Bring me the head of Justin Bieber

I don't do this often, but dammit... I've had it with a certain Canadian spittle-chin who thinks big, tough tattoos can turn a serial pantywaist into a big, tough dude. This little twit is going to stand in the middle of his barbell entourage and bark insults about Orlando Bloom's ex-wife? I wish he would try it with me. I'd love to plant my fist square into that smug, little, un-balled gurlie mouth, go a little Tawny Kitaen, and we'll see how the pipsqueak worm-boy sounds without front teeth.

Fifty bucks to anybody who drops the slimy clump of pubescence and learns him, once and for all, that you don't mock a Hobbit-helping Caribbean pirate, not on this website's watch. Not here. Not anywhere. Fifty big ones, dammit. Wait... a hundred, if the beat-down is administered by a female. Tawny, you out there?

That's right, ladies. Hear me out. About 20 years ago, this planet's Secret Ruling Man Committee sent double-naught agent Kevin Federline - alias K-Fed - to mesmerize and ruin the high-and-mighty queen of self-indulgence, Britney Spears. When Kevin was finished, she had a cue ball head, a lifetime of court dates and - worst of all - sizable love handles. It's time for your Secret Womanhood Illuminati to dispatch some twisted, testicle-eating succubus to the land of Molsons and Labatts, and to put this bathtub-toy sound-alike clod into permanent rehab. A hundred bucks. Do it for the Hobbits. Do it for all of us.