50 Cent: Street King Immortal

Posted: 10/07/2012 in Films, Music, News, Parenting

Curtis Jackson is a rapper who goes by the name “50 Cent” . . . I’m told that 2 out of 3 gangsters surveyed prefer to pronounce his stage name as “Fitty Cent.” So, Fitty, or if you prefer, Mr. Cent has made a pretty penny shooting his mouth off about how bad he is. Considering that his latest album Street King Immortal is slated for next month, I thought a quick recap of his rap was in order.

His 2003 debut album, Get Rich or Die Tryin’, sold more than 12 million non-biodegradable CDs. Which is too bad—the compost pile is where that disc belongs with its graphic tales of cold blooded murder, gun slinging, point-blank gang-banging, and whacked-out-on-drugs hoodlum pabulum.

If trashing up both the airwaves AND the environment wasn’t enough, Fitty envisioned taking his twisted reality and dumping it into theaters across the country.

In 2005, Get Rich or Die Tryin’—the movie—debuted. From a sheer artistic endeavor, this flick was so bad (as in lousy) that it’s not even a worthy 99-cent rental. Let’s set aside the 200+ f-words that pulverize movie goers . . . or the full frontal nudity and pursuit of all things oral . . . or the slow-motioned, drive-by rampages . . . or the knife stabbings, gold teeth being yanked from a man’s mouth, suffocations, and close-ups of blood streaming from wounds . . . underneath all of the posing and brooding for the camera, 50/Fitty displays a sheer delight in the thug life.

The plot thickened, however, when the violence moved from the screen to the lobby, as it did at a theater on opening night in Pittsburgh. Shelton Flowers, age 30, paid his homage and $9 to see Get Rich. On the way out, Shelton and several others got into an argument which was settled with three shots to his chest and body . . . just as fights are handled in the movie.

Evidently, Fitty saw fit to do a little damage control by issuing a statement on “The View.” I recall thinking at the time that Mr. Cent’s appearance was nothing more than a half-baked, blame-shifting PR job.

Naturally, the filthy-rich Fitty rattled a little ditty about how his movie was not responsible. Don’t blame him . . . it’s just a movie blah blah blah. As an after thought, Cent said he was sorry for the loss of life. Here’s where my Baloney Meter gets pegged. He’s sorry?

I’ll bet you my last dime that 50 Cent doesn’t know what the word “sorry” means. Why? Remorse is not part of the gangsta culture. If you, as an Original Gangsta, were to say “Sorry,” your bling bling lifestyle would be over. You wouldn’t have two nickels to rub together by the time the other thug posers hosed you.

If the truth were known, I’m convinced somebody had to talk some sense in to Fitty Cent behind the scenes. I can imagine how this conversation went down between 50 and his two-bit company handler back in 2005:

FITTY: What up, dogg?

PR man: We have a problem . . . remember that shooting in Pittsburgh on opening night?

FITTY: It’s all good—

PR man: Um, actually, it’s not. We don’t need more bad press right now.

FITTY: Yo, dats not my thang. Don’t lay dat shootin’ on me, see?

PR man: No, you’re right Mr. Cent. But still, Paramount needs you—actually, more like they’re begging you, sir, to do some damage control.

FITTY: Yo what?

PR man: We need you to put on a shirt, sit with a cute blonde on The View and say the words “I’m sorry.”

FITTY: Yo, the blonde—I’m down wit dat. But what up with dat sorry rap?

PR man: You know, “I’m sorry” as in “I feel real bad someone died.”

FITTY: I do?

PR man: Doesn’t matter. But you’ve got to make your fans think you care.

FITTY: Look, my man. I’ve-been-shot-nine-times-I’m-the-real-deal-gangsta. I can’t be dropping “sorry” on the peeps. Da homey’s will be illin’, say I’ve been chillin’ soft.

PR man: Peeps?

FITTY: That’s people, dogg.

PR man: So, you’ll do it? If you don’t, your movie might just get pulled from all of the theaters—

FITTY: Tell you what, Holmes . . . get me a new Glock and I’ll talk.

PR man: Done. I’ll send the limo. Just practice saying “I’m s-o-r-r-y” . . . and try to look like you mean it.

Since 2003, Fitty has produced a string of excrement-worthy releases, including The Massacre (2005), Curtis (2007), and Before I Self Destruct (2009). Thematically, all three discs are nothing more than retreads of his debut with their fixation on being a really bad, no good, nasty gangsta, dealing and using mind-altering substances, lesbianism, and twisted sexual exploits.

Given this record of feces-laden filth from Fitty, when Street King Immortal releases next month, there’s nothing to indicate Mr. Cent has anything to say that’s worth a plug nickle.


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