Dear Justin Bieber,
I know you’ve tried. You at least deserve credit for your youthful tenacity. But I’m here to tell you that it’s not happening. For the past year, my little pop chipmunk, you’ve been trying to make those drop-crotch, droopy-drawer pants catch on. But it’s time to take off that spiked, canary-yellow trucker hat and take a look around. No one is buying what you’re selling.