White smoke rose from the roads and the squealing of tires echoed across the urban landscape as several cars drag raced down Wilshire Boulevard in Hollywood, California. This wasn’t just any drag-race, though. It was a who’s who of boy bands, pop stars, and teen heartthrobs.
The Jonas Brothers twisted and turned around the streets in their new fire engine red 2014 Scion tC. All five members of One Direction were packed like Mexican clowns into a two-door 2014 Porsche Cayman. Drake, over-dosed on confidence, drove down the boulevard in a 2014 Ferrari F1. Even Hot Chelle Rae was cruising on the edge of the Hollywood sign in a 2014 Honda Civic SI. Yeah, I know it’s not a real drag-racing car, but they aren’t a real boy band, either, no matter how much Pandora says so.
Justin Timberlake wasn’t there, but that’s because he and his handlers actually have an ounce of common sense and know that as long as he keeps his shit on the down-low, he can make millions of drama-free dollars every year and the born-again soccer-moms will still let their little girls attend his concerts because he’s not a bad role model like the others.
Of course, all of these performers were all eating the dust of one Justin Bieber, driving the all new 2015 Lambroghini Huracán with a 5.2 liter V10 engine, with a top speed of 202 mph and an acceleration of 0-60 in three seconds. I’ll bet you wish you had that car, but no; it belongs to this fucktard instead. Life sucks.
As he drove at insane speeds, running over several squirrels and cats who didn’t even have time to scurry out of the way, he didn’t think to notice the flashing blue lights in his rear-view mirror. After all, he was rich, and rich people don’t have to follow the rules like the little people do. Just ask Bill Gates, Amanda Bynes, or the Monopoly Man.
But unfortunately, he also didn’t think to notice the Starbucks at the end of the street that he was racing towards. With a tremendous crash, he collided into it, busting the pane glass window and turning three latte-sipping, fedora-wearing Hollywood hipsters into a fine mist. His car zoomed over the tables and over the counter, impaling two of the baristas. Unfortunately for him, rich people do have to follow the laws of physics, particularly Newton’s third law of motion, and the wall behind the counter acted with equal force on his car. The million dollar Lambroghini crushed like a ten-penny accordion and finally came to a stop.
Unfortunately for all parties involved, he was not dead. Rather, the same generous hand of god which had enabled Bieber to rise and be noticed on YouTube, be noticed in real life, release many top-forty and number one hits, and date a fox like Selena Gomez was also protecting him now. Miraculously, he stumbled out of the car, not a single scratch on him.
His eyes were beet-red, and the world spun around him like one of the teacup rides at Disney Land. He had smoked like ten marijuanas, and was pretty fucking blazed. Also, he’d had like two drinks. (For a lightweight like him, that was a lot.)
The LAPD arrived in short order, surrounding the wreckage of the coffee shop. The cops pointed their guns at Justin Bieber.
“Hands in the air!” they demanded.
“Oh, yeah? Well, I got a gun, too,” he said, pointing his finger towards them in the shape of a gun and winking at them. At that moment, three teenage girls walking on the other side of the road saw this and fainted in orgasmic bliss.
The officer groaned, walked over to Bieber, and punched him in the face, knocking him to the ground. The LAPD would have kicked Bieber repeatedly while he was down like Rodney King, but fortunately for Bieber, he was white. Also, they didn’t want to have all the little girls rioting.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Drag racing again, huh?” said the officer, wagging a finger as he cuffed Bieber. “Didn’t you learn your lesson in Miami? Let’s book him, boys. I’d read him his rights, but he’s Canadian, and I don’t think they have any.”
=====
As Justin Bieber sat in the Los Angeles County lockup getting raped by Big Jim and Larry the Terrible, a certain online petition was gaining traction. It was yet another petition on WhiteHouse.org to deport the Biebs back to Canada. Except this one had a little more “oomph” behind it.
Dear President Obama,
Justin Bieber is a menace to society. He has drag-raced through our beloved cultural Mecca of Hollywood, destroyed our beloved Starbucks. His music totally sucks, unless you’re an eleven-year-old girl. Also, the crash killed five people, so that’s bad, too.
