Haynestown

Sorry folks. I know it’s been a while. But like Robert Downey Jr. said in Iron Man 2, “It’s good to be back.”

What pulled me out of my coma you ask? It was a few things really. 784 to be exact. But enough about me. Let’s talk about:

Sean Combs. Puff Daddy. Puffy. P-Diddy. Diddy. PD. Love. Whatever name you know him by or nickname he decides to answer to this week, it’s safe to say that all those assholes have had a hella’ bad September. And if you have no idea what I’m talking about, go Google his name before reading further. In short, he’s charged with racketeering, sex trafficking, transportation to engage in prostitution, and a dirty laundry list of related crimes. No sympathy here – this FBI smackdown looks to be well-deserved and a long time coming. His list of charges makes Bill Cosby look like an amateur. He’s like the bad guy in one of those buddy cop movies, but unfortunately a few actors who might have played the cops may also have been “Diddy Party guests”. Time will tell on that.

He should probably change his name to Did-he at this point, because that’s how people will refer to him from now on, as in “Did-he not realize it was vile, despicable behavior? Did-he think people would stay silent forever? Did-he think he would get away with it? Did-he really stab himself in the back 33 times while in jail?”

But I find myself asking more about the items found during the raid on his mansion. The reports on day one slid into newscasts with a thousand bottles of lube and baby oil, which left people asking, “Who the hell needs that much?” Well, day two reports cleared that up real quick. 784 “male-shaped toys” were also found on the property, and I don’t mean G.I. Joe action figures. Ouch! All those little plastic guns and swords.

It got me thinking. I mean REALLY thinking. And the questions won’t stop coming, one after another after another, an endless string of unholy beads. It’s just hard to get your head around a number that size. Seven hundred eighty-four. Brothels don’t have that many laying around. Sex shops keep smaller inventories. I mean, that’s a lot of damn dildos! Dildoes? Dildii? See what I mean? So. Many. Questions.

I’ll try to organize my thoughts here into a few categories:

Evidence Collection

When the agents searched the house, did they stomp from room to room like movie cops, tearing everything apart, only to have the items in question all tumble out of a single closet? Was some poor bastard buried in a dildo avalanche?

Did they photograph and draw chalk lines around each one?

Did some low-ranking evidence tech have to dust 784 dildos for prints?

Did another tech load all the prints into the computer, search for matches, have them pop up on the monitor only to scream out “Dammit man! I loved that movie. Now it’s ruined.”

Is a crime scene expert forced to determine if the perpetrators were right or left-handed?

Acquisition

How did they get there?

Did people bring them to parties over the years as host gifts, much like one might offer a fancy scented candle or moderately priced Cabernet?

Or were they brought by guests and subsequently forgotten…just like that random spoon in your kitchen drawer that doesn’t match or the piece of Tupperware you have no idea where it came from?

Did he buy them himself?

Did he help the area economy and shop local?

Did he roll up a Bentley to the parking lot of Dildo Depot or choose to shop discreetly online? Is there a loyalty program with punch cards? I mean it’s a legit question, because he’s not exactly discreet.

Did he buy them all at once? Will some poor sales manager at the adult toy company be reporting out next year why the year-over-year numbers are down?

Did he get lazy and buy them on Amazon?

Did he sort and filter to only offers with Prime shipping? And if he did, did he get the name brand he went looking for or the Amazon suggested, direct-from-China copycat brands with bullshit made up names like “SKOFL” or “Tiger Ltd. USA #1 Quality”.

Did he pay full price or cheap out and buy some “Mint-Like New” or “Gently used?”

Did he pawn it all off and force his security guys or even Bad Boy Records interns to go buy them? I mean it’s an actual business. How they hell does one expense that in Concur?

Did he have an unboxing party? How long did it take open them all? Must’ve been hours or even days!

Did he burn the boxes or rent one of those driveway dumpsters? Let’s be honest, he couldn’t cram that into his regular trash cans, could he? Lord knows the top wouldn’t stay closed if the wind picked up and he wouldn’t want empty cartons of BullMaster 3000 in Royal Purple blowing into his neighbor’s boxwoods like porno tumbleweeds.

Did he just give up early? 784 seems like such an odd number, almost…incomplete. I mean, why stop at 784? 800 or 1000 seems like a goal P. Diddy would get behind. My guess is more than a few guests, at least the ones who were allowed to leave, took them home as souvenirs over the years.

Distribution, etc.

Did he pile them up in rhinestone-encrusted 5-gallon buckets or monogrammed canvas bags at random spots around the mansion? Literal bags of dicks?

Did he install a slot machine styled vending station next to the pantry?

Did he make name tags, like regular people use at regular parties to keep from getting all their red solo cups mixed up? I mean, people get pissed about double-dipping in the salsa. Can you imagine? And, speaking of germs…

Did he have a cleaning service sign an NDA? The Rubber Maids? You know he didn’t mop that stuff up himself. How exactly does one clean up after a Freak-Off? I can’t imagine you can Lysol everything. And with the rainbow of colors options found at the scene, bleach is out. A special low-PSI nozzle for the pressure washer, maybe?

Disposal

So what happens to them now?

Do they light ‘em up like the 42 million tires still burning in Kuwait? Lord knows that would put off some rancid smoke.

Years from now, will there be a backroom, invitation-only auction for collectors of odd crime memorabilia? Can’t you imagine some British guy from Lloyd’s of London having to read off the names of each item for sale. That would be worth the price of admission.

Or will they get boxed up, cataloged, and shelved at FBI headquarters. Can you imagine poor Carl, the retired agent who mans the desk of the evidence locker? He clocked into work Monday morning, grabbed a cup of mediocre coffee supplied by the lowest-bidding government vendor, took the elevator down to his cave of wonders, only to find a pallet jack loaded with a quarter ton of latex and silicone.

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Wrapping it up, the one thing I won’t make light of is all the victims who have been damaged by this sorry piece of shit. Most of them will probably remain nameless as often happens in a celebrity trial. And truth is, they probably want to stay that way.

On a personal note, thanks a lot Diddy. Now I have to change my nickname too. I’d say it was a fun ride, but I’m choosing my words carefully at this point. So, after fifteen years the friends who used it must now say goodbye to T-Diddy. Sorry, JB. I’m working on a rebranding strategy and will let you know where it lands soon. Feel free to make suggestions in the comments!