If Only They Knew About My Micropenis
by Justin Bieber
As an overnight pop music icon, I’ve had more than my fair share of awkward sexual propositions from teenage girls, their sisters, their middle-aged mothers, Tina Fey, ladies at the candle and card shoppe, members of celibate religious orders, and legions of screaming harpies that bear down on me from afar, burying each other in psychotic lust, convinced that only I am able quench their disturbingly inappropriate desires.
And yet, if only they knew that their desires were all for naught: If only they knew about my micropenis.
Microphallus, or micropenis, is defined as a stretched penile length of more than 2.5 standard deviations (SDs) below the average size of a normal, fully-capable man. As a permanent, congenital affliction, the term is most often used medically when the rest of the penis, scrotum, and perineum are without ambiguity, such as hypospadias.
I don’t really understand what any of that means, but here is one thing that I do understand: I will never satisfy a woman.
Ever.
Think about how angry that makes you.
Some people have said that I look like a lesbian, and you know what? I might as well be one. This is a serious medical condition – one for which there is no cure. It has nothing to do with my youth, or youthful appearance. Even when I am forty-years old – if I can make it that far without offing myself – I will still suffer from the locker-room anxiety of my microscopically tiny genitals.
Do you understand? There is nothing in my pants for you. Nothing. It is as blank as your heart. Your imagination of its power is a lie.
What is it like being afflicted with a permanent, debilitating micropenis like the one that I have, you ask? I will tell you: It is the exact opposite of being a worldwide entertainment phenomenon. Imagine how exciting it would be for you to pick me up in a bar – not that I should be in one – and go home with me.
And then you suddenly find a convenient excuse to leave.
It’s messed up. Almost as messed up as a bunch of ladies old enough to be my mom fawning all over me because they’re sick of how fat and bald and gross and mean their husbands are now that they’ve had kids – you know, kids like me – and are also instilling in their daughters the kind of insanity capable of producing a psychotic human stampede that could potentially hurt or kill hundreds.
But my thrust cannot redeem you.
Just imagine what all those women would feel, en masse, if they were to all become simultaneously aware of my unavoidable, genetically-determined micropenis. Would they collapse like an enormous pile of manatees? Turn on each other in fits of violent rage? Eat each others faces off in the heat of horrible denial?
The thought is too much to bear. That is why I must guard the secret of my micropenis with my very life. The insanity I produce now is a mere shadow of the mob hatred that could form were the truth about my micropenis even speculated upon, even jokingly.
And yet, keeping the story down is a full-time gig. The other day, I met a fan, and she said, “Justin! I’d do anything for you! I love you!”
To which I replied, “Well, that’s appropriate, because I am fully-equipped to love you in return.”
That was a close one.
Later on, her mom said to me, “Oh, Justin! If I was only your age…!” – but she didn’t have to finish this thought, as I knew what she meant: She was lamenting the fact that her urges were deviant and criminal rather than socially acceptable.
And so, rather than say something foolish, such as, “I’m sorry, but that’s impossible: I have a micropenis,” I just flipped my hair around and said something normal, like, “Hey, thanks!”
It hurts to lie.
Not as much as it hurts to have a micropenis, but still. Some people might say, “Hey, that micropenis of yours is nobody’s business but your own!”
But come on: Be realistic.
