Boy emperor Justin Bieber—having arrived in Arizona to begin the mad, hormonal orgy that is his Believe tour—paused his first song to call for a gold-tipped feather to tickle his esophagus, and spewed forth all the pheasant and honeyed milk he had gorged on, so that he may begin the decadence anew. "Milk was a bad choice! Lol" Bieber chuckled indifferently as his dancing servants scattered to avoid the imperial spray, dismissing the need to explain himself further, or address plebeian wags who would joke that maybe he had finally heard his own music. Had the Bieber not continued to sing even as he vomited, and was this not evidence of his superiority? Were his fans not enraptured with adulation, even as he symbolically barfed on them? Is not all Bieber-produced puke worthy of its own spotlight and the "BEST VIEW" YouTube can offer, with the option for a recording contract to come later? Are you not entertained?