Tuesday, May 18, 2010

I Got Bieber Fever and the Only Cure is a Quick Death

Y'know, I for real did not plan on mentioning Bieber again, at all, when scratching around for a topic. Then the little bastard went and got nominated for a BET AWARD. A BET AWARD. A BET AWARD.

Nope, saying it loudly three times did not make it seem more real.

So he's up for best new artist. The headline I saw was "Justin Bieber, Jay-Z nab BET nominations." You know what else those two nab together? Nothing. Because when you think of J. Bieb and Jay-Z at the same time, somewhere a retarded baby kitty dies. So now it's out. BET hates retarded baby kittens. Apparently I do too. Because I've made you kill at least three by now.

Bieber might nab Jay-Z's shoes for him, to give them a good shine. He might nab his gold chalice, to refill it with a cognac that only rich people know exists. I'll even allow that he might nab a crisp $20 for averting his eyes when Beyonce walks into the room. But they don't nab anything on equal footing. Jay-Z was born in fucking Bed-Stuy. The second line of his bio on Wikipedia is "at age 12, he shot his brother in the shoulder for stealing his jewelry." Bieber was born in Ontario. One time, he shot the girl at Starbucks a dirty look because she put whipped cream on his dark cherry mocha when his mom clearly said no whipped cream.

Look at the kid's picture up there. That carefully tended, windswept hair. Porcelain lesbian face. Polite Canadian manners. Omnipresent sideways peace sign (seriously, find a picture of that joker without one). What seems to be a woman's scarf. And you tell me: how bad do you want him to get in a fistfight with Lil Wayne at the awards?

Lots. The correct answer is lots.

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