The Shocking Truth Behind Justin Bieber Brand Nail Polish
The big news in all the music and nail polish blogs this week was the announcement that Justin Bieber would begin distributing a series of nail polishes based upon his music. On the surface this seems to be a mundane attempt to capitalize on his fanbase (young girls with ugly fingernails) and their needs. But here at Cracked, perched atop our commitment to fabricated journalism like some kind of hilarious raven, we wondered if there might be more to the story than that. And, after a bit of fabrication, it turns out there was.____It was around 11:00pm on a brisk autumn night when I approached the main entrance of Bieber Industries, a massive complex located in the city's arts/heavy industrial district. At the entrance stood a guard, large and disinterested. "Hello," I said blandly, playing it cool. "Just heading inside on regular business."The guard nodded. "What's in the sack?" he asked, gesturing at the large sack I was carrying over one shoulder."Solvents," I said, with a shrug."Fair enough."Silently thanking a country where the concept of "pride in your work" had long since grown flaccid and floppy, I watched him open the main gate for me. Walking inside the complex, I picked a building at random, and strode towards it confidently. I swung my sack around nonchalantly, trying to flesh out my "guy who belongs in an industrial complex" character in case I crossed paths with anyone else.Entering the building, I stopped to get my bearings. It appeared to be a modern, automated production facility, set up for producing nail polish. To my right was the beginning of the production line, where the raw ingredients for the nail polish were being mixed. As expected, I saw the usual mix of resins, adhesives, plasticizers and pigments being mixed together, along with the ingredients that made this polish Bieber-specific, including sparkles, thousands of young girls' tears, and juiced koala bears. The ingredients were funneled down pipes and chutes, and all met in a central tank, where a solitary figure was slowly mixing it by hand with a big wooden paddle. Having fully donned my "industrial-complex belonging fella" persona, I marched right up to the figure and said chummily, "How's things going? Any dark secrets that the outside press must never hear about?"The figure turned around, a surprised look on his face, though I'd wager no less surprised than my own. For indeed I was staring into the face of Justin Bieber himself."Oh my god! Are you a Bieber-clone? Are you one of a thousand Bieber-clones? Did an evil senator order the creation of you in anticipation of wiping out the Jedi?" I struggled to catch my breath. "Holy shit what a scoop!" The Justin Bieber clone shook his head. "No, I'm the real Justin Bieber."I wrinkled my brow, confused. "But that doesn't make any sense. Why would you be working here, doing the job of a robot? An immigrant robot even. I would have thought you'd be out touring. Or enjoying the trappings of your success?" The non-cloned Genu-Bieber snorted. "The trappings of my success?""Yes man! Teenage girls! It is so much less creepy being interested in them at your age. People write songs about teenage boys loving teenage girls, and everyone loves those songs and dances to them. But you try and do the same about just regular guys loving teenage girls, and then you're suddenly getting kicked out of the band." I frowned, having gotten off track a bit. "At a minimum, you should be out spending your riches."The Bieb let out a short bark of a laugh. "My riches? Ha!""I don't understand," I said, not understanding. "You must be loaded."He shook his head sadly. "No. They have all my money. I've got nothing."I looked at him carefully, searching his expression for some hint at what he could mean. "Who took all your money?" I sat down on a nearby staircase. "Come on, I'm a trained columnist." I patted the space beside me. "Sit down and rap with me." The Bieb sat down, took a deep breath, and began his story. "Ok. So a few years ago, I was just this regular kid in Canada. You know, working 9 days a metric week down at the socialism mine. But then one day this American, wearing a gold chain with a gold watch hanging from it, came to the mine and 'discovered' me. He convinced me to move to America to be a big rock-and-roll star. All I had to do was sign a contract."I winced. "And the contract says that you owe them a huge amount of money every week for rent and haircuts and purple outfits." I gestured at his purple outfit. "And that all your earnings go directly to your managers first, to pay off these expenses?""That's right. And when I'm not out blushing at girls, they make me work here in the polish factory. But how did you know all that?" The Bieb looked surprised."It's a pretty common story I'm afraid," I said. "Cracked tried to do the same to me once. I was lucky though. A judge ruled that I was mentally incompetent to enter into contracts, and after that, all my problems went away," I said. "Well not all of them.