Yo Ho, Yo Ho, A Druggie's Life For Me

Yo Ho, Yo Ho, A Druggie's Life For Me
by 51 Cent

The most hearty and sincere "Word Up" to all of you, my hiz-omies of the Internet. You may have noticed from that first greeting that I am in unusually good spirits, and I will fully admit that a large portion of that is due to ingesting a large portion of Mad Dog's Triple Malt Liquor, a fine item which I procured from Liverless Joe on a certain section of South Street. But imbibing myself with spirits is only part of the equation, my niggas: I, 51 Cent, have reconnected with my hallowed drug-dealing roots, and am a rapper no more!

You see, when I last left you, I had just pieced together a demonstration of several of my rappings to send off to various recording companies. Unfortunately, I did not hear back from any of them, despite having spent a goodly amount of Benjamins on a medium-grade sample of crack-cocaine to attach to the mailings! After I arrived at the realization that I was not to break into the rapping world after all, I became enraged, and quite down on myself and the world in general. I was not to be a rapper, I was sick of being a drug dealer, and I was no closer to my ultimate dream of one day helping a fine gentleman pick out the perfect fancy glass egg for his wife's birthday, which they would set on a special stand I would craft by hand, in a fine polished glass display for all to see!

I returned glumly to the street of Philadelphia, disillusioned and disheartened. I confess I did consider suicide (by which I don't mean ingesting a low-quality product from one of my competitors, which would be so poor that it would practically be suicide -- o-ho! A joke!), but I was somehow too motha fucking fucked up in my head for even that. I was simply existing, but detesting every moment of it.

It was at one of these harshest possible moments that Taniqua Willis, an old client of mine, approached me, looking quite lovely in new leopard-print tights and an intricate array of track marks on her arms that reminded me of the marvelous spirals in Van Gogh's "Starry Night", or the masterful imagery of a whipping tornado in Busta Rhymes' classic "Keep It Movin'".

"51 Cent!" she shrieked at me. "Where you fuckin' been, nigga? I need some of yo' shit, NOW!"

"Oh, you stupid bitch," I said just like my old self, but without my usual jovial heart, "I am sorry to inform you that I am out of that business, and perhaps even the whole biz-ness of life in general. For you see --"

"But Cent," she pleaded, beginning to cry, "I need you!"

And then, my friends, my enemies, lovas and hatas, it hit me: I was needed! My services were required! My life had a distinct purpose: to provide crack-cocaine of varying quantities and qualities to the great city of Philadelphia!

"That's exactly it, you skank!" I shouted jubilantly. "I am taking you to the finest restaurant in this fine city right this instant, and not a moment later! It's high time to celebrate!"

And then off we flew to an expensive restaurant, where they would not let us in initially, due to our relatively poor physical appearance -- I myself was dressed in a large brown overcoat with a patch on the back reading, "Insert Money, Receive Drugs", and my favourite pair of earmuffs and cowboy hat -- but I changed that in a hurry by flashing some Benjamins! We had quite a time, myself and that bitch, drinking fine wine and ordering fine food, and it was tainted only by Taniqua's sudden but profuse explosive nose bleeding all over the table. It was also tainted by a certain experience I happened to have right then, which I call a "toxic super freakout", in which, due to the effects of alcohol and some high grade celebratory crack-cocaine, I stood on the table and announced that I was the Lord Of Fancy Fucking Eggs, and began to sing a song about the eggs which utilized my latent-yet-existing rapping talents, and went a little something like this:

Fancy glass eggs!
I will sell them to you
At a reasonable price
If you are nice
You won't have to sacrifice
The quality!
Of my eggs!

And it was set to the beat of Taniqua's nose explosions, which sounded vaguely like Jello being trampled underfoot.

Sadly, we were forced to leave the restaurant -- and I was also forced to take Taniqua's high heel shoes and jam them in her ears for reasons that I can't remember -- but nothing could ruin my elation. Philadelphia, 51 Cent is back, and so shall he remain!

Editor's note: 51 Cent was shot in the face shortly after completing this article by a former client of his, and is presumed dead. He will be missed.

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