I didn’t watch MTV’s latest Edition of the Video Music Awards very long, tuning in just long enough to see the cast of “Jersey Shore” flaunting their “we’re famous for being famous” thing all over the stage and an oddly orgy-esque performance of “Dog Days Are Gone” by some Australian lady flanked by white people presumably pretending to be Aborigines, but one thing was made clear to me: Bieber was there. The fact that I don’t even need to say his full name says it all. This tweenage sensation is everywhere these days, crooning about lost love even though he’s still learning algebra and wearing his hair like a hip-hop Hanson brother.
The insanely magnetic pull of this wunderkind, and his ability to permeate into everything pop culture these days, lead me to wonder: What if we put Bieber to good use? What if we somehow were able to use his almost magical powers to help make our streets safer? And finally, what if some cross-promotional genius realized the potential for the show I’m about to pitch to you all?
Ladies and Gentleman of Burnpoetry, I give you: “To Catch a Predator: Bieber Edition.”
Int. Daytime, a normal suburban home: A middle aged man walks in the sliding door. He possesses the requisite ponytail and nasty attempt at facial hair that seemingly all perpetrators have on this show. Dressed in the latest “straight out of my mother’s basement” attire, he holds in his left hand a brown paper bag. He appears slightly nervous. He sets the bag down on the table.
Old Perv: Hello? Anyone here?
Bieber (off camera): Hey, come on in. I’m just blow-drying my soft, boyish curls.
Old Perv: (to himself) Blowing. . .nice. (To Bieber) C’mon, where are you?
Bieber (off Camera): (singing) I know you love me. . .I know you care. Wait a damn minute. I’m almost there.
The old Perv seems antsy. Chris Hansen walks around the corner and sits down. The Old Perv is dumbfounded.
Old Perv: Who are you?
Hansen: That’s not important for now. What’re you doing here?
Old Perv: Umm. . .I’m not. . .er. . .I don’t want. . .Mark. I’m Mark.
Hansen: That’s a line from the Broadway show, “RENT.” Who are you really? You know what, that’s not important. Your screen name is Biebsluvr6969696969? Is that correct?
Old Perv: Maybe. . .
Hansen: Well we traced your I.P. address. We know it is. Did you ask the underage boy you were chatting with, and I quote, “What color skinny jeans are you wearing?”
Old Perv: I never–
Hansen (interrupting): And did you further ask the boy you believed to be Justin Bieber, and I quote here again, “Will you be my eenie, meenie, miney, mo lover?”
The Old Perv is silent.
Hansen (gaining steam): What’s in the bag? Probably beer, huh?
Hansen goes to reach into the bag.
Old Perv: Wait, don’t. . .
Hansen pulls out 4 posters of Justin Bieber, various haircare products, and an XXL Pleather jacket with enough zippers to make Michael Jackson jealous. He shakes a Biore hair-straightener menacingly.
Hansen: And what’s this?!?
Old Perv (breaking down): It’s a hair straightener. I admit it! I’m a sick, sick man.
Hansen: And what exactly did you intend to do with this?
Old Perv (sobbing): I wanted to have him do my hair. Have you seen his psuedo-bowlcut? It’s mesmirizing.
Hansen pulls out a pair of Nike sneakers, with thick laces and holds them up triumphantly.
Old Perv: Wait, what are you going to do with those? No, please!
Hansen laces the shoes and ties them, de-railing the would-be Bieberite from capturing the “look” of the pop sensation.
Hansen: Well I have to tell you something. I’m Chris Hansen with NBC Dateline. There are police waiting outside for you. But before you go, there’s someone who wants to say something to you.
Bieber comes moon-walking out from behind the staircase.
Bieber: Baby, baby baby gooooooo!
Old Perv: Justin?!? Noooo!
The police kick in the door and promptly taze the Old Perv within an inch of his life. Bieber continues to dance while Chris Hansen beatboxes into his microphone.
Fade to black.
Int. Night, the same suburban house. A pretty woman in her late 20?s enters the house, looking over her shoulder. She stops in front of the reflective door and checks out her ass. With a satisfied nod she walks further in.
Woman: Hello?!? Anyone here?
Bieber (off camera): Hey, I’ll be out in a minute. I’m just zipping up the 23rd zipper on my jacket.
The woman’s phone rings and she pulls it out of a chique, expensive looking purse.
Woman: Chloe, how many times have I told you, I’m busy. Tell Lamar that I am still waiting for a call back from Kobe. I don’t care if he’s married. Oops, I gotta go.
Hansen: Hello, ma’am.
This time Hansen’s cameras follow him out immediately.
Woman: Oh, shit, are you the Paparazzi? Quick, tell me if my ass looks big enough in these jeans? Reggie always told me this side was my best angle.
Hansen (Taken aback): I’m not sure what you mean. . .
Woman: Look, I’m here to bang Justin Bieber. Is he hear or not? When he smiles, I smile.
Hansen: But you’re, like, 30 years old. And hot. Why do you want to have intercourse with a boy?
Woman: It’s like I tweeted, (she looks directly at the cameras) and you can follow me it’s that little circle A thingy then Kim Kardashian. That’s Kar. . .d. . .ummm. . .I think there’s a “u” in there somewhere. Anyway, Dashian. What were we talking about? Does that camera make my ass look fat? Good.
Hansen: Good, god! Just arrest her.