Even though you and the Department of Justice normally refuse to enforce our nation’s immigration laws and deport anybody else who deserves it, including gang-bangers from Mexico, can you please make an exception to making exceptions?
Please, just this one time, do the job that you were elected to do, and deport Bieber back to Canada. We know that Sasha and Malia probably won’t like it, since they’re in his target demographic, but sometimes, your work has to come before your family. Please take this necessary step and deport Justin Bieber.
Thank you,
The American People
Within mere hours, the petition had gained ten million signatures, more than petitions to abolish the NSA and end the war in Afghanistan, because Bieber is literally worse than both of those things put together. The petition united the country. Democrats and Republicans, liberals and conservatives, blacks and whites, Christians and atheists, fat-cat wall street bankers and rednecks, all of them signed the petition. The only people who didn’t sign the petitions were Texans, because they thought it didn’t go far enough: they wanted Bieber executed. And who could blame them?
The president’s state of the union address came up shortly, and he decided to take action. After spending about twenty minutes talking about new car control laws that he proposed which would allegedly prevent such a thing from happening again, he finally got to what was on everybody’s mind… getting the NSA to quit spying on us.
He spoke, addressing both houses of congress, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my, uh… solemn vow, that… uh, we deport Justin Bieber back to Canada.”
Everybody in the entire congress clapped. Except Senator Max Baucus (D-MT), because he’s secretly a belieber. No wonder that Obama sent Baucus off to be the ambassador to China.
The next day, the cops escorted Bieber on board a gulfstream jet headed back to Canada. The jet took off, and Justin Bieber’s eyes were red and watery as he gazed out the window. No, he wasn’t crying; he stopped giving a shit about his life a long time ago. Rather, he was high on marijuana, and smoking a blunt as the plane cruised in the air. Maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could hotbox the whole plane!
“Excuse me, sir, but this is a no-smoking flight,” said the stewardess as she pointed towards the no-smoking sign. Is the word “stewardess” still okay to say, by the way? I can never keep up with all this politcal correct bullshit. They changed their name, I think. I think they like to be called airline wenches now.
Bieber, stoned as fuck, instead reached over and grabbed the airline wench’s ass, groping it as he grinned widely.
“How about you and I get it on in the lavatory, baby? I could be your boyfriend, baby.”
“Why, I never!” the flight attendant exclaimed, and ran towards the cockpit.
That’s it! It was flight attendant.
“What is it?” asked the pilot as she opened the door.
“It’s Bieber. He’s smoking weed, and sexually harassing me,” said the flight attendant to the pilots.
“Well, did you ask him politely to stop, eh?” asked the pilot.
“Yes, I tried, but politeness doesn’t seem to work on him,” she replied.
The pilots gasped.
“Well that’s a shame,” said the co-pilot. “Oh well.”
“Oh well? What do you mean, oh well? They drug test us at the airport; we can’t breathe in that stuff!”
The pilots all got on their gas masks as the plane filled up with smoke.
Bieber toked and toked and toked, because he didn’t want to get arrested when he got to Canada. If he had no weed, they couldn’t arrest him, after all.
The plane finally landed in Toronto, and the door opened. The pilots and the flight attendants ran out of the door as smoke wafted out the door like from a simmering volcano. The Canadian mounties, who had been radioed earlier, came to the plane. They coughed and sputtered as they searched the plane for paraphenalia. But Bieber was a clever lad, and had flushed his papers down the lavatory toilet. With nothing to arrest him for, they had to politely let him go.
The socialized Canadian news filmed Bieber exiting the plane, and dozens of reporters gathered around him and asked what he would do now that he was back in Canada.
“I don’t know, make music, maybe?” he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
Meanwhile, in City Hall, a certain mayor was watching this on his TV screen.
“FUCK!” exclaimed Rob Ford, a crack pipe in between his teeth. “Now he’s going to take attention away from ME, the crack smokin’-est mayor in all of Canadia!”
He called up his buddy Steven Harper, the prime minister.
