The following is not altogether food-related. I am now a paid (sort of) blogger for a snarky humor website (yep, I’ve joined the evil empire) and my desire to accumulate enough cash to buy that pack of gum I’ve had my eye on has left me with little time to write fo’ free. But the below article was my first submission to the website, rejected because it’s weird as shit – which makes it, as far as I’m concerned perfect for this blog. So without further ado, here is my, quote, “overly wordy, trying-too-hard, stream of consciousness rant,” unquote, about how Sean John gloves are THE WORST.
Sean John, your days are numbered. I am the Serpico to your New York City cops, the Frodo to your One Ring, the Snooki to your Western Civilization. Too long have people accidentally bought your overpriced, sub-par clothing and accessories, mistakenly thinking that everything sold in a bodega is under a dollar. I have taken it upon myself to bring down Slippery Sean P. Diddy Combs’ crummy coutoure empire in spools of tattered rags at my feet, and the war shall begin, as so many old timey duels, with a glove. But firstly, yeah I know, I should accept “Diddy Dirty Money” as his chosen name, but I call people what I want – Jay Leno for instance will always be Spot Hogging Ass Troll to me, no matter what his birth certificate says. P. Diddy, whose next album will drop under the moniker Kracklebear McSneezebasket Goodburro Hoefnagel Punchyobaby Esq. (you heard it here first folks), long ago embarked upon his venture of bringing fabulous back to the ghetto. When I had my brush with a Diddycessory ©, I wasn’t looking to out-Grand even Master Flash though; I just happened to have cold hands and be near a store that looked like it traded in knockoffs of labels made for people with taste impaired by a lifetime of meth use. Such a place could only be dirt cheap – yes? When I asked for gloves, I was pointed toward a pillar towering to the ceiling, caked in Sean John leather gear; the circle of hell for fashionable people. Twenty dollars later (yes, there is no upside to these goddam gloves), I had me a sartorial date with destiny. With the name attached, I expected the gloves studded with hundreds of rhinestones, themselves studded with rhinestones, inscribed with tiny comely bitches. Each fingertip should contain a handful of white doves, to be tossed into a room before entering. There should also be a fog machine in the palm. Yet Sean P. Diddy Combs Ignatius IX had other plans for me and my hands.
A little background I have gleaned from my network of sources (I.E. some lies – P.Diddy’s lawyers, don’t hurt me): each glove is painstakingly imported from a Southeast Asian country devoid of child labor laws, made of 100% leather from only the most anemic, psoriasis-ridden cows in all of the Bronx. You really feel the loving touch of bamboo cane-battered baby hands in every silken inch. No wonder P. Diddy attached “Dirty Money” to his handle: he is currently seated on a stank-assed throne made of treachery pressed to the sky by an army of bent-backed Cambodian child slaves. Shame!
I had the perfect outfit to complement my badass hand suits: nothing says ice cold killer like a cardigan. Feeling like a star, mentally Ghost-riding the Whip on my chrome-plated, tricked-out . . . ten speed bike (so many speeds!), I heard the familiar strains of my ringtone. I reached into my pocket to draw my cutting-edge cellular device, cough*Rainbow Brite Walkie-Talkie covered in duct tape*cough. Unable to move my frozen fingers due to the “protection” of my non-gloves, I gnawed at my digits like a Himalayan hiker trying to stave off frostbite when the most useless strip of leather this side of the Jersey Shore cast (get it, bad tan, leather???!! I’m relevant!!! LOVE ME!!!!!) tore in half in my mouth. Because of how my mind works, I immediately thought “DAMN YOU DIDDY DIRTY MONEY, NÉE P.DIDDY, NÉE SEAN “PUFFY” COMBS, NÉE PUFF DADDY, NÉE SEAN COMBS!” With these shoddily-made gloves, you’ll probably bust at best two-and-a-half caps before they fall to the shit they are.
Yet I wonder – perhaps these gloves are some kind of super-subtle Baller test. If you can deal with having the coldest hands in the universe and looking like a broke fool from the wrist down, maybe you are indeed an O.G. hard mo’fugga deserving of copious honeys. If that is the case, still, I plead with you Mr. Sean P. Diddy Honey Combs; include some kind of consumer warning for people who think your gloves, you know, do what gloves do.
Author’s note: I understand that these gloves were probably not real Sean John gloves, despite the metal placard held onto them by yarn declaring otherwise. But if not, upon whom can I arbitrarily vent my ire?