Shane higdon

By: A Fed-Up American

They’ve finally done it—Diddy, aka Sean Combs, is behind bars, and for what? For allegedly violating a century-old law that most people didn’t even know existed until the feds decided to dust it off like it’s a relic from a time when jazz was still dangerous. The charge? Providing transportation to engage in prostitution. Seriously? That’s the big federal offense?

Let’s break this down in plain English: they’re trying to put a man in prison not for prostitution itself, but for the act of traveling to it or helping someone get there. Think about that. If you’ve ever picked up a girl from a hotel, booked a flight to Vegas for a weekend, or even drove your buddy to meet a Tinder date who turned out to be an escort — congratulations, you’re apparently eligible for a federal indictment under this logic.

🚗 Everyone Travels for Sex — Where’s the Line?

Let’s be real — nobody’s teleporting to their hook-up. People travel. Whether it’s two blocks or two states away, that’s just how life works. So how is it that travel suddenly turns a consensual (and let’s be honest, common) act into a federal crime?

Are we now criminalizing logistics? Should Uber drivers be worried next? Should airlines start asking if your trip is “business, pleasure, or prostitution”?

🐍 A Law Meant for Monsters, Not Moguls

The law they’re using? The Mann Act, passed in 1910. It was created to stop actual human trafficking — the kind with force, coercion, and victims. Over the years, it’s been misused against high-profile people — from Jack Johnson to Chuck Berry — often with a suspicious undertone of race, politics, or fame.

Diddy is being targeted not because he’s dangerous, but because he’s powerful, rich, and unapologetic.

👨‍⚖️ Where’s Trump in All This?

Donald Trump has a track record of pardoning people who got shafted by the system — whether you agree with all of them or not. He’s issued clemency for rappers like Lil Wayne and Kodak Black, and he’s stood up against weaponized justice. If there was ever a case that screamed “selective prosecution,” this is it.

Trump needs to step up again and pardon Diddy, not just because Diddy’s a household name, but because this is a line-in-the-sand moment. If the government can twist travel into trafficking and pimping, then nobody is safe, especially if you’ve got a high profile or an opinion.

🛑 Final Thought

This case isn’t about justice — it’s about humiliation. It’s about controlling powerful Black men. It’s about reminding everyone that no matter how rich or famous you are, they can still try to take you down if you don’t play ball.

Diddy doesn’t belong in jail. He belongs in a studio, in a boardroom, or on a stage — not behind bars for something this weak. And Trump? If you’re serious about fighting for America and standing up to corrupt institutions, this is your moment.

#PardonDiddyNow

#FreeDiddy

#JusticeNotVendetta

Stream “Diddy Shit” by Master Stain – Distributed by DistroKid
— Read on distrokid.com/hyperfollow/masterstain/diddy-shit/

When the Prince of Darkness met the Immortal

In the worlds of heavy metal and professional wrestling—two industries built on rebellion, spectacle, and raw charisma—few names loom larger than Ozzy Osbourne and Hulk Hogan. One shredded guitars and sanity with equal fury; the other slammed giants and defined the golden era of wrestling. And though they came from different corners of culture, their lives reflect a parallel journey through fame, chaos, reinvention, and legacy.

Origins of Madness and Mania

Ozzy was born John Michael Osbourne in the working-class streets of Birmingham, England. A dyslexic school dropout with a criminal record, he found his salvation through music. With Black Sabbath, he helped invent heavy metal—dark, slow, and dangerous.

Terry Bollea, better known as Hulk Hogan, started out as a struggling musician in Florida before the wrestling ring called him. With bleached hair, a 24-inch pythons, and that booming “Whatcha gonna do, brother?!”, Hogan didn’t just wrestle—he became a symbol. Kids wanted to be him. Adults feared him. The media needed him.

Icons of Excess

Ozzy bit the head off a bat on stage. Hogan bodyslammed Andre the Giant.

Ozzy’s life was a swirling maelstrom of drugs, Satanic panic, and reality TV chaos (The Osbournes). Hogan was steroids, bandanas, lawsuits, and Hogan Knows Best. Both indulged in the fame and excess of their eras—and both paid for it. Health issues, personal scandals, and public criticism came crashing down. But neither man ever stayed down for long.

They were larger than life. And when life tried to shrink them? They just turned up the volume or flexed harder.

