Dear Justin Bieber,
I read about you posting a hot lady on your Instagram last night with the caption “Omg who is this!!!” and harnessing the powers of your 47.3 million followers to help identify her, sooooooo I thought I’d ask you a personal favor: can you help find my missing father?
We’ve tried everything: putting up flyers. That’s pretty much it. Apparently you can’t file a missing person’s report if your dad just got up one morning, a morning like any other, ate a Jimmy Dean Sausage Biscuit Sandwich like he always does, pat you on the head and said ‘be good, kid’ which you didn’t remark up at the time, but in retrospect is a real doozy, and then drove his Jeep Grand Cherokee out of the driveway and out of your life. Apparently the cops don’t count that as a missing person no matter how missing from your heart he is. No amount of “sorry, kid, I can’t help” from local figures of authority will bring him back, so I’m down to my last resort: asking you, Justin Bieber, to sic your army of fans out into the world to do the leg work the Scranton police forces seems to not have the time to do.
Think about it: if all 47.3 million of the teenage girls and adults with more than a casual interest in pop culture who follow you see this APB on your Insta, they might use the drive they have to “please the biebs” to find my father. Your album is also called “Purpose” so consider what good you could do if you apply that philosophy to your Instagram feed. I figure maybe one of your 47.3 million followers might be able to track my Dad down or see him out in the wild and report back. Your wish is their command and my wish is to grow up with a Dad.
Maybe some tween will see him buying groceries in their local Wegmans, and can leave a comment about which Wegmans, and how much food was he buying, and did he go to live with his secret family. Maybe they’ll see him riding an ATV up and down the dunes of Santa Fe at the magic hour and think, “Oh hey that’s that old man Bieber posted about. I better comment.” I need clues- the only thing he left behind is everything he owns so I have no way of knowing what my dad’s plans were. Maybe he got in an accident somewhere, and lies in a hospital bed entered in as a John Doe. Maybe a nurse will see him, think wait, unwrap his blood clotted face bandage and say “This is that man Justin Bieber asked us, his loyal followers to find. This man is Celeste’s father.”
Help me, Justin Bieber. You’re my only hope.