Here's the thing. You want the bazillions and the houses and the cars and the jets and the screaming fans and the idiotic purple shoes and purple hat, and you're a shrimpy annoying twit from the suburbs, well, great, you've got it, kid. But there are a few small prices to pay. Like having photographers follow you around the shopping mall and getting in your shit. It's a price. It's optional. You can go back to being the runty nerd who got wedgied on the playground, or you can be the mega-rich celebrity superstar. You decide.
But don't go berserker on albeit rude photographers invading your space. Don't start chasing them around shopping mall parking lots in your custom eco-friendly cars. And do not start trying to kick and punch them, because (a) it's going to cost you a small fortune for the feeblest of contact, and (b) you now look like a totally stupid little runty brat with his purple shoe and purple hat on the ground, your special diamond earring glistening in the sun like a sign from above that you're a special kind of douche.
Justin Bieber suffers from a lack of never getting his ass properly kicked before he became famous.