Did Diddy Do Diddly? Boy, Did He!

Yeah. The title. I know.

Sean "Diddy" Combs, producer of such songs as "I'm Sad You Got Shot and Died," and "Too Bad Bullets Ain't Made of Chocolate Chips Instead," was accused of battery by a real estate agent in Los Angeles.

I only glanced over the story because reading is a sign of infertility, but I think I know how this transpired.

INT. HOLLYWOOD HOTEL - MORNING
DIDDY, a man monetarily wealthy, but broke talent-wise, approaches real estate agent GERARD who looks startled.

DIDDY
Yo, Gerard! Where my house?

GERARD
Wh-What?

DIDDY
Where my house?

GERARD
Wear your house? Like clothing? It's
a house, sir. I can't wear it. I can
try it on if you like, but it will be
too big. I'm sure of it.

DIDDY
No. Not wear my house. Where my
house?

GERARD
I hear the words that you're
saying, Mr. Diddy, but it just
doesn't make sense grammatically.

DIDDY
(yelling)
Where my house? Where my mufucking
house?

GERARD
Okay. You want me--oh, I see what
you're saying. You're asking me where
is your house.

DIDDY
Yeah, son. Where my house?

GERARD
Now I get it. You were just being
niggardly with your use of verbs.

DIDDY
Oh, hell nah. What'd you just call me?

GERARD
Oh, shit. It's not what it sounds like--

Diddy, plus or minus three BODYGUARDS, beats the Hell out of Gerard.

DIDDY
I'm-a remix your face, son.

BODYGUARD ONE
Good one, sir.

BODYGUARD TWO
Yes. Hilarious.

Fin.

Castro Finds Fountain of Youth!

Fidel Castro, who has seemed so close to death the past year or so that the Cuban people carry pinatas and party hats in the trunks of their cars, has once again announced that he isn't dying any time soon.

That's where I've been the past week and a half: investigating internationally. I don't just Photoshop silly pictures of Britney Spears; I'm all detective-y and shit.

I learned just how it is that the Cuban dictator manages to stay alive against all odds. He drinks Cuban orphan blood from a bronzed cup made of pieces of JFK's skull. It's a literal fountain of youth. While he was busy stuffing a kitten into a paper shredder so he could shower (you'd think he'd have people for that), I stole a sip of his magical broth. I'm sure you're curious what it tasted like, but it's a personal experience, like accepting Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior or your rules for thumb wrestling.

I can tell you this much: the side effects are amazing. Not only do I feel twenty years younger (which makes me eight), but my urine now has three settings like those fancy shower heads. Also, if I fart in a jar and save it, a week later it will become a magical fairy which will grant me three wishes.

So, while Cuba may be under oppressive rule for eternity, at least now my belly button is a mouth which dispenses financial advice to me.

Britney the Barber Beefcake!

Not content to sit idly by with some dead lady hogging all the spotlight, Britney Spears took it upon herself and a child-safe pumpkin-carving knife to get all the attention she so desires. But I'm sure you heard about that.

Kitty Sunday: It's Not a Kitty!

But equally as cute!

It's like adorable pulled out and shot its load onto a rainbow's back.

Good Morning, OCD!

I've known for a long time that I was a spaz. Going back to my childhood when I would "Mac out." What's that? You ask. It's self-explanatory, really. See, when I would get angry, I would have to tap into something that was in me, but on a completely other side of my personality. I would "Mac out" and then I'd flail my arms wildly at my older brother, most times.

But where did its name come from? "Mac out?" That seems strange. Well, notorious hot-head tennis player John McEnroe was known for snapping and going off on angry tirades at the referees. I took a page from J-Mac and called upon his fury in times of need.

How would my brother know when I was in "Mac out" mode? There was a very simple cue to help warn any potential predators that I was "Mac'ing out." Much like aposematic coloring in the wild, one could tell simply by looking at me that I was dangerous. I would throw my arms up in the air like I had just lifted an invisible barbell (man, barbell is a fucking dumb word) above my head and yell, "Mac out!" Then my brother would laugh, but I would take it as nervous laughter because of the Hell that was about to be brought down upon him. It was like mental PCP when I was seven.

Anyway, so I'm a spaz and prone to fits of OCD or other behavior at times. This morning was terrible. Not in quite the same vein, but it still shows how screwed up my mind is.

I woke with an uncontrollable urge to dissect the word "Please" into as many different words of three letters or more as I possibly could. So, the very first thing I did this morning was that. I sat down at my desk, got out a pen, titled a piece of paper "Please" and started writing. A few minutes later I had this list: Elapse, lapse, pales, pale, peel, peels, eels, eel, lease, leap, leaps, slap, lap, laps, sale, seal, sea, see, pal, pals, ease, easel, peas, pea, pee, pees, seep, plea, pleas, sap, ape, apes, spa, ale, ales, asp, sleep, asleep.

And I thought about the word Alps, but that's a proper noun and not allowed in this imaginary game in my brain.

I should really go into therapy.

Please let me know I'm not alone.

Crazy Heaven Filling Up!

Do you remember where you were? I know I remember exactly where I was when 9/11 happened. I can recount in detail where I was with the Challenger disaster and now this. I mean, it must be on the same scale the way I heard it. A few of us at work were waiting for the elevator to go down to lunch when the doors opened and out rushed a Trinidadi fella I work with.

