Hello out there. Look. I'm not going to beat around the bush or try to soft-pedal this point right here. Justin Bieber? This kid is not right. Not right at all.

Did you watch the big boxing match Saturday night? If not, please allow me to tell you what you would have seen: after all of the buildup and the hype and the undercard fights, when it was finally time for undefeated world champion Floyd Mayweather to walk to the ring, surrounded by his trainer and entourage and his friend 50 Cent, there was, right there in the midst of them all... some kid. Some sort of poufy-haired tween kid there, walking out to the world championship boxing match next to the world champion. Some sort of Life Cereal-looking little motherfucker there, diluting the whole god damn entourage, putting hair gel vibes all over the bloodthirsty arena, looking like a kid whose mom gave him ten quarters to play the slot machine while she went to the bathroom and instead he wandered off into Floyd Mayweather's ring walk. Get out of there immediately. Leave the arena at once, you little kiddie Elvis impersonator/ New Kids on the Block Of a New Generation/ living embodiment of an eight year-old girl's bedroom poster. What are you doing, on my television, on my $69.95 pay-per-view, right now, minutes before a bloody violent fight between world class fighters, Justin Bieber, you little shit?

There we were, Americans of all races and creeds, huddled around our flat screen televisions or getting drunk in sports bars, just like our counterparts from across the world, at that very moment, all of us united, engaged in an activity that promised to feature dazzling displays of punching and avoiding punches and being punched and would, likewise, feature absolutely no Justin Bieber. How wrong we were, all of us. Because right there, on our television screens, as much as I tried to deny it—"Maybe it's an Elvis impersonator? No, I think it's maybe one of those Make A Wish Foundation kids?"—there was fucking Justin Bieber and His Leaning Tower of Hair, unavoidable, walking in right next to the world's best boxer, just as dandy as he could be.

Listen, Justin Bieber. You crooning little ho bag. You've been lucky in life. The fates have been kind to you. We, the majority of humans in the world, who have not fallen prey to your pouty little lips and bitchy little earring, have been operating thus far on the basis of a de facto bargain with you: we don't come to your disgusting little cooing jailbait-whisperer concerts, and in return you do not, under any circumstances whatsoever, make an appearance during a world championship boxing match, particularly not by standing next to the world's best fighter during his ring walk and even in the ring before and after the fight. Violation of this agreement threatens to upset the delicate balance that prevents people of various pop culture predilections from turning against one another in mortal combat in an all-out war for predilection superiority. I don't care that you were personally invited by the champ himself, Justin Bieber. Get out of there. Get out of there. Get out of there, and never let us see you again.

You foofy little shit.

[Image: Jim Cooke. Photo: Getty]