Sunday, June 03, 2007
Because he was feeling left out
I've been raving so much about Skipper Sig Hansen and Robert Sylvester Kelly lately that I've been neglecting to laud my #1 boyfriend, Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson. I was watching the MTV Movie Awards tonight, and after spending about ten minutes ranting to myself about how overrated and annoying Sarah Silverman and Dane Cook both are, and thinking murderous thoughts about the Pinkett-Smiths and their obnoxious kid, I was calmed by two things. First, a Transformers trailer (and HOLY SHIT, it looks awesome) replaced my feelings of rage with kid-on-Christmas-morning giddy excitement, and then a commercial for Vitamin Water starring none other than my boyfriend Curtis. The premise of this commercial is that not only has Formula 50 consumption given Fitty the business acumen to earn $400 million dollars last week when Coca-Cola acquired Vitamin Water manufacturer Glaceau (which Fitty owns a stake in), but the conductorial skills to lead a full symphony in a freestyle orchestral arrangement of "In Da Club:"
This makes me wish I actually liked Formula 50. Despite what the name might lead you to believe, it's grape-flavored, not Curtis Jackson-flavored. As much as I love Fitty, I can't stand grape-flavored anything, as it reminds me of Dimetapp and thus of being sick. Maybe if I could choke down enough Formula 50, I would graduate tomorrow, achieve fame, fortune, and wealth beyond imagination (the plan for that is TBA), buy the Seahawks, get elected president, and live happily ever after comparing myself to Beethoven. Since I can't tolerate it, though, I guess I'll have to do it the old-fashioned way: plenty of stick-to-it-iveness, elbow grease, American pride, and fucking people in influential positions. In the meantime, however, I'll have to not hate, and rather congratulate. Nice marketing, Curtis, and nice symphonic skills.
**Golf claps**
This makes me wish I actually liked Formula 50. Despite what the name might lead you to believe, it's grape-flavored, not Curtis Jackson-flavored. As much as I love Fitty, I can't stand grape-flavored anything, as it reminds me of Dimetapp and thus of being sick. Maybe if I could choke down enough Formula 50, I would graduate tomorrow, achieve fame, fortune, and wealth beyond imagination (the plan for that is TBA), buy the Seahawks, get elected president, and live happily ever after comparing myself to Beethoven. Since I can't tolerate it, though, I guess I'll have to do it the old-fashioned way: plenty of stick-to-it-iveness, elbow grease, American pride, and fucking people in influential positions. In the meantime, however, I'll have to not hate, and rather congratulate. Nice marketing, Curtis, and nice symphonic skills.
**Golf claps**
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, capitalism, hilarious shit, hot dudes, media whores, ridiculous absurdity, TV
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