I Hear That Junkies Are Skinny
Aunt B. lays the smackdown on Fiddy. Good thing she did it first, because she got all the salient points in there, including the choice words that I'd use if I knew the likelihood of my mom reading this was slim.
I love how this punk who has glamourised drugs and gun violence and disrespect for women has the balls to make childhood obesity sound like the one unforgivable sin.
My heart breaks for all the chubby little kids who are mocked on the playground. Fat is the last acceptable prejudice. Can't make fun of the black kids, the gay kids, the poor kids. But slap a couple extra pounds on Bobby and he's fair game. (Ironically, maybe being able to play with all the other kids on the playground would help with his fitness level. )
Apparently in the 2006 version of the Cinderalla Story, the little chubby kid can dream of growing up to shoot people, get shot, sell drugs, rape women and earn enough money from the whole mess to hire a chef and a personal trainer. Then at last he will attain that pinnacle of all goals. Thinness.
Give me a frakkin' break.