The manager of the safari camp shows me a picture of the woman who is claiming that Justin Bieber is the father of her child.
“Look at her!” he demands in wide-eyed incredulity. “Why would a woman like that have sex with a scrawny teenage boy? She must be 6 inches taller and 50 pounds heavier!”
“You don’t understand the mentality of the infatuated fan,” I reply. “The excited groupie loses all sense of propriety in the presence of her idol. I experienced this first hand in my circus days.”
“You don’t say!” jeers the manager sarcastically. “I hope you were gentle with them, because women aren’t built like female gorillas!”
“As gentle as a lamb, manager,” I answer indulgently. “They left my embrace with not a hair out of place.”
The manager squeaks effeminately and plays with his hair, but is unable to engage in further repartee. Freed from the distraction of his facetious banter, I study the Bieber story in greater depth.
The woman at the centre of the case is a 20-year-old blonde called Mariah Yeater. She alleges that Master Bieber invited her backstage after a concert and offered her the honour of popping his cherry. He declined to use a condom (she says) because he didn’t want his first sexual experience to be like paddling in Wellington boots. After 30-seconds of breathless coupling, Bieber was a spent force, and disengaged shamefacedly from his concubine. Apparently, he had expected to pound away for 50 minutes like Dirk Diggler in Boogie Nights. Children often get unrealistic expectations from what they see in movies.
The only thing one can say for certain about this tale is that it’s either true or false. It’s a logical dichotomy that cannot be avoided. Bieber has vehemently denied everything, claiming that Miss Yeater is a hoaxer and an embezzler and not his type. His bodyguards have backed-up his story, pointing out that they are trained to prevent licentious hussies from invading Justin’s personal space and ravishing him for nefarious ends. The maligned woman has tearfully stuck to her story, portraying herself as the delicate rose who got pollinated by an aggressive little wasp.
The dispute will soon be resolved by a paternity test. If Justin does turn out to be the father, it will clearly have implications for his career. I would advise him to re-style himself as ‘Bullet-pants Bieber’, the badass rap artist who knocked up the skank ho who tried to make him her bitch. And he shouldn’t fret about the speed with which he consummated the endeavour – 30 seconds is probably par for the course in the annals of backstage shagging events.
If the baby doesn’t have the Bieber DNA, Miss Yeater must be punished for her false and treacherous tongue. If I were passing sentence, I would order each of her thighs to be inscribed with a tattoo, one of King Kong and the other of Godzilla. It would be a brave man indeed who dared to venture between those raging monsters.
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