Am I the only one who notices that these Diddy fuckery blogs always seem to come in bunches?

“When Diddy arrived at 1:45 a.m. with a six-man entourage, a witness said he 'flipped out' when cops asked to search him and his friends.'He went nuts, saying, 'Why are you disrespecting me like this? Why are you doing this to me?' During the commotion, one of his guys slipped away, unsearched, back to the car.'

Combs 'stormed off and started to text DJ Clue asking, 'What the [bleep] is going on?' and asked if he could go in the back entrance.' When told that the cops would have to search him and his friends there as well, Combs decided not to attend the party. His rep had no comment.” –New York Post, (most reliable newspaper ever)

After Kobe "Raw Dog" Bryant made my Knicks his homely Colorado slidepiece to the tune of 61 points Monday night, there was partying to be done. Playing host to both DJ Clue’s birthday—which I wouldn’t attend unless LaLa was co-hosting—and Kobe’s triumphal entry (on Lamar Odom’s shoulders), Diddy absolutely had to be there.

Right, because none of us remember what happened the last time Puffy openly packed the powdered toast in a New York nightclub. Nigga damn near made a second Biggie out of Shyne.

[Blogger’s Note: We ain’t talking about vocal similarity here.]

So Poppa Diddy Pop couldn’t be at a club without the Roscoe P. Coldchain on him?

Sheeeeit. I could see Puffy and D-Roc now:

Diddy: *behind the velvet rope* Ha Ha! I see you, Clue. [to security] Excuse me. I’m trying to get through.

Security: Yes, sir. Just a moment. I’m going to have to pat you down real quick and pass this metal detector over—

Diddy: *no longer smiling* You’re joking, right?

D-Roc: *draped over Diddy’s shoulder* Yeah. You jokin, right?

Securtiy: I know. It’s silly, but unfortunately not. There’s police inside and they’re making sure—

Diddy: Police? *signals to back of entourage* Man, bring them niggas out here! Don’t they know I run this city? *passes small man purse to back of entourage*

D-Roc: *looking around nervously, still draped over Puff’s shoulder* Yeah. My man RUN this city and he RAN this city!

Security: You know, if you gotta go back to the car, that’s totally cool. I just gotta do my job out here.

D-Roc: Man it’s polices in there and everything. WE ain’t hostin SHIT! This whole situation is definitely not organic.

Diddy: If y’all gonna disrespect me like this I’mma have to leave. The birthday boy ain’t gonna like that. Y’all don’t wanna make DJ Clue cry right?

Security: I-I don't have--

Diddy: --Because DJ Clue crying like a bitch in there is definitely not good for business.

D-Roc: That shit is definitely not organic. We trynna keep shit pesticide-free right now and you sprayin all kinds of Raid and boric acid and shit—

Diddy: Hold up, D-Roc. Fuck the bullshit! Watch this. *turns to people online* I’M LEAVIN! DON’T NOBODY GO INTO THAT FUCKIN PARTY!


Security: Alright, if you’re not gonna come in then you might wanna step aside.

D-Roc: *whispering into Puffy’s ear* I think them niggas comin out is po’.

Diddy: Best believe we out this bitch! *to crowd again* I KNOW Y’ALL DON’T WANNA SEE NO PUNK ASS KOBE NO WAY, RIGHT?!

Line Patrons: *mumbling* I wanna see Kobe, shit. *more mumbling*

Diddy: *whispering to crew* Let’s try the back. We shoulda came in through the back any damn way!

D-Roc: Yeah. I’m comin in through the backway. *smiles emptily*

Negro, please! Does Puffy really think they’re going to allow the ratchets, blinkies, biscuits and burners inside a club that’s got 10% of the nation’s gross domestic product in it? We’re approaching full-on depression. The only niggas robbing people at gunpoint around trendy Chelsea nightspots will be the NYPD, thank you very much.

I understand the need for a man to feel self-reliant and proactive about his protection. Believe me, I’m from the same school of thought and subsequent approach. But if you don’t think you should be at a particular club without the thang thang on you, maybe the party should just be at Club Puffy’s House. I’m sure Room 112 is vacant. Jump it off there.

Questions? Comments? Requests? Herrowww, Rah Rah!

P.S.: Where the fuck is Roscoe P. Coldchain?!