#73:
Justin BieberSince I'm not 12, Justin Bieber didn't explode into my consciousness like a white-hot supernova with a terrible haircut. No, instead he more or less seeped into my consciousness, like a slime mold with a terrible haircut. Now, I don't have a cold and dead heart and I can appreciate the sugary sweetness of a pop hit as much as the next person, but everything about this sawed-off little suburban nightmare makes my skin crawl.
Take a Xanax so you won't leap from your chair and smash your monitor and then we'll discuss:
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