Fall, Redemption, and Final Acts

Ozzy battled Parkinson’s, spinal surgeries, and public doubts. Yet in July 2025, he performed his final concert in Birmingham—seated on a throne, defiant, unforgettable. Seventeen days later, he passed away at 76, as fans lit candles and raised devil horns around the world.

Hogan, meanwhile, passed away just two days after Ozzy. A cardiac arrest took the wrestling icon at 71. WWE rang ten bells. Crowds cried “Hulkamania forever.” And suddenly, two of the loudest voices of their generations went silent within the same week.

Legacy That Can’t Be Tamed

Ozzy was the Prince of Darkness who turned pain into power chords.

Hogan was the Immortal who turned body slams into mythology.

They weren’t perfect—but they never claimed to be. They were raw. Real. Ridiculous. And they owned every moment.

The world feels quieter without them. But don’t mistake quiet for absence—because legends like Ozzy and Hogan don’t really die.

They just tag out… and wait for the encore.

🕯️ Rest in Power, Ozzy Osbourne and Hulk Hogan.

The bat-biter and the leg-dropper.

The metal god and the wrestling GOAT.

Gone within days of each other.

Together forever in legend.

By: Master Stain

Move over, industry fakes — the real flex just dropped. My debut album Diddy Shit isn’t just music — it’s a lifestyle. It’s cigars on yachts, dirty money in clean suits, and walking through hell in designer boots. Every track hits like a boardroom power play and a back-alley beatdown at the same damn time.

From the opener to the closer, Diddy Shit is full of high-stakes hustle, unapologetic ambition, and that gold-plated grind you only get when you came from nothing and built your empire brick by brick. I’m not rapping for clout — I’m narrating the blueprint.

This album’s for the shot-callers, the dream chasers, and anyone who ever got counted out and came back louder. If you ain’t on Diddy Shit yet, you’re already behind.

Stream it. Share it. Live it.

#DiddyShit #MasterStain #BossTalkMusic #AllMoneyInNoCap

If you’ve ever wondered what would happen if your grandma’s casserole recipe had more legal protection than your medical choices — welcome to Iowa, where Governor Kim Reynolds has taken her anti-marijuana stance so far, you’d think weed once keyed her car.

While other states are handing out cannabis cards like library cards, Iowa remains stuck in the 1950s — but somehow with worse vibes. Reynolds is so anti-marijuana, she probably flinches when she walks past a hemp bracelet at the farmer’s market.

And the result? Iowans are skipping the mellow route and going straight for the hard stuff. Weed’s illegal? Fine. Pass the Oxy. Got back pain? Here’s a sack of fentanyl and a prayer.

One guy in Cedar Rapids said, “I asked my doc for a little THC balm. Next thing I know, I’m in a pain management clinic with a punch card for Percocet.”

Thanks to Gov. Reynolds, Iowa’s unofficial slogan has gone from “Fields of Opportunities” to “Fields of Pharmaceuticals.”

Honestly, at this point, you could show her a stoned cancer patient petting a cat and she’d still be like, “Arrest that man. That feline is an accomplice.”

So until sanity arrives at the Capitol (or she finally confuses marijuana with Miracle-Gro), Iowans will just have to keep choosing between suffering in silence — or riding the opioid rollercoaster like it’s Adventureland.

Stay safe out there. And maybe hide your Tylenol — she’s probably coming for that next

In America today, millions of people rely on medical marijuana to manage chronic pain, PTSD, cancer treatment side effects, and countless other conditions. But because cannabis remains a Schedule I drug under federal law — classified alongside heroin and LSD — medical patients face confusing barriers when they travel, move states, or even talk to their doctors.

By moving to federally reschedule marijuana, any president could instantly change that landscape. A shift to Schedule II or III would open the door for nationwide medical recognition, letting patients carry their doctor’s recommendation across state lines and giving researchers the freedom to fully study cannabis’ benefits and risks.

If Donald Trump were to lead the charge, it would be a bold move that crosses political lines — appealing to veterans, patients, caregivers, and younger voters who support safe access to cannabis. Beyond politics, it would position him as the leader who finally brought common sense and compassion to America’s outdated drug policy.

Rescheduling wouldn’t solve every problem, but it would show the country that patients come before politics — and that’s how legends are made.

I grew up in the 1990s, back when Gatorade had glass bottles, MTV still played music, and the lines between the genders were just starting to blur in a noticeable way—especially in sports.

