It’s hard to take 50 Cent seriously. Just look at the cover of his highly anticipated second album, “The Massacre” (Aftermath Records). The head of the Queens rapper seems to have been grafted to an outrageously muscular torso in Photoshop, his profile outlined in messy, childish scribble. He’s standing in front of a floral-patterned background fit for wallpaper in a nursing home. We’re supposed to believe this man when he barks, “I’ll be actin’ like an animal, I’ll tear you apart / If the masterpiece was murder, I’d major in art”? Please.

At this point in his career, the man born Curtis Jackson is more a cartoon than a credible street thug. Everything he does is larger-than-life. His back story has become the stuff of legend: A former drug dealer, he survived being shot nine times in 2000, then was groomed for superstardom by hip-hop heavyweights Eminem and Dr. Dre. He’s sold more than 1 million copies of his breakthrough 2003 debut “Get Rich or Die Tryin,'” thanks to the inescapable party anthem “In Da Club,” and his endorsement empire includes shoes, clothing, video games and bottled water. Rolling Stone recently ranked him number 19 on their list of 2004’s top music industry moneymakers.

50 Cent knows that it’s all a game, and in order to remain a winner, he has to give the public what it wants. On that level, “The Massacre” is a resounding success. The advance singles “Candy Shop” and “Disco Inferno” (currently sitting pretty at Nos. 1 and 6, respectively, on the Billboard Hot 100 chart) and the Dr. Dre-produced “Outta Control” expertly recreate the dance-or-die claustrophobia of “In Da Club.” Expect to hear all three blasting from car stereos throughout the spring and summer.

There are a slew of hardcore guns-drugs-money tableaux (“I’m Supposed to Die Tonight,” “Ski Mask Way,” “Gunz Come Out,” etc.) included to allay any fears that fame has made 50 soft. But these are countered by several slow jams “for the ladies,” lest anyone doubt the player’s sensitive side. “Before I be your buddy in bed, let me be your best friend / Girl, its more than lust, I want your trust,” he vows on “Build You Up,” over a silky hook crooned by Jamie Foxx (yes, the Oscar winner is also an R &B lover man). Nevermind the fact that he bragged, “Commitment for me – ah, nah, not likely,” on “Get in My Car” nine songs earlier. Then there’s “Piggy Bank,” the requisite “beef” track, in which 50 fires shots at a bevy of rival Mcs – including Nas, Fat Joe, Jadakiss, and his favorite target, Ja Rule – as retaliation for alleged slights.

Most of “The Massacre” is totally formulaic, and at 22 tracks in 78 minutes, it often feels like an endurance test. But 50 Cent didn’t become one of the biggest rappers on the planet by accident. The man sweats charisma. His confident, relaxed flow and penchant for bursts of hearty laughter make him seem like the kind of guy who’d back you up in a fight, then go seduce your little sister.

At one point, however, the cartoon slips and lyrical slices of real life break through. The standout track “A Baltimore Love Thing,” is a terrifying portrait of drug addiction that refuses to stick to the tired cliches done to death throughout the rest of the album. At first, 50 seems to be rhyming from the point of view of an obsessed lover, but as the song progresses, it becomes clear that he’s personifying heroin, and the object of his affection is a junkie. “Let’s make a date, promise me you’ll come and see me / Even if it means you have to sell ya mama’s TV,” he raps in a fierce, desperate tone. “There’s more to life than laughter, what brought us together was fate /And we’ll be hand in hand when you walk through those pearly gates.”

“A Baltimore Love Thing” tears apart the glamorization of the darker side of life that 50 Cent spends so much effort building up on “The Massacre.” It’s also the only time that he sounds completely convincing.