If Justin Bieber Were My Terrible, Golden Son -The Toast

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If Justin Bieber were my son, I would have a Cobb salad for lunch every day, and a big goblet of iced tea beside it. If the tea were sweetened or flavored in any way, I would send it back. I would never drink tap water.

If Justin Bieber were my son, I would say, “Well, then, maybe I need to speak to your manager” at least once a day.

If Justin Bieber were my son – my terrible, horrible son – I would never allow him to face consequences for his actions. I would bail him out of everything, including actual jail, and shield him from 100% of consequences and self-reflection.

If Justin Bieber were my son, my glorious, my awful son, I’d carry a big green handbag with me wherever I went and be the world’s biggest bitch. I’d wear a lot of bracelets and have long red fingernails and they’d clangle against each other when I walked or gestured. The bracelets, not the fingernails.

If Justin Bieber were my golden-skinned son, I would buy all my perfume from the Duty Free magazine on international flights in business class.

If Justin Bieber were my nightmare son, I would cradle him to sleep every night in the soft crescent of the moon, and I would gun-murder any star that orbited too close to him.

If Justin Bieber were my son, I would be strong enough to beat up Jack White in a bar fight, and Jack White would know it and fear me. I would have incredible upper-body strength and no regrets.

If Justin Bieber were my downy, tousle-hearted son, I would still not know the difference between the words “libel” and “slander.” This would not stop me from using them interchangeably and often.

If Justin Bieber were my son, I would refer to every woman he ever dated as his “friend.” “Where’s your friend, Justin?” “Oh, that’s Justin’s little friend.” “Justin’s in St. Bart’s with that brunette friend until Wednesday.”

If Justin Bieber were my darling son, I’d say things like “Of course you’re right, baby” and “We’re leaving” and “We’re willing to walk over this” and “Well, those people are just plain trash” all the time.

If Justin Bieber were my son, I would always be three or four fashionable diets behind everyone else. I would still be talking about South Beach; the word “paleo” would mean nothing to me.

If Justin Bieber were my son, I would spend a lot of time making sure everyone saw that I had two phones, one for work and one for something else. One would be an iPhone. I don’t know what the other one would be. I would have a different stance for holding each phone; you would know which phone I was on based on how I shifted my weight on each leg.

If Justin Bieber were my great gallumphing boy, I would outrun imposter syndrome with a giant rocking-horse and throw salt on the very concept of self-doubt so that it withered and died at my feet.

If Justin Bieber were my son, I would eat M&Ms individually, carefully selecting each one with my glossy unbreakable fingernails, instead of suctioning my mouth over my open palm and tossing them into the back of my throat like I do now.

If Justin Bieber were my colt-offspring, I would be able to understand and communicate with most bugs, and they would sometimes obey me. Not always. But sometimes.

If Justin Bieber were my son, I would reward his good behavior with sardines, like how they give one to the dolphins at Sea World every time they do a trick.

If Justin Bieber were my son, I would always have half of a re-wrapped burrito from Chipotle in my purse, just in case someone needed it. I would be prepared for any emergency. Nothing would catch me off-guard. My center of gravity would be spread over my entire body, and the devil himself could not knock me over. My eyebrows would be stronger than God.

If Justin Bieber were my sweet precious boy-child and I his deathless mother, we would dress as Venus and Cupid for every single costume party we got invited to, forever. I would not let him bring his phone to those parties. He would love me more than anything in the whole entire world, and I would never die.

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