Review Summary: Shut the f**k up.
Look Biebsy: I’m trying to concentrate on writing. Couldn’t you at least have the courtesy to shut off the f**king garbage disposal? OH WAIT…that’s just you singing again. Wait here Biebsy--I think I’m gonna go pound some nails into my skull.
Why don’t I like your music Biebsy? What’s that, be straight with you? Alright then, as concise as possible: because you suck. You suck worse than my 85 year-old grandma Pearl. Who, by the way, has moldy dentures, chronic arthritis, and anthrax poisoning. My grandpa would know about that last thing. What, you’ve heard your producers talking about sucking too? Some guy by the name of Dick? Sounds about right. Just curious: did they ever ask you to take your trousers off Biebsy? Oh, they called it happy time? Fun stuff.
But in all seriousness Biebsy, you really are too young to be talking about anything beyond hating school, loving pizza, and adventures at the creek behind your house with your dog. Good ole’ fashioned 10 year-olds don’t say (unless they’re in gay scouts)
“That should be me feelin' your kiss / that should be me, buyin’ you gifts / that should be me, this is so sad / this is so wrong, I can’t go on.” Oh BOO HOO Biebsy. Cry me a damn ocean. I mean really, what the f**k is wrong with you? Did Cupid stalk you in your dreams as a little boy? Was your mom the smothering type who wanted grandchildren by the time she was 30? Oh…you’re 16. No s**t! Well that’s even more pathetic, cuz those lyrics sucked even for a 10 year-old. Why can’t you have your say? Well I’m all for freedom of speech, but the problem is that no one gives a s**t about you Biebsy. What, you know what that word means? Heard it from your mom? Good for you, buddy.
Here’s the deal: just because you can talk about relationships and do talk about them doesn’t mean you should be. See what I’m saying Biebsy? Like you obviously know what a blowjob is, but you’re not exactly going to go jabbering about it to your mom, ya know? Oh…you did, huh? That’s when she used the word s**t? Well…that just goes to prove how much of a (bleeping bleeper) you are, Biebsy. YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. You don’t show your mom your porn. You don’t tell your dad about the girl who gave you oral in blind Mrs. Crumpett’s algebra class. And you
sure as hell don’t tell people with MUCH more relationship experience than you
“Eenie meenie miney moe / catch a bad chick by her toe / if she holla, hollers let her go.” Because they will just f**kin’ laugh at you until they f**king die of suffocation.
You feeling me here? No--that’s not what I meant Biebsy. Good god, stop touching yourself there. Here’s my point: you’re 13 years old. Huh? Uh…my bad, 16. Still: 16 year-old’s are not supposed to be talking about heartache, lost love, and
“going crazy, being star-struck, and getting so aroused you don’t need no Starbucks.” Especially when they look and sound more like they’re 11 or 12. Why not? Well it’s simple--because no one cares. What, you really have had those feelings? Nice going, Biebsy. But no one cares. What, you really have dated that many girls? Well now aren‘t you a cool cat? Too bad no one cares. What, you really have been with more girls than the entire rest of the earth’s population put together? Cool stuff buddy. It’s just that…NO. ONE. CARES. I feel like I’m repeating myself or something. Kind of like one of your songs.
“Baby, baby, baby oooh / like baby, baby, baby, nooo / like baby, baby, baby, oooh / thought you’d always be mine, mine.” Like Bieber, Bieber, Bieber, nooo: NO ONE GIVES A F**KING S**T!
And as far as the music goes: did you ever notice why all your songs sound so damn familiar Biebsy? Didn’t pick up on that, huh? Well I’ll tell you why: it’s because your “producers” are really nothing more than shameless thieves and terrible copycats. Here’s what they’ve done: they hijacked all the most popular beats and melodies from Top 40 radio the past couple years, mixed in some horrid 90’s boy-band influence, blended that up with the most hip, current production style (in other words, it’ll sound so perfect you’ll want to puke), took some prim-and-proper-but-inside-a-lovestarved-little-bitch Catholic schoolgirls and told them to write the perfect love song, and then sprinkled all that on top. Then all they needed was a perfectly stereotypical prep-douche to be their, uh, mouthpiece. And you, Biebsy, were the lucky one who…fit the bill, shall we say. Filled the hole. Need I go on? It’s not real flattering. All you really are is just the cherry on top of a pop-trash sentimental-garbage smoothie. Goes down smooth and then gives you cardiac arrest. Or maybe you just wretch if you’re lucky. Either way, it ain’t real fun.
And what about the fans, you say? What about the millions of people that love your music…doesn’t that make it ok?
Nope.
Let me explain. Your fan base consists of 2 kinds of people: delirious, shrieking tween girls throttled with pathological insanity, and 40-50 year-old male pedophiles. Yeah, kind of like your producers. Now the pedophiles, they’re dedicated. But unfortunately, there’s not enough of them to justify an entire music career. The girls however, there are plenty of. And sure, they love you now. But here’s your problem Biebsy: in 10 years, you’re going to be the bane of their existence. YOU’RE gonna be the guy that, when they‘re reminded of you in a few years, they’ll croak out “oh my god, I used to
like that s**t?”, and then do one of three things: 1) throw up instantly, 2) piss their pants on the spot and start screaming violently, or 3) drink as much alcohol as they can possibly can and then drive off a cliff. There will be genuine horror. Hell, even YOU will hate your music.
So basically Biebsy, in summation, you’ve dug your own grave. When this generation grows up, they’ll think of such disasters as the Haiti earthquake, the Swine Flu, and Al Qaeda, and then they’ll think of Justin Bieber. Those shrieking girls will have grown into vicious witches plotting to hunt you down and make you pay for their tween stupidity, and the producers will be sucking the cock of your replacement. Sorry to be the bearer of such unpleasant tidings, but as they say: you’ve made your bed, and now you must lie in it. At least you’ll have the 50 year-old male pedophiles to lie in it with you for a while longer.
