An Open Letter to Justin Bieber’s Mom

75112750

Unless this is your first time here, you know that Justin Bieber’s mom, Pattie Mallette and I have a close personal friendship.

And that is why I was shocked — SHOCKED, I tell you — to discover today VIA THE NEWS MEDIA OF ALL THINGS, that she’s been supplying her son with drugs.

I’ve dialed what I think might be her phone number at least 100 times today but she’s just not answering –probably because she’s lying low with Justin, trying to ride out the storm and definitely not because she never gave me any of her contact information.

So it seems I’ll have to say my piece to my good friend right here, in an open letter to a celebrity, which just makes me a blogging cliche.  Do you see what you’ve done to me, Pattie?

Now Pattie, it’s time for you to wake up and smell the sizzurp.  I know as moms, we want to believe that our kids are doing alright.  And it’s easy to brush off some misbehavior.  After all, boys will be boys.

Egging your neighbor’s house?  Smuggling monkeys into foreign countries?  Peeing in a mop bucket?  Pishaw!  Just the regular old mischief that comes along with the Y chromosome.

But marijuana possession?  Assault?  Speeding?  Reckless driving?  Drag racing?  DUI?

It’s got to be becoming incredibly clear to you that this kid does not need your drugs.  He’s got plenty of people supplying him with whatever kind of mischief he wants to get into it.

So if you have extra xanax lying around, give them to someone who can really use them.  Like your good friend, Toulouse.

Unlike your son, I’m just a regular old person with no special drug resources whatsoever and a house full of young children hopped up on gummy bears and yogurt tubes.   When my sons are climbing the curtains and swinging from the chandeliers, how many members of my posse do you think are offering up something calming other than Calgon or yoga?  None, that’s who.

NONE, Pattie!  NOT ONE.  Cuz my posse consists of 2 totally unconnected little boys who always have their hands out to ME and one useless star-fucker of a dog.

And now I have to put you in that category.  Even though we’ve shared such special times as this and this and this, you held out on me when I needed you the most.  And that (and no other reason like I don’t know how to get in touch with you) is why I want you to know that I’m probably never going to speak to you again.

XOXO,

Toulouse

P.S.  Call me!