"Did you guys hear?"

Oh shit, what? He seemed panicked. It must be awful. Another terrorist attack, right? Dammit. I knew it. I'll never complain about taking my shoes off at the airport again.

"They found Anna Nicole Smith dead."

It was like my heart took a shit inside of my brain's mouth.

She contributed so much to society. Boobs. TrimSpa. She blew old dudes for money.

The worst part about all of this is that now I'm totally going to lose my office Oscar death tribute applause pool. I have Barbaro.

Can You Tell Me Where Is Fry's?

Driving home from work tonight, I was accosted by a vaguely foreign-looking fella in the car next to me. So, I turn my head while I'm sitting at the light to see who is admiring my visage at this moment and I see this guy with his pale skin, buggy eyes and unkempt 70s afro staring at me, his eyes shining like a bat with a bad sense of direction.

I know that look. It's the I-need-to-ask-you-something look. See, I'm not from the future like most of you. If I want to roll down my passenger window, I need to lean over and turn the handle in a circular motion. Hoping he's going to ask me if I want a shiny new hundred dollar bill, I roll it down. The look on his face is so sad, though. There's like an 80% chance he's not actually going to give me $100. But, I roll down anyway, because there's still hope.

"Excuse me. Can you tell me where is Fry's?"

Now, you know I'm bad with quick verbal reactions to strangers, but I'm all over this one. I know the answer and I spit it out before he can even finish. See, I work right across the street from the Fry's in question. I've got this shit. I just came from near there; it's behind us about two blocks.

"It's back there just a little on the left-hand side."

"Back there?" he whines, the look on his face growing sadder with each syllable he makes. "But I've turned around three times already."

Three times! Do you know how big Fry's is? It's an electronics store like Best Buy or the Cinnabon. It's fucking huge. If he can't see that building with his big-ass eyes, he needs to get his sonar checked. But the best part about it was his tone of voice, which I'm sure is being appropriately relayed in writing here. I'm such an idiot.

He said it like he thought everybody in Burbank was playing a trick on him--that there wasn't even a Fry's in the city. It was this big inside joke that the whole city played on people, they'd ask and, whichever way their car was facing, tell them it's the opposite way. I just drive the streets hoping somebody asks me if I know where Ikea is. Explaining the trapdoor in the Wendy's drive-thru will be fun.

Track to the Future!

So, the other day I was checking an order I made on Amazon trying to find out when it would arrive and I found out what was taking so long.If you can't see that, it says that my package was scanned upon arrival in Burbank at 3:59 and 59 seconds on December 31, 1969. My towels are almost antiques! I mean, Abraham Lincoln could have used them; they are made out of log cabins.

It's like that movie Frequency, but with terry cloth instead of Dennis Quaid. And aren't the two interchangeable anyway? I'm almost positive that the towel could have made Dragonheart more interesting.

How Was This Not Seen by Me as a Child?

Who doesn't want a skateboard possessed by an old Jewish guy? Jews just know skating. Tony Hawk's real name is Tony Hawkbergenstein.

Friday Super Stumper: Final Edition!

Last week's question:
A centaur walks into a bar, says something to the bartender, to which the bartender replies by pulling out a gun and pointing it at the centaur. The centaur responds, "Thank you." And exits. How much money was in the centaur's pocket?

The only guess was that centaurs don't have pockets. That is wrong, however. Centaurs found pockets thousands of years ago beneath the magical ancient Willow Tree of Destiny. The legend says it was a bucket filled with pockets and Jose Canseco rookie cards. Lucky centaurs. The actual answer is $4.15. It's not a trick question. If you all had done your research, you would have known that all centaurs carry exactly that much on them because that's how much it costs to get a blowjob from a Leprechaun.

No more questions. Nobody got it right. Nobody gets to take it home for the summer. I get to keep it forever. Suck it! That was the same thing my GATE teacher would say to us when nobody got it. She would just yell, "Suck it!" and push her groin in various students' faces. It was awesome, but it smelled like a new He-Man.

Giant Baby Haunts Vaginas' Dreams around Planet!

'Super Tonio' is the nickname given to a big-ass baby born in the Spring Break capital of the world, Cancun, Mexico. He weighed 14.5 pounds at birth and he was born fully clothed eating an Ultimate Cheeseburger from Jack in the Box.The doctors say he was born by Caesarean section, but it's not the Caesarean section many of you may be familiar with. He actually conquered Rome in the womb and took his soldiers to storm the gates of his mother's vagina. She never stood a chance.

When told of this story, women around the world cower in fear. Many recoil and grab their crotches, or maybe that's just the way I tell them, but I doubt that. I walk up to random women, hold up a picture of 'Super Tonio,' point to their zipper and say, "Imagine this inside of you." Then I point to my crotch and say, "Now this." And then I lick my lips and rub my nipples. I know it's not the nipple rubbing; every woman I've ever known has loved that and never objected to it in any way. Ever.

The doctor said that there are signs of high blood sugar. I think that became obvious when they cut the woman open to find the baby in a pool, not of amniotic fluid as one would expect, but of delicious buttercream frosting.