I feel my pageviews rising, and it feels dirty.

It is with an almost macabre fascination with which I read the account of how more than 3,000 of you — some towing frazzled parents, I’m sure — packed into a Long Island mall in order to catch a glimpse of Justin Bieber, who I’m informed is some sort of popular music performer still in the larva stage.

As the mall filled, like a squealing, strawberry lip gloss-scented scene from Dawn of the Dead, space was quickly compromised and tensions rose. Were some of you smushed face-first against storefront windows? Did any of you literally fall into The GAP?

Please excuse my facetious line of questioning. It is actually quite fortunate that, once you made your riotous surge forward toward… well, nothing, since the beloved manchild still had not arrived, that none of you were killed beneath the trampling force of your own kind’s pink Skechers. With only a few minor injuries, the prevention of tragedy is obviously attributable to the Nassau County Police Department, who quickly devised a crisis-averting strategy after their first plan — begging one of Beiber’s record company execs to Twitter you all down a notch — failed. Honestly, I’m still not sure whether you should be proud or ashamed that you managed to get a man arrested for refusing to tweet.

At the end of it all, there is only one real question that begs to be answered: Why? What would possess so many of you to wait hour upon hour, enduring potential crush trauma, for the chance to see the same kind of roughly foppish, disheveled-haired minor that populates your school lunchrooms?

It is not merely your generation. When my subspecies was your age,some of our females had disgustingly loyal dedication to media-hyped (and perhaps genetically stunted) boys such as Leonardo DiCaprio and “The New Kids on the Block.” Our generation’s girls, too, would stand in line forever if they had to, just to offer worship to these individuals in the form of their presence. If you ever asked them why, they would always say it was because certain stalkee was “dreamy.”

Yes, it is only fair to admit we males had some heartthrobs back then, as well. We had, um… give me a second… Well, there was Melissa Joan Hart, for one. Oh, and the girl who played Kelly on Saved by the Bell! And the pink Power Ranger? Maybe? Anyway, the point is that while we may have ogled them a bit, we never scribbled “Future Mr. the Teenage Witch” and would always prefer standing in line for the release of the latest Donkey Kong Country game over a chance to receive an autograph from one of these ladies. There is something wired within some of you females that was never connected in us — or maybe we just didn’t realize what exactly girls were yet.

Therefore, while I know better than to ask you to repent of your teen idolatry, I shall leave you with a thought: Very few of my generation’s women care that much about Leonardo DiCaprio anymore and chances are you can find the majority of the original “New Kids on the Block” asking if you want the 3-year extended warranty at Best Buy. Mark my words: there will come a day—sooner than you expected—where you will look back upon the “dreamy” Justin Bieber and your experience at that mall and wonder, perhaps with a faint air of wistfulness, “I cracked a rib for that?”

And with that I must bid you farewell. Dancing with the Stars is coming on and I do not wish to miss Melissa’s delightful Charleston.

Tim Latshaw

P.S. You may wonder why I did not mention another current obvious obsession of your kind. The answer is simple: I’m just trying to pretend these don’t exist. (Comments NSFW)