I remember a time when a few girls in our school started suiting up for Little League. They weren’t just there to pick flowers in right field either—some of them could swing a bat and run the bases better than half the boys. I’ll admit it: I thought it was cool. I had a teammate named Katie who could throw heat, and another girl, Jessie, who ran faster than most of the guys. And then there was this one girl—dead serious—who said she was going out for football. Full-contact football. Not powder puff, not flag—pads, helmet, and all.

It shocked a few folks, but nobody told her she couldn’t. In fact, the general attitude was, “Let her try—if she can hang, she can play.” That was the 90s spirit—gritty, rebellious, and open-minded in a way that made you feel like anything was possible.

That stuck with me. Because back then, the rule was: if you had the skills, you got a shot. Nobody handed you a trophy just for showing up. You earned your place. It didn’t matter if you were a girl who wanted to play linebacker or a boy who wanted to be in drama club—just show up and prove yourself.

Fast forward to today, and things have gotten a lot more complicated.

Now, if a man even talks about joining a women’s league—whether it’s track, swimming, or basketball—it turns into a national debate. Lines are drawn. People yell about fairness, biology, identity, rights, and rules. It’s messy. But I go back to that 90s mindset—if a girl can suit up and play with the boys, why can’t a guy lace up and play with the girls?

I’m not saying throw all the rules out. There are real questions to answer about fairness, competition, and safety. But the heart of the matter is this: the old-school idea of equal opportunity has gotten lost in a world obsessed with equal outcomes.

We used to cheer for the underdog. We used to say, “Prove ‘em wrong.” We used to believe in grit over grievance.

I’m not asking for special treatment. I’m asking for consistent rules. If women breaking into men’s sports was a win for equality, then why is it taboo for the reverse?

Maybe it’s time to bring back a little bit of that 90s logic—where people earned their spot, and respect came from what you did on the field, not what was in your pants.

In the end, it’s simple: fair is fair. Just let everyone play the game by the same rules. Isn’t that what equality really means?

— Shane Higdon

There’s a certain energy that comes with the phrase “doing Diddy shit.” It’s not just about flossing, flexing, or dripping in diamonds—though let’s be real, that’s part of it. It’s about walking into a room like you own it, even if your bank account says otherwise. It’s about moving like a mogul, dreaming like a billionaire, and refusing to shrink yourself for anyone. Let’s break it down.

What Does “Doing Diddy Shit” Even Mean?

If you know, you know. But for the uninitiated: “Doing Diddy shit” means operating with confidence, class, and just the right amount of chaos. It’s about vision. Swagger. Showing up for yourself. Putting in the work behind the scenes and making it look effortless in front of the curtain.

When Puff Daddy (Sean Combs, P. Diddy, Love—whatever era you remember him by) stepped onto the scene, he wasn’t the most lyrical, the most talented singer, or even the richest. But he made the world believe he was that guy. He created trends, pushed boundaries, made millions, lost millions, made it back again. He curated culture. That’s Diddy shit.

How to Do Diddy Shit (Without a Billion-Dollar Budget)

Move Like a Mogul, Even If You’re Broke. It’s not about what you have—it’s about how you carry yourself. Wake up, dress up, and show up like the future is already written in your favor. Treat your time like it’s expensive. Create the Vibe. Whether you’re throwing a house party with two bottles and a Bluetooth speaker or leading a boardroom pitch—own the atmosphere. You bring the vibe. That’s Diddy shit. Make the Room Shift When You Walk In. Confidence is currency. Walk with your chest out, eyes forward. Make people feel like they need to know who you are. Even if you’re still figuring that out yourself. Hustle Quiet, Shine Loud. Diddy didn’t just dance in videos—he was producing, managing, branding, and building empires. Handle your business in silence. Let the results do the talking. Celebrate Big. Champagne when you win. Toast when you lose. Celebrate life at every stage. Because gratitude mixed with ambition? That’s a dangerous combo.

Diddy Shit Ain’t for the Weak

Let’s be clear—it’s not all glitz and Grammys. “Doing Diddy shit” means late nights, long flights, betrayal, bankruptcy, lawsuits, reinvention. It means falling flat on your face and getting up smoother than you fell. It’s not about being untouchable—it’s about being undeniable.

The Legacy Mindset

If you’re not building something that outlives you, what are you doing? Whether you’re a barber, a rapper, a welder, or a stay-at-home parent—you can do Diddy shit in your own lane. Leave your fingerprint on the world. Make moves with purpose. Turn your name into a brand. Own your story.