“Harpie, boy! You gotta help me! Bieber is back in Canada!” he exclaimed, the crack pipe between his teeth bouncing up and down with every word he spoke.
Steven Harper raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Why don’t we just ask him politely to leave, eh?”
Rob Ford pounded his fist on his desk and exclaimed, “He doesn’t respond to politeness!”
Harper gasped. “Well, there’s only one thing to do aboot this, eh. We’ve got to send him into exile!”
Rob Ford nodded. “That sounds good.”
Prime Minister Steven Harper hung up the phone, looked in the phone book, and dialed every world leader the world over.
First, he called up Vladimir Putin in Russia. He waited on hold for several hours while more important countries’ calls were answered first, like Moldova, Brunei, and Western Sahara. After several hours, Putin finally answered the phone for Harper.
“Zis is Vladimir Putin. You may speak.”
“Hello, Mr. Putin. I was wondering if you could do me a favor, eh?”
“Vat is is?” asked Putin, sipping a vodka as he raised his eyebrow.
“I was wondering if you would be so kind as to take Justin Bieber off our hands? We need to send him into exile.”
There was a pause as the color drained from Putin’s face. Finally, he said, “Sorry, but I am a bit busy with the Olympics. Much too busy to be taking in of the Bieber.”
“Well, can you do it afterwards, then?” asked Harper.
“Sorry, but ve have a law here against homosexual propoganda, and I’m pretty sure his music counts because of how fucking gay it is.”
The phone hung up Putin, because in Soviet Russia that’s how it works.
Steven Harper called many more world leaders, but they all had excuses as to why they couldn’t accept Bieber. Mexico said that they had enough drugs already without Bieber bringing in any more. Iran insisted that they weren’t developing a nuke now, but they WOULD if Canada sent over Bieber. Germany said that they would rather repeat the holocaust. Switzerland said that they were staying neutral in the whole Bieber situation. Australia threatened to send legions of killer crocs and kangaroos and Russell Crowe to Canada if they even dared to send Bieber to them. New Zealand, (which is Australia’s Canada), said that Bieber might be mistaken for a Hobbit by the crew filming the movies, and it would be too confusing if he were there. And the United Kingdom said that they gave Canada independence for a reason: so that they wouldn’t have to deal with Canadians.
Sweat ran down Steven Harper’s face as he realized that he had no options. Canada was stuck with Bieber, and he would leave a trail of twisted wreckage, dead bodies, and terrible music in his wake.
Unless…
Steven Harper and Rob Ford stepped into a laboratory, where all five of Canada’s top scientists were gathered.
“Gentlemen,” said Harper, “I have gathered you here today to see if you can construct a device that can send Bieber into space.”
“Let’s get him the FUCK out of here,” said Ford, puffing some crack. Thankfully for him, Toronto had just installed some crack pipe vending machines, so now he could get his fix on when he was on the go.
“Space, eh?” asked one of the scientists. “Sorrey, but I don’t think we have the money.”
“Well, I’m certainly not going to raise taxes to give you any money,” said Harper. “I’d rather live
with Bieber than raise taxes even a single penny.”
“We don’t have pennies anymore, remember?” said one of the scientists.
“Oh, right,” said Harper. “Well, I guess Bieber has to stay.”
“No, he wouldn’t fucking dare!” said Rob Ford, getting all up in Harper’s face and scowling at him. “I am Canada’s freakshow, not Bieber! You will do whatever it takes to get him out of the Great White North!”
“Well, we do have one alternative,” said one of the scientists.
Harper and Ford turned towards him, their ears perking up.
“Recently, while conducting a very Canadian experiment, we have discovered that placing maple syrup inside a ring of bacon at least a meter in diameter while inside a Tim Hortons, and charging it with electricity, will instantly cause diabetes.”
“How the fuck does that help us!?” Ford demanded.
“Oh, well it also opens a portal to diabetes land, too. It’s a whole new dimension, eh, and we could send Bieber in there.”
Hey, at least it’s not as stupid as building a portal in Minecraft.
