Same musical shit, different day.

Pop quiz!

50 Cent refers to:

A. The headliner in this year's Spring Weekend concert
B. The maximum amount after taxes that Ryan Prescott would ever concievably spend on this year's Spring Weekend concert
C. The current selling price of one Curtis Jackson, if he were a share of common stock
D. All of the above



If you picked D, pat yourself on the back. You're smarter than everybody at SUBOG. (If anybody from SUBOG happens to read this and picks D, I'm sorry if your head begins to hurt as a result of this paradox, but you brought this upon yourself. And if you didn't pick D, case in point).


(Quick note: The host site of this picture is some website called SurlyTaco.com. No idea what that is, but I like it).

In case you haven't figured out how this blog works yet, I'm irritated. Irritated, but not surprised. You see, as much as I would have loved to have a halfway decent act perform at UConn, I never for a second believed it would happen. To live in a world where I put that much faith in humanity would be to live in a world of constant disappointment. That said, despite my grizzled Grinchlike heart, I maintained a small glimmer of hope that just MAYBE I'd pick up a Daily Campus and be pleasantly surprised. Just MAYBE I would read that an artist I like was coming here, and some peculiar thing would happen where the edges of my mouth curled upward...and my brow became unfurrowed...my arms uncrossed...I'd rub my eyes in disbelief...and then a powerful Fonzi-level thumbs up for the ages, at no one in particular. At the camera. There should be a camera.

But no. Instead we get this. A putrid, unholy pile of dog shit. And no, I don't think it's cute that he's from Connecticut. He sucks. You know that piece of shit movie, Jeepers Creepers? Where that ugly mutant scarecrow thing comes around every 23 years to eat people for 23 days? Well I feel like right now we're in that peaceful hiatus in between the beast's feeding frenzies, and we're so smug in our invincibility, we cocky teenagers. Well we're about to get a major shitbomb dropped on us in Jeepers Creepers 2, when the stupid bat-creature comes back to feast on our human flesh once again. If you're not quite there on the analogy, "Fitty" is the evil bat creature, and apparently I am every character in both of the fucking movies, since everyone else seems to be chomping at the bit to be eaten.

The analogy works in more than one way because when watching one of the Jeepers Creepers movies, much like listening to one of 50 Cent's albums, you sit there and think to yourself, "Was this really fucking made? Did a studio really OK this for production? Maybe someone threw up all over the master tapes and this came out by accident." Well, if you're me, that's what you think.

You know how glad you were that people stopped saying "Go shorty, it's your birthday" for a while? Well fuck you, because it's coming back. How about "Been shot 9 times but I don't walk with a limp?" Get ready for it. 50's lyrics have been adopted and butchered by more teenage girls than Napoleon Dynamite. We could have let him go in the corner and die, but just like Brendan Fraser in the Mummy, we had to read from the book of the dead and bring his rotten carcass back to life.

Okay, so the man's not Willie Nelson, but I am right in my assumption that he hasn't done a damn thing in quite some time, correct? He's like ninety-six in rapper years. And here I thought the whole point of pandering to the masses when picking the Spring Weekend concert was snatching the artist from the top of the charts regardless of staying power or musical merit. That probably would have yielded us Lady GaGa, so, fuck. I wish at least we could book our generic and uninspired concert lineups at the height of their popularity. If he was 50 Cent when he was popular (Get Rich or Die Tryin was 2003), inflation has to have pushed his net worth to over 75 cents by now, right? Is he 50 Cent in today's dollars or 2003's?

Freshman Year: OAR
Sophomore Year: Dashboard Confessional
Junior Year: T-Pain/Flo-Rida
Senior Year: 50 Cent

Holy shit, it's Malthus' four horsemen of the apocalyspe. I think 50 might just be pestilence.

So kids, I close by alerting you that in the spirit of this hellacious day (with a killer cold to boot), I have posted just before this entry my letter to the editor from last year reacting to the T-Pain/Flo-Rida fiasco. This is the version I sent them, pre-edit. I won't write them again, because it would probably be the same letter, but in the interest of full disclosure, voila.

As for me, you can find me nowhere near da club. With a bottle full of Everclear, drowning my sorrows.