Final Thought: Start Doing Diddy Shit Today

You don’t need to be rich, famous, or followed to do Diddy shit. You just need to believe in your own sauce. Own your path. Step like a boss. Dream bigger than your surroundings. And never, ever apologize for being extra.

Because let’s be honest…

They didn’t believe in you?

God did.

And Diddy would too.

Now get out there and do some Diddy shit.

I was doin’ Diddy shit before Diddy did it,

Oil on shortie, whole room feelin’ wicked,

Don’t make you Jordan, not even LeBron,

You ain’t a king just ‘cause you put her on.

Shorties lined up like a Friday night line,

Camera rollin’, I’m directin’ my prime,

Slick like that baby oil, smooth in the zone,

Perfume in the air, I puff like I’m home.

(Verse 1)

They be talkin’ flashy but they never made the scene,

I was poppin’ Cristal while you chasin’ a dream,

Backroom freaky, velvet rope clique,

Shortie bent right, yeah, she know I’m legit.

You flex online, I flex in the suite,

Silk sheets, toes curled, she admit defeat,

No filters here, this that grown man script,

I been on that wave while you barely got drip.

(Hook)

I was doin’ Diddy shit before Diddy did it,

Oil on shortie, whole room feelin’ wicked,

Don’t make you Jordan, not even LeBron,

You ain’t a king just ‘cause you put her on.

Shorties lined up like a Friday night line,

Camera rollin’, I’m directin’ my prime,

Slick like that baby oil, smooth in the zone,

Perfume in the air, I puff like I’m home.

(Verse 2)

Call it fantasy? Nah, it’s just lifestyle,

Every scene I live be a damn profile,

Escorts, models, private jet talks,

You was stuck in DMs, I was makin’ her walk.

Got ‘em actin’ wild just to step in the suite,

They know I’m the one, from my chain to my seat,

They tried to Rico me, plot thick like a script,

But the truth don’t fold when you too well-equipped.

(Bridge)

They whisper my name in the D.A.’s file,

But I’m ghost like a whisper, never left a trial,

I don’t chase clout, I let the story unfold,

From the baby oil drip to the chains of gold.

(Final Hook)

I was doin’ Diddy shit before Diddy did it,

Oil on shortie, whole room feelin’ wicked,

Don’t make you Jordan, not even LeBron,

You ain’t a king just ‘cause you put her on.

Shorties lined up like a Friday night line,

Camera rollin’, I’m directin’ my prime,

Slick like that baby oil, smooth in the zone,

Perfume in the air, I puff like I’m home.

“What they call a freak, I call fun. You can’t fault a man for wanting to have fun.”

There’s a point in every culture shift when the misunderstood becomes the mainstream, when the freak becomes the founder, when what they laughed at becomes the lifestyle. And let’s be clear: before there were Bad Boy anthems, Champagne baths, and Harlem Shake takeovers on yachts in St. Tropez, some of us were already doing “Diddy shit” before Diddy ever did shit.

And we weren’t asking for permission.

Let’s break that down — not to knock the mogul himself (because Puff, Love, Diddy, whatever name he rocks — he’s a masterclass in reinvention), but to claim what’s often erased: the trailblazers who didn’t get the spotlight, who lived loud without a brand deal, who treated life like a studio session with no producers, no edits, just raw, unfiltered energy.

We wore silk shirts when folks said it was “too much.”

We popped bottles when they said we “hadn’t earned it.”

We danced on couches while they stayed boxed in their 9-to-5 minds.

We weren’t freaks — we were the prototype.

To want joy in a world that’s constantly trying to chain you down? That’s resistance. To choose fun — unapologetically — is a radical act. Because joy, when you’re not supposed to have it, when the system wasn’t built for you to feel it? That’s power. And power looks good when it’s smiling, sweating, and sipping tequila on a Tuesday.

You see, what they call “doing the most,” we call living. What they label “extra,” we just call complete. And while some waited for the red rope to open, we were building the club on the curb, turning sidewalks into soul trains.

So no, you can’t fault a man for wanting to have fun.

You can’t shame someone for refusing to live life muted.

Because long before the cameras caught it, before it was a trend, before it was monetized, before it was palatable — it was our truth. We didn’t need approval. We needed a beat. And baby, we found one in every room we entered.

So to all the early Diddys of the world — the unsung fun-first revolutionaries — this one’s for you. Keep shining, keep dancing, and never let the world dull your desire to do your kind of “shit.”

Because sometimes “freak” is just another word for free.