I don't listen to the Biebs. He's not my age group and I'm not his target audience, so therefore our paths have never crossed. But I totally get him as an archetype. He's the newest white guy doing all the black-guy stuff. You know: the black-guy dancing, the black-vibrato singing, the black-guy swag.
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I get him. Because I remember the 1990s, I've seen this act before. Normally it’s a five-member boy group made up of black archetypes: the shy guy, the one who looks like he could have done a few days in a state prison for traffic violations, the jokester, the one with the perm and the singer—the one who can hit all the black notes; the one who, if he walked into a black church, could carry a solo. You know, the talent.
Bieber is all of them rolled into one, but it’s the same shtick and I get it. We all do. Bieber is just a stale caricature of all the white-boy-band members’ impersonations of blackness. He was literally vouched for and Usher-ed up the charts, so he's fully into his Donnie Wahlberg bag at this point.
And when I saw that he was in a fight Wednesday evening after the Cleveland Cavaliers handed Team Light Skin their first NBA Finals loss, I thought, “We finally have it; Bieber is going to get his ass kicked.” And I wanted him to. Not because I advocate violence; just because he is an ass clown of epic proportions and, well, because it's time. Let me explain further:
Any guy who has ever been in a fight knows that there is a prefight ritual of man dancing. It's usually when the two parties are far enough apart that they can only throw words before punches. It also involves posturing and posing, since this is the time the guy who has a six-pack takes off his shirt. It's previolence peacocking. Biebs is the king of this, except he peacocks alongside bodyguards. He's a peacock who pays pitbulls to protect him. It makes sense. He needs them because he pump-fakes, and that's easy to do when you have a paid group of "Hold me back, cuz! I'm serious, hold me back" rolling with you.
In the book of Thug, Chapter 3, verse 7, it clearly states that one must have an arrest record. The Biebs has been desperately trying to complete the circle of thuggery. He started sagging his pants and shortening his answers, and while mainstream media won't say, it's clear to us that he's versed in the Scripture. The problem is that Bieber's lameness creeped out. He was so happy that he was finally crossing Thug Lamada Phi that he couldn't hold back his smile.
Look at that smugness. How can you not want to beat the breaks off this kid?
It doesn't take anything to be humble—unless, of course, you're Bieber and you are so self-absorbed that can't bring yourself to be bothered with your fans or their gifts. A 15-year-old Argentinean girl gave Bieber an Argentina flag while he sat in his car. Bieber found the flag, tossed it out the window and rolled his window up.
When I got older and started reading books without pictures, I had a spurt of consciousness. I swore off the white man's swine. But damn, did I miss bacon. Nothing tastes like bacon. I had dreams of bacon. I would go out and see other people eating bacon and stare at their bacon like we broke up.
I loved me some bacon. But I didn't want to be a sellout. Then one day someone hipped me to turkey bacon, and it was as if the angel Gabriel had opened the bacon gates for me. My life changed. Is turkey bacon real bacon? F—k no. But it's the closest acceptable thing.
This is Justin Bieber to all white families who take issue with their child downloading Jacquees. Bieber is easily digestible baconlike blackness. And I hate him for it.
Stephen A. Crockett Jr. is a senior editor at The Root. Follow him on Twitter.
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