Some of you are probably aware that Justin Bieber was in Sandy Springs a few days ago. Actually, he’s apparently living here for a couple of months if not longer. The house he is renting looks like a spaceship (see web link below) which really makes it fit in nicely with the traditional Georgian brick style residences in the surrounding neighborhood…not. This also helps explain why my Pirate house with a full-sized poop deck in the backyard is not exactly going to be an easy sell…ever. Anyway, the other day JB rented out an arcade on Roswell Road and his bodyguard was involved in an unfortunate altercation that got him arrested. What you probably dont know is that Justin Bieber, like Michael Jackson, also has a serious celebrity sleep problem. His nights are a torturous time in which he and his bleary-eyed posse wander aimlessly through Atlanta’s affluent suburbs trying to occupy themselves and praying that Justin will finally just conk out and get some desperately needed ZZZs. Even high-grade medical marijuana (the cops confiscated 5 large bongs) have not helped JB hit the hay. Practically every night this week Justin’s Cadillac Escalades could be seen cruising by Yogli Mogli, doing donuts in the parking lot at Big Lots, and finally stopping for a late night /early morning snack at Steak and Shake. The poor kid would trade all his fame and fortune for a good night’s sleep, a blow job (without a bogus paternity suit) and a half decent banana milk shake. It’s amazing he doesnt weigh 300 lbs.
I gotta tell you I feel bad for this kid and, as a result, I am offering my clinical services to him, not for the blow job, mind you, but instead, as a therapist and sleep disorder consultant. It’s a little like Dr. Conrad Murray was for Michael Jackson but without the giant tanks of laughing gas, suitcase full of xanax bars and truckload of IV Propofol. Instead, I intend to instruct Justin in the art and science of “progressive relaxation”, mindful meditation, and finally, if necessary, taking a big ass dose of Ambien (Zolpidem). Hopefully, unlike myself, he will not end up sleepwalking to the kitchen for fig newtons and a handful of mini-Snickers half a dozen times before the sun rises. His career (especially since he hasn’t had a hit song in awhile) depends on his good looks and lithe boyish frame. Developing a noticeable FUPA or face full of zits from binging on a three-pack of Oreos from Costco while simultaneously tripping on Cherry Tussin would be the equivalent of career suicide for JB at this point. Let’s face it, 19 years old is a critical age psychologically and one in which 98% of a national sample were found to have engaged in “unusually reckless stupid behavior that later they will regret” but now only their parents (and I quote) “cant fucking believe how dumb and disrespecful they are” For this reason, I feel compelled to take on this case, both for Justin’s sake and for the sake of his lunatic fans who expect him to stay alive and remain “cute” regardless of his polydrug issues, criminal record and/or possible emerging mental illness. The point is that for a small phenomenal fee and perhaps a hefty per-diem just shy of what Dr. Murray the incompetent cardiologist got for sexting his gfs while the King of Pop expired, I , Cliff Mazer, Ph.D. will stay awake and frosty while Justin sleeps like a baby in his Sandy Springs crib. Hell, if he wants to he can hang out at my place off Riverside Drive. I’m very close to the SS Funhouse where all the “fun” happened the other day and there are all kinds of other interesting games to play and distractions to indulge in locally including finding and beating the crap out of the lanky hoodie-wearing Peeping Tom who the Sandy Springs Police have somehow failed to catch (even tho the Creepy Peeper is as regular as rain and stands out like a sore thumb in the Riverside area subdivisions). Meanwhile, the SS police have never ONCE missed stopping ME for going 5 miles over the speed limit or, God forbid, not wearing a seat belt. Justin, for God sakes, please slow down, dont drag race, and dont drink and drive. Even if you are filthy rich and famous, a bratty 19 years old and a raging stoner insomniac, your parents love you and want you to grow up and enjoy the unique and enlightening experience of parenting a teenager someday yourself. Better yet..call me and please please wear your seatbelt.