own their underwear sealed in a plastic bag but, make no mistake, this has nothing to do with sex. The Bieber business is classic human chemistry, one giddy build up to a glandular squeeze with results as erotic and predictable as spotting caustic soda onto the eyeballs of laboratory beagles.

Yes, the more I think about it, I feel sorry for Justin Bieber and I don’t blame him for hitting the drugs. He’s already on anxiety medication, which might surprise you given that he’s worth millions, but I think we know that the poor bastard will need to jack that up to something stronger if these sluttish Juliets keep ovulating beneath their Romeo’s window. I have no idea if he lives a life of debauched excess but the erotic potential has to be set alongside the psychological damage of being surrounded by these post-pubescent brutes, all poutiness and blusher, their trailer-trash twisted hair fashioned with all the subtlety of a Nazi rally. It’s like watching rats fighting over the most buoyant of the faecal rafts as they float through the sewer. The bitchiness, the scratching, the savage estradiol-induced fury: Beliebers identify themselves by a term that sounds like a Doomsday sect yet the reality is that their religious iconography is so utterly devoid of higher meaning. It’s like watching jellyfish reproduce, the sea erupting into a sick thick soup of sperm. Yet for Beliebers, the sad yearnings of their bodies is couched in terms of love and hearts and cherubs and unicorns and pink things such as the pink pretty boy who couldn’t harm a fly, cherub, or unicorn. There are no whiskers or whisky in the Bieber universe, just a freakishly pimple-free boy who occasionally sports a pair of glasses to make him look vulnerable. It’s all about the coquettish sideways looks and those pouty lips, as obese as slugs copulating on the corpse of a scabietic dog.

Yes, I despise Bieber fans. I despise them for combining arrogance and ignorance into one utterly despicable package. Some might say it’s the arrogance of youth but has youth ever been so brazenly misguided or wrong? Beliebers are a generational phenomenon, like the mass hysteria starlings suffer before they fly head first into plate glass. Beliebers are nothing more than a human murmuration on an epic scale, a cultish devotion to a freak of pubescence, a vain and arrogant symbol of consumerist exploitation, designed by men in offices and tested in laboratories on hormonal girls.

Most of all, they are a reminder than beneath all of humanity’s philosophy, science, and art, we are just liquid emotions that sometimes spill out from the fleshy buckets. Beliebers are our animal selves uncontrolled by logic or reason. They are the last point on the road to nothingness. Beyond them lies the void, echoing with their giddy laughter.



  1. I don't hate Justin Bieber. I don't love him either. I think that Justin isn't worse than boys his age-partying, taking drugs, and alcohol. I feel sad for his because he also has the stress of beening harassed by fans, paparazzi and haters. I personally wouldn't want to be famous, or have so much money that I go throw it away, for money to be worthless to me. You said that you hate Justin's fans. I don't. I also feel sorry for them that they are so crazy about justin Bieber. Someone they think they know but don't know at all.
    Please reply, hannah

  2. Thank you, Hannah. You might be right. He isn't worse than boys his age who are also partying and taking drugs and alcohol, but not all boys his age are partying and taking drugs and alcohol. Not that's the point. He is a luridly over-hyped phenomenon of a essentially broken age, in which publicity has taken the place of achievement in most people's eyes. He's famous because he's famous and he's adored because he's famous. The poor saps who buy into the craze are barely aware of their manipulation and follow him like bluebottles trailing an effluent spreader across a farm. I suppose we should all pity them because it's such a sad sight, seeing these lonely teenagers projecting their adoration on somebody who doesn't in any sense deserve it. But, I suppose it's been going on for as a long as teen idols have been in existence. There's nothing new in it except each age seems to produce somebody even more vacuous than the last.