diddy dirty money.

As I was driving to work this morning, bouncing around in the driver's seat to In Da Club (God love ya, 50 Cent), I had a few realizations.

Well, first thing's first: I want to get this one off my chest, then I'll move on. I'm secretly a blonde... and I'll tell you why. Last week-ish (my weeks run together now that I'm a "professional/pretend grown-up") I got my Colorado Driver's License and plates. I must have been so excited not only to have my new plates to pin to Lois, but because I actually knew how unscrew the bolt things (screws?) that hold my plates intact. So I put on my gorgeous new green and white plates, then got out those damn sticker things and stared at them for a good... 5 minutes... trying to figure out where they go. I wish I were kidding. So instead of referring to my old Nebraska (ugh, so outdated...) plates OROROR anyone else's car in the parking lot, I made a little guesstimate as to where the stickers should go. Well, I guessed wrong. Go effing figure. Sure Melissa, it's natural to think that the stickers go in the top center of your plates, because they're prettier together than apart. A couple days (yes, I said days) later, the light bulb went off. I was driving to God-knows-where-but-it-had-to-be-awesome-because-everywhere-in-Denver-is and started frantically looking around at all the cars to see where their stickers were. Well, someone obviously forgot to give this poor small-town-Neb'er the memo that the stickers go in the bottom corners of everyone's plates. And by everyone, I mean everyone... but me. So now every time I get in my car and look ahead, those God-forsaken stickers on every car ahead of me are staring back at me, laughing if they could, and reminding me that, yes, in fact I am a moron. Why don't people tell me these things? Oh that's right, because people are just supposed to know shit like that. The good news is, I was in front of una policia this morning (kind of cut him off actually... woopsies) and he didn't pull me over to cite me for sticker retardation. Point: Melissa.

OK, now that that's out in the open, I can move on with my life. So as I was bouncing down Tamarac this morning on my way to the DTC, I was thinking about none other than Diddy Dirty Money (I'm confused, is HE "Diddy-Dirty Money" or are they two different people?), the artist formerly known as Diddy, and before that P. Diddy, and before that Puff Daddy, and before that Sean "Puffy" Combs, and before that "Oops, baby mama, I didn't mean to get you pregnant." Yeah, I went there. Question number one: Who, in God's name, decided that the Dids should be "King of Hip Hop?" Ohhhh, that's right. HE did. I think he pulled the whole "you cut me this record or imma shoot you" thing for awhile and now he just works at demoralizing poor young (and moderately talented) women and pretending like he knows how to put on a good stage show. Are you effing kidding me? DID ANYONE SEE HIS PERFORMANCE ON AMERICAN IDOL TWO WEEKS AGO? (I don't even want to start on Usher and his little "Oh My Gosh" embarrassment... bless his poor cheating heart.) Well, if you didn't, check this bad boy out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xmHair4h_W0. Then will someone please explain to me who pays this guy? Sweet lyrics, Dids. I'm glad you're banking off of telling someone "Hello and Good Mo'nin'." Um, I say that everyday and never once has it occurred to me to wear a white suit, sunglasses and bop around saying it. Well, maybe once. But really, you know it's bad when I prefer Kanye to this d-bag. Aside from his lyrics, baditude, narcissism, chauvenism and poor taste in eyewear, the thing that bugs me the most is his dancing. Oh sweet Jesus, boy canNOT move to save his life. Yet, he insists on giving people with arguable talent (something he's always lacked) orders on HOW to move, WHERE to move, WHY to move and WHEN to move. News flash, Dids, my two-year-old niece has more skillz than you.

And I'll leave you with this:

Hello, Good morning
lets go, lets work,
Hello, Good morning
lets go, lets work,
Hello,Turn me up a little bit more, I don’t think they can hear me
Check this out
Bad Boy b-tch
lets workcome on
lets work
non stop lets rock lets work
make you feel good too
dont stop I see you lets work
It’s that dirty money
Uh, How fly is he
your baby momma cry for me like Jodeci
so how you not notice me
pull up to the club in the coldest V
ugh. literally though little did he know how that n-gga Diddy flow
how that n-gga Diddy go so hard like a crowbar still getting dough
woah, woah, woah
yeah I like this, can you feel it
nothing can save ya
its that Dirty money


Just brilliant. Someone write that guy a check.