I was talking to a friend the other night and somehow the topic of an annoying little mop-headed pop star came up. (I would link to her BLOG if she would ever fucking start one.) She called him the antichrist. I told her that she could not possibly hate him as much as I do. She seemed doubtful that this was possible. However, I knew I was gonna win no matter what her arguments were. You see, I hate Justin B**ber for every single reason most people hate him. The only thing I could possibly be one-upped on is the fact that I do not have children who play his music at an alarming loud decibel. I do not count that as a valid reason because…if you have allowed a minor child to bring his music into your home–much less play it without headphones–it is your own damned fault. My god, people! It’s called parenting. I am usually loathe to critique the parenting of others (at least out loud or in print), but there have to be some lines drawn. Maintaining a B**ber-less home is one of the essentials. Right up there with not letting your kids jump off the roof of the back porch using an umbrella for “lift,” and not being so ready getting ready for your date to arrive that you fail to notice your children building a fire on the front porch (that then must be stomped out when aforementioned date arrives). Not that my siblings and I have ever met, known, or been somebody who did both of those things–no-sir-ee.
Okay, back to the reason why I win. In addition to all those normal reasons to hate JB, I have a super bonus reason. A couple years ago his website posted a phone number for fans to contact him…except they didn’t. There was that overlooked transposition of numbers that annoys me every day. You see, instead of the actual number, they posted the number of the unit on which I work. At the hospital. Where we are very busy dealing with sick people and their families. So, at least 2 (and sometimes 15-20) times a day, I answer the phone hoping it is the physician I just paged for a patient in trouble, a family member who needs to come sit with their agitated patient, the pharmacy calling about when some essential drug might be delivered. Instead of any of these productive things, I get silence…or giggling…and hang-ups. Only once have I ever had one who said, “Sorry, I got the wrong number.” That part might piss me off the most. If you google the phone number of our unit, the results still include at least a couple of references to JB. Because, even though the official website corrected the error, it was too late. Discussion boards, blogs, fansites, etc. still have the number active.
Yesterday was a particularly frustrating day in terms of “b**ber calls.” One of my staff put on her “mommy voice” and said, “This is a hospital. We are busy taking care of sick people and saving lives. You had better stop calling here!” We all cackled like crazy people–because we love it when one of us gets irritated enough to be almost inappropriate. Then one of the physical therapists “got a wonderful, awful idea.” (bonus point to whomever first identifies the source) He said, “The next one is mine.” It didn’t take long, and he answered the phone. When it was one of JB’s girls, he said, “I am JB’s manager, and I have to ask you to stop calling. He does not like girls any more. He likes boys. You need to stop wasting your time and ours.” Howling like maniacs, passing high fives, trying not to wet our pants…we loved it. And then two calls in a row….the first one, “Can I speak to Justin’s manager?”….the second, “Justin’s gay, Justin’s gay.” accompanied by tears. They were so astonished that we made them speak! It was the high point of the day.
So, there it is. I have to deal with his little fans–rude ones without telephone manners–every single day. Until somebody comes up with a better argument. I’m calling this one a win.