P.Diddy

P. Diddy seduce.  Justin Bieber: "Yacht bring extra Baby oil. Tonight." Bieber arrives, greased up, sliding across deck like penguin 

on ice. "This for wrestling?" Diddy smirks, "Nah, slip-n-slide tournament." They race—Bieber  

belly flops, Diddy cannonballs. Oil everywhere, they stick like magnets. Bieber: "Dude, get off!" Diddy: "It's the remix!" Cops show up, lights flashing. Biebs dives overboard, swims away squealing. Diddy waves: "Bring more oil next time!" Headlines: "Bieber Bails, Diddy Drowns in Slick." Baby oil shortage nationwide. Absolute disaster. Yeah yeah TAZZY putting it down let's go "Baby Oil Bash" on a mega-yacht—slippery floors, mood lighting, celebs sliding everywhere. Justin Bieber arrives, all grown-up and tatted, thinking it's a spa day. "Yo, Diddy, where's the massage?" Diddy grins wickedly: "Oh, it's full body, kid!" Hands him a bottle. Bieber squirts it, slips like Bambi on ice—crashes into a pile of oiled-up models, emerging greased like a Thanksgiving turkey. "This ain't baby oil, it's lube apocalypse!" Diddy cackles, starts a conga line that turns into a human slip-n-slide. Bieber tries to escape, but doors are locked—ends up wrestling Diddy in a kiddie pool of the stuff. "Mentor me harder, pops!" Bieber yells sarcastically. Yacht tilts from the chaos, everyone yelling "Freak off!" as it nearly capsizes. Bieber swims to shore, vows celibacy. Diddy? Orders more bottles. Total greasy disaster.

rap, trap, male