The Antichrist: A Treatise
Nostradamus has nothing on me.
Don’t get me wrong, Nostradamus was a pretty cool guy. Sure, he was unfashionably cryptic, and had that beard that small children could get lost in, but still…he was a pretty alright guy from my estimations.
In the past few days, I have come face-to-face with the true meaning of the Beginning of the Apocalypse. Yes, people. The time of reckoning is at hand. The Seals are being blown open (haha, I said “blow”), the Four Horsemen are putting the finishing touches on their makeup. The world is turning upside down and now that things have been put in motion, there is no going back. We’re fucked.
I woke up yesterday morning and began my Getting Ready For The Day ritual as normal. Got up, had a smoke and sat on the toilet to read the news on my iPhone. As a gay man, it is in my very nature to be drawn to celebrity gossip. Maybe the scientists that are researching the so-called “gay gene” will be able to identify the DNA strand or hormone that causes gay men to lie awake at night pondering The Real Housewives of Atlanta, or whether Jennifer Lopez will be the next American Idol judge. Consequently, the first app I generally open up while I’m on ths shitter is E! Online. On this seemingly innocuous Monday morning, there was no way I could have prepared myself for what I would see. Thank God I was on the toilet at the time, or I would have had a rather horrific mess on my hands…and in my boxer briefs.
But I digress. Whilst (I love this word) sifting through the 1200-some-odd stories about La Lohan and her ridiculously short time in jail, during which time I really have to hope that she was repeatedly violated with a toilet brush handle by her cellmate named Mildred, I came face-to-face with yet another news story about the One Who Will Bring Down Humanity And Cause Small Children To Wet Their Pants And Scrub Their Eyeballs With Clorox:
Now, Justin and I have always had a hate/hate relationship. I hate him, and I hate him. Many nights I have lain awake in bed attempting to telepath all manner of plague-like diseases toward him. You know, the usual: oral gonorrhea, anal herpes, necrotizing fasciitis…those kinds of things. Don’t tell me you’ve never wished the same thing. You’d be lying if you told me you never secretly wanted to witness Justin’s flesh rotting off his 12-year-old-girl body revealing the putrid soul that lies underneath. And liars go to hell.
Anysnork. After gagging through what I read on my beloved E! app, I can’t fuck around with telepathic plagues anymore. The time has come for full-on apocalyptic warfare. I’m cinching up my corset and donning my metal brassiere. This time, the little fucker crossed a line.
Justin Beiber (I refuse to pronounce his last name correctly as “BEEber”, to me he will always be BYber) has penned a memoir. A MEMOIR. My bowels are turning to liquid even as I type out that sentence. Let’s analyze this for just a minute.
The twerp is sixteen years old. Sure, he has become a tween wet-dream almost overnight, but what about that would warrant an entire book? How many pages could possibly be filled by tales of a talentless, hilariously androgynous teenager who sports what could very well be dubbed the single worst celebrity haircut in Hollywood history, and that includes Bravo’s “Top Design” judge Kelly Worstler? If you don’t know who she is, stop reading this immediately and Google her. I’ll wait while you do that.
Sufficiently horrified? Me, too. So, back to the Beiber. I have so many nagging questions. First, why does this syphilitic vaginal wart have a career? What is it about him that makes young girls and sexually confused boys squeal like mongeese (is this the plural for mongoose? Hmmm.) in heat whenever his name is mentioned? What made him wake up one morning and decide he was relevant and important enough to chronicle his life in a book?
But, dear reader, this is only the beginning of the horror. “What??” I can hear you screaming, “How in the name of Candied Yams could the world be such a bleak and desolate place to allow such a thing?? I am this close to cowering in a corner and eating my own feces!!!!!!!” Reader, prepare thyself. Wield your rosaries and clutch your Bibles (BIBLES not BEIBERS).
The blissfully ignorant executives at Paramount Pictures have greenlighted…wait for it…A MOVIE ADAPTATION OF THE NECRONOMICON THAT IS JUSTIN BEIBER’S MEMOIR. And not just any movie adaptation. A 3D MOVIE ADAPTATION. Do I have your attention? Do you grasp the seriousness of this situation? Not only will the Hallowed Shelves of Barnes and Noble be desecrated with the gooey, pus-filled atrocity that is JB’s memoir, now, unsuspecting moviegoers will shell out $10.50 a ticket at the local Hoptoogieplex to commune with the Infernal Imp in three dimensions. People, this is like an addition to the “Saw” franchise but with far deadlier implications.
I cannot be clearer: Justin Beiber doesn’t deserve TWO D’s, let alone THREE. The only D he should be allowed to experience is the final D: Death. As in decaying corpse, exploding abdomen, anal leaking, Final Destination-style, Ceasing-To-Exist Putrefaction.
Yea, the Day of Judgment is drawing nigh. The time for action is now. We cannot, nay, we MUST not tarry long. The Armies of Righteousness must gird their loins and gather at the Place of….Something…and bring the Dark One to justice. Blood must be spilt. Bowels must be Emptied. For when the Two Testicles drop…it will be too late.