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.
Yo, Gerard! Where my house?
Where my house?
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.
No. Not wear my house. Where my
I hear the words that you're
saying, Mr. Diddy, but it just
doesn't make sense grammatically.
Where my house? Where my mufucking
Okay. You want me--oh, I see what
you're saying. You're asking me where
is your house.
Yeah, son. Where my house?
Now I get it. You were just being
niggardly with your use of verbs.
Oh, hell nah. What'd you just call me?
Oh, shit. It's not what it sounds like--
Diddy, plus or minus three BODYGUARDS, beats the Hell out of Gerard.
I'm-a remix your face, son.
Good one, sir.