Escape And Seek Revenge On The Author!
You decide to have a little looksee in that big old dollhouse. Stooping down, you open the flimsy wooden front door, squeeze yourself inside, and wait for the magic to begin.
But nothing happens.
You can’t really see for shit, but you crawl all around, gamely bumping into things and declaring, “Oh my gosh!” several times, still believing in the power of dreams and the reality of spatial and temporal anomalies. That you are a huge dork from Dorkville-on-Dorkflow hardly needs to be elucidated, does it?
“Ouch!” you exclaim, your enthusiasm starting to wane as you circle round the empty bottom floor for what you think is the third time, yet you still have not fallen down a rabbit hole or been sucked up a gigantic vacuum. “What the hell?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” a voice replies in the darkness. “You’ve knocked me with your fat ass twice now crawling around this place like some kind of asshole.”
You are frozen with fear, poised like a pert puppy with one paw still suspended hopefully in the air. At the sound of this very mundane voice, however, you sit down on that big ass and talk back to the sound.
“Where are you? What are you doing here?”
“I’m Justin Bieber, you cock.”
“What?!
“I said I’m Justin Bieber. And I’m not signing any autographs.”
“How did you get here?”
“Easy. I was riding with my bitches going real fast until a fucking cop came out of goddamn nowhere and tried to pull me over. I don’t roll with that shit. I fucking gunned that fucker all the way down this creepy-ass street until I kind of ran off the road, crashed into a ravine and pulled myself from the burning wreckage just in time to see the whole fucking thing go up in flames.”
“And your, uh…bitches?”
“Be fucked if I care. They kept talking in some dumbass language and probably weren’t supposed to be here anyway. Fucking immigrants.”
“Uh, Justin, you know you yourself are from…”
“Fuck you, eh. Shut up. Next?”
“But how did you get here here, like in this room?”
“Well duh, I had to kind of lay low after blowing up those two skanks so I kept walking down that creepy-ass road until I saw this big old house. I literally have to keep the paps and shit off my ass, so I wore a towel and big sunglasses and snucked into the basement. Then I found all that weird shit this whack-job has going on here and after I played that stupid tape I went in here because pink is my favorite color, obviously. Fucking shit, my management is gonna be all over this fucker once I’m out. Nobody, I mean NOBODY, pulls this shit with the Biebs.”
“You know, Justin, I think you’re actually taking this pretty well. I mean, you don’t seem scared or anything.”
“Scared? Do you think I’m some kind of little bitch? I drink Sizzurp, asshole. I got hair on my balls, big hairy hair on my big-ass balls.”
“Your big ass-balls?”
“Fuck you, queer-o.”
“Hey fuck YOU, J. What exactly were you doing in the dollhouse in the pink room anyway?”
“I could ask you the same question!”
“Well actually I’m not…”
*******************************
“I hope this crappy old…ssss…fucking…ssss…tercom works. Justin? …ssss… Justin? Testing one, two three. Justin is that really you?”
“That doesn’t sound like my sound-check guy.”
From my seat at the controls, I turn on every light in the house. There’s no light inside the big dollhouse, but there are those frilly pink lamps just outside which cast an appealing glow into the windowless windows. Pay attention to the pronouns now, because this is about to get very confusing.
You blink and cover your eyes as rosy Technicolor beams fill the dollhouse, which, as it turns out, is nothing more than some crappy balsawood walls held together with glue glops and some masking tape. Bieber is there, the scrawny little bitch, looking as self-satisfied as ever, though he seems to have forgotten that he is in fact seated in a large puddle of his own pee. You point at him and laugh.
“You’re gonna fucking pay for that,” he spits at you, turning away as he struggles to his orange Nike-clad feet to try and find the intercom system. You follow him out of the dollhouse. Justin pushes the button on a beat-up old wall panel.
“Hello?” he says like a fucking Cub Scout.
“Justin! Oh my god, it’s really you! Ever and always shall I know the lilting ululations of your trilling lyrical fox-vox! Justin! Justin! My god of gods! Idol of idols! Pop Master General and Best Canadian Ever!”
I always knew my evil machinations would bear fruit! Bieber is in the house! Bieber Bieber Bieber! But what to do with this other spare asshole?
And by that, I mean of course, you.
“Please don’t hurt me,” you say.
“But I like hurting people,” I say.
“But you’ve got what you wanted. You’ve got Justin!”
“True, very true. Hmmm.”
Well, what do I do with you? In order to influence me telepathically, you will already have had to pick up the Vulcan Mind-Melds for Idiots book located on my inaccessible roof. Do you have this worthy tome on your unworthy person?
