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.