Very Little Of This Actually Happened [a blog] #whatiwrite

A fucking massive arse. And Nicki Minaj's bottom.
A fucking massive arse. And Nicki Minaj’s bottom.

So, if there’s no newspaper (and I don’t mean there was no newspaper today; there’s always a newspaper. I just didn’t pick one up. Even if there wasn’t a newspaper, you could always just go on the internet and look at one of those things that pretends to be a newspaper, like the Huffington Post.) I usually go look at what’s trending on twitter. Today, it’s a lot of stuff about Justin Bieber.

Now, it’s easy to hate on Justin Bieber. That’s because he’s a horrible little prick, with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. There are mitigating circumstances though. He didn’t ask for the fame. He was just an innocent little boy with lesbian hair and the most punchable face on earth who loved music. Nothing would please him more than sitting down with his guitar and pretending to play it while singing along to the tunes of people like Ne-Yo. He had a natural talent, it seemed, for singing; which is not an easy thing to do. I mean, only about nearly all of us can sing. And the rest could be made better at singing, with  lessons, or some sort of computer-generated help. So, it’s an exclusive club.

So little fourteen year old Justin used to sit in his bedroom in Canada, singing along to R&B and generally minding his own business, totally unaware that he was potentially the most face-kickable human cunt in existence. His mother, on whom I have done no research whatsoever, so I can speak with all the authority of anyone on the internet, passed by his bedroom one night; possibly listening to see was Justin masturbating (maybe to twink porn, or some other type of homosexual erotica), when she heard this angelic voice coming from inside. Delighted, proud, and immediately seeing more dollar signs than Kim Kardashian’s mother pissing on a pregnancy tester, she rushed in and embraced little JB. Her beautiful son was an actual musical genius. Now all she needed to do was make sure the right people heard his songs.

The right people, of course, were the shiny-suited, ponytailed utter cunts of the recording industry. Mrs Bieber carefully filmed Justin singing his awesome tracks, and uploaded them to youtube, making sure to direct him in the videos, so that as well as singing, he touched his own privates, flicked his hair, and mouthed phrases like ‘I enjoy the attentions of pederasts’ or ‘Hey, eight year old girl, I’m saving myself for your precious maidenhead’ at the camera. She then made 407,000 dummy Youtube accounts, and proceeded to get little JB to the top of the rankings, by fair means or foul. She targeted several audiences: pre-pubescent girls, elderly NAMBLA members, and Ellen DeGeneres. In addition, she slept with every straight man working in the Canadian music industry, often doing anal.

Justin, on the other hand, was carefully preparing for life as a cunt. He knew that no matter how grounded he was, one day millions of girls would be following him on twitter, masturbating to pictures of his pallid, skinny torso, and killing themselves because he smiled at their friend in a toilet once. This wasn’t like being a child actor, where the fans and the madness would be kept at arm’s length in order to keep his feet firmly planted. This was pop stardom. He would literally have to stand on stage in a stadium while engulfed by the stench of 40,000 twelve year old girls saturating their gussets with pre-teen minge-butter. There was no way this wasn’t going to go to his head and turn him into an enormous douchenozzle. It was only a matter of time, so he needed to enjoy Not Being Famous while it lasted.

Mrs Bieber’s Youtube campaign was a roaring success, as was her mission to systematically empty the swollen testes of every Music Industry professional into her reddened, twitching anus. Justin picked up a deal with a major, and a contract to make 46 albums. Or 1 album, if it turned out to be shit. To prevent it being shit, the bigwigs brought in the brightest minds and talents in rap and R&B, being completely unaware of the fact that JB was probably white. The rappers didn’t care. They’d seen the whole Justin Timberlake thing happen before, with rappers like Pharell Williams going mainstream on the back of what was in essence, a fucking cunt. A fucking white cunt though, so Corporate America approved. Ludacris was brought in, along with (I haven’t researched this, so I’m going to guess) Missy Elliot, Wyclef Jean, Biggie Smalls, and Tupac. The album went quintuple platinum after six minutes of being on sale, and Justin celebrated by fucking Chelsea Handler in her mouth, while his mother ate Caviare out of Orprah Winfrey’s vagina.

The fame kept coming; and, as he had suspected, Justin became an enormous fucking tool. Even bigger than he had feared. To sate and placate him, his management worked around the clock to do his bidding; bringing in all the Disney Jailbait they could find, so that JB could stab them in their virginal cooches with his underdeveloped peen, but there was no way to satisfy his urges. Several of the young actresses actually died at his hands; as, when he’d run out of semen, he would instead get sexual gratification from penetrating them with anything to hand: a chair leg, the handle of a squash racket, and one occasion, Betty White’s fist. The horror was unimaginable, but the record company knew they had a cash cow, so everything was covered up, and the world stood by, oblivious to his evil.

Things came to a head last month in London, then the little Emperor arrived on stage a couple of hours at the O2, leaving 8,000 fans weeping and disappointed, including many parents, and Jonathan King (who was wearing a latex posing pouch, and covered entirely in Blue Band margarine). There was no official reason given of course, but behind the scenes, the carnage had been unimaginable. Sitting on his solid gold throne backstage, Bieber had refused to so a sound check unless his lackeys brought him the Olsen Twins, naked, in a paddling pool full of dog semen. When the girls were flown in, JB flew into a tantrum, after finding out that they were actual grown ups now, with real pretend jobs as Fashion Designers.

‘I WANTED THE FULL HOUSE ONES, CUNTS!!!!’ he is reported to have probably shouted, before spitting in Mary-Kate’s actual mouth. Mortified, his helpers ushered the anorexic bitches out the back door, before returning to listen to their glorious leader’s new demands.

‘I WANT TO MEET MICHAEL JACKSON. AND PRINCESS DIANA. I WANT YOU TO BRING THEM BOTH HERE. AND I WANT THEM TO FUCK FOR ME.’ He didn’t blink, and kept eye contact with all of the aides in attendance. Eventually, one brave PA piped up:

‘But… your majesty; those people are dead.’

Bieber laughed the laugh of Captain Hook, or Rupert Murdoch or someone, and said simply:

‘I know.’

It was an evil that hadn’t been seen under that hallowed dome since Tony Blair had been at the grand opening back in 1999 (possibly, I haven’t done the research). The aides dispersed, making the phone calls which needed to be made. To coroners, judges, men who owned shovels. It was going to take at least two hours to make it happen. They needed to work fast.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s