So you’ve seen it.
I did too, man. I did too.
And if you haven’t, my colleague David’s sketch is eerily on point.
Let’s cut to the brass tacks here. Putting all biases aside, I think the general consensus is that he’s packin’. Kids got a rope. An anaconda. Ok, it’s not that big, but it’s bigger than it should be. Put it this way: before yesterday, if you gave me a pen and told me to draw what I believed Bieber’s dick looked like, I’d take the cap off the pen and trace it.
That is how I rationalized him being a uber-famous, good-looking pop star insufferable dickface. He’s gotta have a baby dick. The Earth needs balance. Ying and Wang. Pick one. Welp, new information has come to light that has turned my world on its head: Justin Bieber’s got a hog.
Much like you, I’m guessing, this flooded me with a plethora of conflicting emotions. Emotions that my therapist suggest I publicize as a healing mechanism.
So without further ado, here are the five stages of emotion I underwent upon becoming a Belieber.
Nope. Nope, Nope, NOPE. This can’t be a real thing. Maybe it was a flattering angle. Maybe the camera was on zoom. Maybe I’m still drunk. Maybe they photoshopped one of those mini baseball bats you get as a souvenir at the AAA games hanging from his torso. Maybe this is a dream. I mean a nightmare. Maybe up is down. Maybe left is right. Maybe Jack lets Rose die at the end of Titanic instead of Rose not moving her elitist ass over on a raft clearly big enough for the two of them. Maybe…fuck that’s definitely his real schlong isn’t it?
Maybe I finally purchase those ExtenZe penis enlargement pills that stare me in the face every time I buy a pack of gum at the gas station.
THIS FUCKING KID, MAN. His music sucks, his attitude sucks, his lesbian haircuts all suck, the way he gives those misty, I-just-woke-up eyes when posing for pictures SUCKS, his grandmother probably sucks, the way he started sobbing at the VMAs sucked, his teenie-bop fans sucks, my credit score sucks, my love life sucks, my hygiene sucks, my fantasy football team sucks, oh shit I forgot what we were talking about. Just kidding about those last few. I’m totally content with not being a rich, famous pop star. Totally.
Hey dad, thanks for the average dick, buddy! You REALLY shouldn’t have! And while we’re leveling with each other: I can’t jump, I can’t sing, my tits are starting to look like traffic cones and oh ya, I suck Bieber dick at math, so I guess you’re to blame for that too! But I’m learning, dad! No thanks to you! I’ve even been working on this one equation and it goes like this:
Matt dick x 2 + 1 – 4 red sores = Bieber dick
I’m sorry, pops. I shouldn’t blame that entire equation on you. It was moms fault too. And that Vegas escort named Felicity.
*I take a long pull of Jack Daniel’s as the lights are being turned off in an empty Chili’s and before I angrily exclaim to the waitress ‘You’ll close when I’M FINISHED, TOOTS!’
I pull out my cell phone and scroll down to my now happily married high school ex-girlfriend. She looks good and should have never married that STIFF Tanner. Cool name, Tanner. Bitch. A voice is telling me I shouldn’t text her. A louder, more invasive voice is saying “TextTtt HErr U fuKKingG LoSSER.” This voice seems reliable, so I abide. Plus, I need to know. I send the following text: “If U were goinj to describEE my DickK InN ONE woird wat wuld iT BeE?”
She responds immediately with one word: “Cute.”
This was not ideal, of course. I would have preferred “Excalibur” or “Ouch.”
I immediately thought of my grandmother. She once said “the best things come in small packages.”
Grandma was always good with advice, even dick advice. I miss her.
And then it dawned on me. I realize that the size of Bieber’s dick has no consequence on my life. The real things that matter are the things you can’t measure with a ruler: like love, family, and self-worth.
Liberated, I take one more swig of JD and head to the bathroom to take a leak.
That’s when I saw him walk in.
Here we are, Biebs. Just you and I. Next to each other at the urinal in a Chili’s bathroom. I ask you what the fuck you’re doing at Chili’s after closing. Or at all, for that matter. You say you occasionally fuck the hostess and you love the southwestern egg rolls. Under my breath, I mumble ‘Respect’.
One of your many hit songs plays softly in the background. You don’t bat an eye. We unzip simultaneously and start letting it fly. Your tip hitting the blue foam sponge, mine barely visible through the tangled mess that is my abandoned pubic hair. I casually wipe the dust off my member and try my best to focus on the chewed piece of Orbitz gum below as I relieve myself.
My mind wanders. I start to wonder things like where I’ll be in five years, who I’ll love, and how the fuck you fit that thing in your skinny jeans. You fart audibly. I laugh. You laugh. We both laugh. Maybe you aren’t just one giant penis after all. Maybe when you peel back the foreskin layers, there’s a compassionate, grounded human being.
Following your lead, I squeeze out a forced fart. Neither of us laugh. It is now awkward. What have I done. You wrassle your python back into your pants, zip up, and aggressively bro-slap me on the shoulder. It hurts but I won’t let my face show it. You don’t wash your hands, but your secret’s safe with me, friend. Before exiting you say three words that I’ll play on repeat in my head:
“Later, big guy.”
Big guy. I chose to interpret that literally.
As I wash my hands, I look myself in the mirror and love the person staring back at me. Smiling, I cockily say to myself ‘Big Guy’ as I toss a piece of crumpled paper towel into the trash bin. Nothing but net.
Right before I exit the restroom, I hear your voice faintly on the other side:
“I’ve swallowed pills of molly bigger than that thing.”
The hostess you will soon be fucking exaggerates her laugh as the front door to Chili’s closing behind.
I drive home, park in my garage, close the door behind me, and keep the engine running until I drift off to sleep.