I like a man who looks like he's been out chopping wood — or could at least identify and convincingly grip an ax. In other words, I'm not into Justin Bieber, who looks like he'd need a team of be-bop-Beliebers to lower the ax via invisible wires into his outstretched hands to fake his way through any wood-chopping scenes in a music video.
Sidebar: If you know of any good wood-chopping scenes in a music video, please send links.
That said, I'm also not into violence. So when I got word that LA Clipper Blake Griffin had smacked the shite out of the Biebs, well, let's just say I was disappointed.
Disappointed by the twinkle in my eye, by the spring in my step, by the compulsion I felt to "start dancing, sexual romancing," "twerk for a goodfella" and — hellz yeah! — "money dance with the money team."
In the heat of my moral turpitude, I felt Griffin surpassing Elon Musk as my personal hero and immediately promised God I'd start watching whatever sport it is he plays.
But just like a "Roller Coaster" — right, JB? — my high soon swung low. It wasn't true. The rumors were just that. All false. Blake hadn't smacked the Biebs. No one had smacked the Biebs.
ESPN confirmed. TMZ confirmed. I lost all will to twerk.
I felt a sudden irrational fury for Blake and whatever sport he plays. Wuss. And what about everyone else? How can it be that no one has smacked that Canadian stick boy?
Not the neighbor whose house he egged.
Not the limo driver whom he and/or one of his minions allegedly assaulted.
Not the crew flying the private jet Bieber and his old man so thoroughly pumped with herb that the pilots had to O2-mask up to avoid failing the drug tests on which their jobs depend.
Not the German authorities with which little boy Biebs abandoned his capuchin monkey, Mally.
Not Mally himself. Note: My distaste for violence does not extend to animal-on-man violence provoked by man behaving badly. That's actually my version of porn.
As I was saying...
Not even the tweens who go to the trouble to steal songs off the Internet only to be met with lyrics like:
What's a king bed without a queen?
There ain't no "I" in team.
You make me complete.
Take the gas out the car it won't drive.
That's how I feel when you're not by my side.
And, of course:
Hey, love, the Wise Men followed the stars,
The way I follow my heart,
And it led me to a miracle.
I'm pretty sure it was the other way around, Beibs, but whatevs. You have bigger trouble than that mega-case of megalomaniacal dementia that has you edifying Biblical big-shots. As of this writing, more than 150,000 non-Beliebers have signed a petition to deport JB on the grounds that he is a holy terror and a poor example for society. And a Canadian.
I haven't signed the petition. My hesitation is that it might set a precedent for a brand of immigration reform I'm not entirely comfortable with: deportation by signature collection. Watch out, Congress. Watch out, Kardashians. You, too, Carlos Danger.
And besides, it's Valentine's Day — a day set aside for romance, a day set aside for love, a day set aside for Justin Bieber's arraignment on charges of DUI and resisting arrest.
Happy VD, Biebs. XOXO.
Follow Jessica on Twitter @sicaleigh. To find out more about Jessica Leigh, and to read features by other Creators writers and comics, visit the Creators website at www.creators.com.
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