I guess life has been good since his acquittal on charges of brandishing a gun in Times Square while one of his posse shot three innocent bystanders. I still believe his driver, who testified that not only did he do it, but he offered him $50,000 to take the fall.
But this is America, where every criminal has the God-given right to become a multimillionaire. And a narcissist. The money… eh. I’ll never understand it, but if people want to pay for his music, his clothes, his acne medication (yeah, you read correctly), then so be it. But by God’s hairy balls, get his ugly mug out of my face every two-and-a-half minutes!
Of the bad boy’s Bad Boy Ventures: Notorious Entertainment, Daddy’s House Publishing, Justin Combs Publishing, Bad Boy Productions, Bad Boy Films, Bad Boy Books, and Bad Boy Giant Buck Teeth All Up In My Grill, I know little. Please don’t educate me.
Yet I see Diddy’s face so often, I would think I could charge him with stalking me. Since his 2001 acquittal, he’s made more than 100 television guest appearances. The gat toting bad boy appeared on Regis and Oprah, for fuck’s sake. And that’s just Diddy showing up so that Diddy can see Diddy’s face on TV. He has dozens more films, commercials, and other multimedia projects. Many, no surprise, produced by one of his own companies.
I can’t escape the fucker. I went to Macy’s the other day. Get this: I’m still reeling from the discovery of shirts bearing the name of Donald Trump, and the thought of dressing like that smelly sleazeball, when I trip over an entire display of Sean John formal wear complete with a picture of the designer, one Diddy McPuffincombs.
The bastard is on my TV selling Pepsi. He’s selling stinking toilet water while he lounges in bed with two hookers. He’s extolling the virtues of Proactiv acne medication… you mean he used to be even uglier?! Says Diddicombs, “it maintains my sexy and moisturizes my situation.” It moisturized his… situation. I don’t want to know about his moist situation. I want to boil my soul just thinking about it.
And now, in arguably the worst of his vanity projects, he’s got 5 pretty young girls fawning all over him for money on Making the Band, the reality show where self-esteem lacking wannabe singers and dancers allow a rat-toothed uncle-fucker to saunter in and arrogantly berate them once per week. He always wear the same supercilious look of affected distain.
Sean, take your horsy looking caps, and just go away!