Rob Ford clasped his hands and rubbed them together deviously, a huge grin on his face. “Excellent,” he said, puffing on his crack pipe like a cigar.
The next day, Bieber was lured to Tim Horton’s by a promise of free bacon and maple syrup. Though he was immune to politeness, not even the strongest-willed Canadian can resist the call of Tim Hortons, let alone with free bacon and maple syrup added to the mix.
“Okay,” he said, his eyes red. “I’ve got the munchies, so I might devour this whole table of bacon.”
He glanced around, raising an eyebrow. “Gross. You put it on the floor? Don’t you know how many people piss on that?”
Bieber pulled out his phone and tweeted, “Lamest bacon party eva. Like OMG, Harper shafted me. #thissucks”
While he was distracted with tweeting, Rob Ford jumped out of the shadows and pushed Bieber into the portal.
“AAAAH!!!” Bieber screamed as he fell into the portal, the swirling plasma fields consuming him.
“We did it! He’s gone!”
“Hooray, eh!”
Bieber hit the ground with a thud, right inside of Twilight Sparkle’s library.
He asked, “Where am I?”
Twilight turned around and saw him. “A human?” she asked. “I haven’t seen any since I went through that portal to chase down my crown.”
That moment, dozens of bronies groaned at being reminded of Equestria Girls and that it exists. Calm down, at least Flash Sentry (who is Equestria’s Bieber) isn’t in this story.
“Well, I’m Twilight Sparkle, and this is my library, and this is Equestria, so welcome!”
“Thanks,” said Bieber. “Where’s the strip club?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Twilight. “Here in Equestria, we’re all ponies. We haven’t heard of your strange customs.”
Suddenly, the door burst down as Pinkie Pie crashed through.
“NEW PONY… uh, person. New person! Welcome to Ponyville! My name is Pinkie Pie, and I know every pony in Ponyville! I like to party, and…”
“Party? Oh, good. Where’s the alcohol at?” asked Bieber.
“Alcohol?” asked Pinkie Pie. “I don’t know what that is. Oooh, wait, is this one of those made up word games? I can make up words too. Let’s see… uh, spirlamuporent! Delobaculer! Rebubula!”
Justin Bieber got to his feet, dusting himself off. His pupils dilated, and his heart raced.
“Don’t tell me that this is a world without alcohol and strippers?” he frantically asked. “Is there at least weed?”
“There’s plenty of weeds in mah garden!”
Bieber turned around to see that the rest of the mane six had arrived.
“My, what a strange creature,” said Rarity.
“Ooh, he can talk? That’s so neat!” said Fluttershy.
“Eh, big deal. I can talk too, and you don’t see me making a fuss about it,” said Rainbow Dash.
Bieber turned towards Twilight Sparkle. “Okay, fine. I see how it is. I’m not going to get any respect around here until I’m famous again. No problem, though. I could totally be famous again. It’s not like what happened to me before was a one in a million chance or anything. So, I need a computer with access to Youtube and a guitar, stat.”
Twilight raised an eyebrow.
Bieber’s jaw dropped. “Don’t tell me… you don’t have computers or guitars either?”
Twilight chuckled. “Well, I’ve never heard of a computer, but we sure do have guitars. We have all sorts of musical instruments. Music and songs are a huge part of our lives here in Equestria!”
Bieber raised an eyebrow. “If you have guitars but not computers, how do musicians get famous and get lots of money?”
Suddenly, all six of the ponies in the room laughed.
Fluttershy said, “Nopony becomes a musician to be famous or get rich in our world. They do it because they have a passion and love what they do. Money isn’t everything.”
“Yeah,” said Rainbow Dash. “My pal Vinyl Scratch is living in a subwoofer box down by the river, and she wouldn’t trade it in for anything, not even a roof over her head!”
“And my good friend Octavia is practically a pauper; that whole snooty upper class gimmick is a clever ruse,” said Rarity. “But she does it for the music.”
Justin Bieber sat down on the ground once more, burying his head in his hands. This was it. He was in hell. This world was terrible.
He cried and bawled his eyes out, and it became a number one hit.