But nothing happens.
You can’t really see for shit, but you crawl all around, gamely bumping into things and declaring, “Oh my gosh!” several times, still believing in the power of dreams and the reality of spatial and temporal anomalies. That you are a huge dork from Dorkville-on-Dorkflow hardly needs to be elucidated, does it?
“Ouch!” you exclaim, your enthusiasm starting to wane as you circle round the empty bottom floor for what you think is the third time, yet you still have not fallen down a rabbit hole or been sucked up a gigantic vacuum. “What the hell?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” a voice replies in the darkness. “You’ve knocked me with your fat ass twice now crawling around this place like some kind of asshole.”
You are frozen with fear, poised like a pert puppy with one paw still suspended hopefully in the air. At the sound of this very mundane voice, however, you sit down on that big ass and talk back to the sound.
“Where are you? What are you doing here?”
“I’m Justin Bieber, you cock.”
“What?!
“I said I’m Justin Bieber. And I’m not signing any autographs.”
“How did you get here?”
“Easy. I was riding with my bitches going real fast until a fucking cop came out of goddamn nowhere and tried to pull me over. I don’t roll with that shit. I fucking gunned that fucker all the way down this creepy-ass street until I kind of ran off the road, crashed into a ravine and pulled myself from the burning wreckage just in time to see the whole fucking thing go up in flames.”
“And your, uh…bitches?”
“Be fucked if I care. They kept talking in some dumbass language and probably weren’t supposed to be here anyway. Fucking immigrants.”
“Uh, Justin, you know you yourself are from…”
“Fuck you, eh. Shut up. Next?”
“But how did you get here here, like in this room?”
“Well duh, I had to kind of lay low after blowing up those two skanks so I kept walking down that creepy-ass road until I saw this big old house. I literally have to keep the paps and shit off my ass, so I wore a towel and big sunglasses and snucked into the basement. Then I found all that weird shit this whack-job has going on here and after I played that stupid tape I went in here because pink is my favorite color, obviously. Fucking shit, my management is gonna be all over this fucker once I’m out. Nobody, I mean NOBODY, pulls this shit with the Biebs.”
“You know, Justin, I think you’re actually taking this pretty well. I mean, you don’t seem scared or anything.”
“Scared? Do you think I’m some kind of little bitch? I drink Sizzurp, asshole. I got hair on my balls, big hairy hair on my big-ass balls.”
“Your big ass-balls?”
“Fuck you, queer-o.”
“Hey fuck YOU, J. What exactly were you doing in the dollhouse in the pink room anyway?”
“I could ask you the same question!”
“Well actually I’m not…”
*******************************
This is where I break in, bitch. The fourth wall is down so you might as well just eat it with some peanut butter and jelly. Mm mm mama.
“I hope this crappy old…ssss…fucking…ssss…tercom works. Justin? …ssss… Justin? Testing one, two three. Justin is that really you?”
“That doesn’t sound like my sound-check guy.”
From my seat at the controls, I turn on every light in the house. There’s no light inside the big dollhouse, but there are those frilly pink lamps just outside which cast an appealing glow into the windowless windows. Pay attention to the pronouns now, because this is about to get very confusing.
You blink and cover your eyes as rosy Technicolor beams fill the dollhouse, which, as it turns out, is nothing more than some crappy balsawood walls held together with glue glops and some masking tape. Bieber is there, the scrawny little bitch, looking as self-satisfied as ever, though he seems to have forgotten that he is in fact seated in a large puddle of his own pee. You point at him and laugh.
“You’re gonna fucking pay for that,” he spits at you, turning away as he struggles to his orange Nike-clad feet to try and find the intercom system. You follow him out of the dollhouse. Justin pushes the button on a beat-up old wall panel.
“Hello?” he says like a fucking Cub Scout.
“Justin! Oh my god, it’s really you! Ever and always shall I know the lilting ululations of your trilling lyrical fox-vox! Justin! Justin! My god of gods! Idol of idols! Pop Master General and Best Canadian Ever!”
I always knew my evil machinations would bear fruit! Bieber is in the house! Bieber Bieber Bieber! But what to do with this other spare asshole?
And by that, I mean of course, you.
“Please don’t hurt me,” you say.
“But I like hurting people,” I say.
“But you’ve got what you wanted. You’ve got Justin!”
“True, very true. Hmmm.”
Well, what do I do with you? In order to influence me telepathically, you will already have had to pick up the Vulcan Mind-Melds for Idiots book located on my inaccessible roof. Do you have this worthy tome on your unworthy person?