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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

50 Cent: Who Fucking Cares?

Wanna know something interesting (well, not that interesting)? I used to be a huge fan 50 Cent. And I wasn’t one of those funny-style humps that got all moist in the middle whenever he took off one of those fruity-ass brassiere tops (pause!), mind you; my infatuation with Curtsy (ayoooo...) began towards my latter years of high school, when I first caught wind of the rapper in of all places ice-skating sneering next to Sticky Fingaz in an old-ass Onyx video for “React.” But when “How To Rob” and “Your Life’s On The Line” dropped in the summers of 1999 and 2000 respectively, I became a bona fide Fiddy fan. Shit, I’ll even admit I was pretty gassed up for Power Of The Dollar in the same manner I was when I used to blast “What Means The World To You” (yeah, I know) out of my Walkman cassette player. Of course, he originally came out during the tail end of the shiny suit era, so unless he was doing the Whop while rocking a pair of shimmering coveralls (like Sheek did in this video. Damn you again Sean!) or fronting like a dyslexic ‘Nolia project rat a la “Ha” in his videos, he got no mo’ play in CA.

I never thought he was a great rapper, but he held a decent grasp of the rhyming dictionary, as well as a knack for making catchy hooks. To this day I still think “Your Life’s On The Line” is one of the greatest hooks (and better disses to Ja Rule to boot) today. So naturally, I was slightly disappointed that his debut would never see the light of day in the Circuit City store I used to loot, but upbeat at the fact that I wouldn’t have to risk jail time yoking it anonymously off the Internets.

Fast-forward a couple years, and now Curtsy has gone on to be arguably to most recognizable – as vilified – faces in rap today. I guess that after he tried (and failed) to catch that bullet Bruce Leroy style, he scrambled his brains like a McGriddle in the process, as now he continually packages his shitty lyrics behind shittier beats, tries to ram bumbling idiots like Young Hot Rod and Maserati Fox down our throats (P-A-U-S-E) while distinguished acts like M.O.P. and Mobb Deep (well, the Mobb circa 1995-1999) languish behind the scenes and having to outsource themselves, not unlike an Indian troubleshooter for AT&T, to their rivals to keep the lights in their studio apartments on and sending his team of hired goons to either stab or slap up random-ass people, all the while mocking his album buyers (and illegal downloaders) with gaudy houses and “stock” in some low-grade Crunk Juice.

But at this point, I honestly don’t think he gives a shit about his crew outside of Tony Yayo, which is an odd conundrum in and of itself. I mean, I know I couldn’t sleep at night knowing that I carry for someone younger than me (and it’s not like I’m old in the first place), but I digress. So what, Curtsy’s album got pushed from June to the sixth anniversary of when the planes kamikaze’d into New York. If anything, that’s a brilliant plan to try to usurp Jay-Z’s The Blueprint as the best-selling album on a national disaster. And if he wants to kick out his lyrically superior counterparts (but that’s not like it’s anything significant; that just makes him the most shitty rapper in a crew of shitty rappers), it’s not like anybody would really notice; if we don’t give a shit about them now, why would we give a fuck when they’d inevitably get demoted to tire shiners?

You never know, though. Maybe Fiddy will hit hard times and will be reduced to doing the Charleston on Dancing With The Stars, not unlike one Percy Miller. Having realized that Marvin Bernard was the cause for his downfall, he may fuck around and bring back the old, snarling Fiddy that used to run with The Madd Rapper. If that happens, I’ll be the first person to yoke that album from the same Circuit City too.

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