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Justin Bieber was always unsure of his success. His own worst critic, he tried out different gender-bending octaves, he tried out different angles for his wisps of hair, but nothing could settle his child-sized stomach, the prepubescent stress of never being enough.
Then one day it all changed, when a (probably creepy) marketing guru decided there should be a Bieber doll.
Mr. Bieber was heavily involved in the process. He inspected every ridge of plastic hair on the prototype, then every button and bobble on the rusted machines, not wanting the Taiwanese factory kids to screw it up. Once the eight-year-old foreman and his crew had jumped through each of Bieber’s hoops, the switch flipped on and the ejaculate of plastic Bieber was in flight. Thousands upon thousands of dolls in his honour, to light up children’s eyes and fill their poor-taste hearts by Christmas 2010.
So Bieber made it, but what ever happened to me?
There is no Mattel doll of an office girl drinking Starbucks and trying to stab herself in the eye when Microsoft Excel randomly freezes. A solemn reminder that I never reached my dream of epic status.
But…I didn’t always feel this way. When I was growing up celebrity dolls made me happy, even joyous. An army of New Kids on the Block to be my twelve-inch boyfriends, a Rick Astley replica who would never ever give me up (it was actually a Ken doll but close enough), and what about my older brother’s Han Solo action figure? That shiny plastic toy was the birth of what is now my most important “old man crush.”
But like with everything else, wide-eyed youth turned into bloodshot pools of adulthood. Each celebrity doll, each action figure likeness of Christian Bale is a comparative measure, reminding me there will never be toys of us regular folk.
And so…how could we possibly be grateful that there isn’t a plastic “us”?
Enter my epiphany.
Continuing on with Justin Bieber as my case study, the doll will be a jacked-up likeness of the man-boy. But the man-boy has to grow. In fact with each passing minute Justin Bieber gets closer to death. Meanwhile his doll smiles on, its feathered hair immune to the troubles of dandruff and grease.
Even all those girls with Bieber-fever will notice. They’ll burst through security and hold up the doll to his face, only to find that there’s spinach in the real Bieber’s teeth. Plus heavily caked on make-up. Plus a pimple you can see through the heavily caked on make-up. Then of course, years later when the surplus dolls resurface as donations for African children, Bieber will have a run-in (during his Tanzanian trip of self-discovery). This time the comparison will destroy him. His Bieber beer gut, crusted lips, sad-man eyes and receding hair, right beside the perfect plastic manboy.
If I were Justin Bieber I would shoot myself in the face. If I was any celebrity with a perfect plastic version of me, a face shot…to the face.
Instead I can just be me, and no matter how I age or grossify with time, who will even know how shitty I look, when there’s no plastic miniature to point out my obvious decline?
Here’s to finally appreciating life below the radar…
Still traumatized by the creepy picture of Justin Bieber on the cover of People magazine, I would hardly focus a blog post on the boy.
And yet, he’s revolutionizing the pop star to fan-girl experience, so I must.
Before I get all hot and bothered for a lad who isn’t legal, let’s travel back in time for a moment…
…It’s 1990, and the New Kids On The Block are playing yet another sold out show. Joey McIntyre sings the opening line to “Please Don’t Go Girl” and…we all lose our shit.
Oh wait, did I say “we”?
Well technically I wasn’t there, since my parents wouldn’t buy me a NKTOB pencil case let alone concert tickets, but hellllo, their concerts were on Pay-Per-View!
Incidentally, my parents refused to buy us Pay-Per-View concerts, but I still enjoyed the boys as a scrambled black and neon-coloured mess.
There was a point to this post…oh yes, back to the opening line of “Please Don’t Go Girl.” Fan-girls swoon, fan-girls sweat, and eventually…the fan-girls shoot their freshly soiled undies up on stage (with disturbingly impressive slingshot skills).
But wait: that’s not the moment of climax. The peak occurs when one of the fan-girls is pulled up on stage. She’ll now be serenaded, danced with, and kissed by a New Kid On The Block.
The problem of course, is that the “classic” heartthrob moment is remote…what if your favourite idol never plays in your city? And what are the odds of getting seats in the first three rows?
Well…fast forward twenty years and the fan-girl game has changed.
I’ll skip the Twitter tutorial (apologies to the Amish…wait a minute, you Amish, what the heck are you doing on the Internet?), and go straight to the biggest trending topic on the site:
*insert fan-girl squeal*
So how do you experience the real Justin Bieber, without ever leaving your home? It’s a process that reminds me of the Second Life site, which is a treasure trove of virtual pleasure for the modern adult. I mean imagine not only building your online self (with genitalia you can buy using credits), but mixing and mingling with other virtual humans! Like maybe it’s a rainy day outside, but you wouldn’t know; you’re way too busy at the Second Life bar, sipping Jack ‘n Coke, and getting ready to “hit that.”
Justin Bieber will also hit you up on Twitter, but in a much less graphic way. It kinda goes like this (paraphrased from actual tweets):
superfangirl#1: If it’s really u @JustinBieber, and if ur as amazing as I think u r, u’ll reply to this msg, and follow me back PS: I luv u!!! xoxo
JustinBieber: It’s really me @superfangirl#1 , and you are now followed back. Nice to meet you.
Oh my god, did that just happen?
Justin Bieber FOLLOWS BACK, and to the tune of fifty-five thousand people! (at last check)
If there’s anyone besides the Amish who doesn’t understand the enormity of being “followed back”, it’s pretty simple:
-Any time a chosen fan-girl posts an update (from what she had for breakfast, to narcissistic photos, to what colour her bra is), Justin Bieber will read it, ask her out, and probably marry her (at least one time out of fifty-five thousand).
So what are you fan-girls waiting for?!
[This message was brought to you by Twitter (not really), and the freak who writes this blog.]
[DISCLAIMER TO FAN-GIRLS: Even though you're competing with fifty-five-thousand hungry fan-girls like yourselves, keep it classy, 'cause no one buys the calf when the virtual milk is free.]