Careful, Justin Bieber
February 6, 2014
I’m surrounded by lots of nasty newspaper and magazine articles and insulting letters and want you to understand this deluge on my doorstep is the same or worse than cyber bullying. Not many understand. I’m nineteen and make fifty million a year and fans love me and I’m doing things most my age would do. I’m going to strip clubs and brothels in Brazil and urinating in a mop bucket in a New York restaurant and leaping from a van to confront paparazzi, my bodyguards close by since I’m a skinny guy.
I’m taking a lot of shit but not hurting anyone. That wasn’t me who several times hit my limousine driver in back of the head, forcing him to park, jump out, and call police in Toronto. The guy who did it split, but I get the blame. Yeah, I did throw a bunch of eggs at the mansion next door in Calabasas but the guy was an asshole and trying to ruin my fun. I don’t believe I did twenty grand in damage, and if I did, so what? I’ll pay for it. But I shouldn’t be responsible one of my buds had some illegal prescription drugs sitting on my coffee table. Right, he was the one arrested, but I’m catching it in the media. Some people respond that the media are making me millions, showing photos of me performing and socializing with other beautiful young people. They’re not making me money. I’m making it for them always being a story people follow.
And Miami. I guarantee the media’s making way too much of nothing. I wasn’t even drag racing my buddy. We were going less than sixty miles an hour. You call that drag racing? Get real. Our cars can go three times that fast, easy. And people tried to say I was drunk. Listen, the legal limit for blood alcohol is .08. I was at less than .02. That means I had less than a drink, okay. That’s why I kept refusing to keep my hands on my car while being frisked and asked what the hell did I do? Why did you stop me?
Lots of older guys with suits and deep voices are telling me to be careful about the trend, that I’m only nineteen and things could get out of hand. I really doubt that. I live in a great house and nothing can go wrong here, I tell those dudes. They ask if I’ve ever been to Graceland.
What’s this? Another article about me. Someone else. You want me to read it. All right. A young woman in Bakersfield is driving home from a party at three a.m. and heading east on a main street. The light is green and she’s driving responsibly and her friend is following her to make sure everything’s okay. As she enters the intersection her car’s hit on the driver’s door by a guy in a huge SUV booming south at a hundred twenty-eight miles an hour. The woman’s head and torso are ripped off and scattered down the street. Her legs remain in her shattered car. The driver, Alex Anthony Rubio, is okay inside his flipped SUV. Instead of trying to help, he crawls out and runs from the scene and starts jumping over fences and fights when the police catch him. After being subdued Rubio’s ordered to take off his shoes so police can prove his feet were the ones that made the escape tracks. Rubio at first complains his shoes are new, but whatever, he’s got money, he’ll get some new shoes. He better hurry to the store, though, because he’s being charged with second-degree murder.
Man, that’s a sad story, it really is. I’m sorry. But what does it have to do with me. I’d never drink that much. I’d never drive that fast. I’d never hit anyone. I’d never run if I did. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t.