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There is nothing sweeter in this whole wide world than a wishy-washy gangsta rapper.

That’s why I’m crushing hard on 50 Cent these days.

A few months ago, Fiddy offered his nine bullet wounds of political credibility to Hillary Clinton’s presidential campaign. But after Barack Obama’s monumental March 18 speech on race in America, the rapper experienced a change of heart.

“I swear to God, I’m like, ‘Yo, Obama!’ I’m Obama to the end now, baby!” he told MTV News. That sentiment seemed clear enough, but the man born Curtis Jackson swiftly contradicted himself by adding: “I listened to some of the debate and things that they were saying, and I just got lost in everything that was going on. ... Don’t look for my vote, for me to determine nothing on that. Just say, ‘50 Cent, he don’t know, so don’t ask Fiddy.’”

Keep in mind that this interview happened about a week after Obama’s speech. So, in the time it takes to get a shirt dry-cleaned, 50 Cent basically went from “Hill’s the one!” to “Barack forever, Hillary never!” to “You know, I just might stay home on election day and play backgammon.”

This is the kind of bubble-headed, no-attention-span thinking that we’ve come to expect from Jessica Simpson and Alberto Gonzales, but it’s so refreshing to find it in the man who once assured us in song: “I’ll have your ass using a wheelchair, cane, or crutches.”

Unfortunately for Hillary Clinton, however, it leaves her campaign in a sticky predicament. Without 50 Cent’s support, the hippest music performer Hillary has in her column is Bon Jovi, and she doesn’t need a third-rate Springsteen wanna-be/never-will reminding people that her campaign is “Livin’ on a Prayer.”

Of course, Hillary can also count on Elton John. Captain (Not So) Fantastic scares up plenty of benjamins at arena fundraisers and he’s electoral gold with the AARP and Lion King crowds. But will he sell to the super-delegates?

Ultimately, we shouldn’t be surprised at 50 Cent’s public vacillation. He flip-flopped on his 2007 pledge to quit the biz if Kanye West outsold him the week their albums came out. He wobbled in his devotion to Vivica A. Fox when the media glare got too blinding. He couldn’t even commit for long to a good, old-fashioned gangsta feud with The Game.

The man is elusive, slippery-like. We’ll never understand him, in the same way we’ll never grasp an azure butterfly. As he once told us: “I’m like Patty LaBelle, homie, I’m on my own.”


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