22 Minutes of Deleted Scenes 50 Cent Couldn’t Show in Diddy Doc (Netflix BANNED Them)
The industry has a funny way of “promising” things that only serve to polish the brass on a sinking ship. A year ago, the whispers began about 50 Cent’s four-part Diddy documentary, and now that it has finally slithered onto Netflix in early December 2025, the hypocrisy is more deafening than the soundtrack. Titled Diddy: The Making of a Bad Boy, the project attempts to present a definitive walkthrough of a life built on shadows, but it is as notable for what it omits as for what it includes.
While Diddy rots in a Brooklyn jail cell awaiting trial, Netflix and 50 Cent have curated a narrative that plays it safe, conveniently sidestepping the most radioactive allegations that could burn their corporate fingers. The documentary claims to be explosive, but it smells more like a controlled demolition designed to protect the industry’s elite.
One of the most glaring absences is the full story of Kim Porter. She wasn’t just an “ex-girlfriend” or a “mother of his children”; she was the silent witness to the inner workings of an empire for decades. The documentary glosses over the tragic nature of her 2018 death, choosing not to dwell on the reports that she was considering a tell-all book before she supposedly succumbed to pneumonia. There is a disgusting irony in seeing Diddy parading a sick Kim Porter in front of cameras for a movie premiere just days before she died, yet the documentary refuses to interrogate the power dynamics that forced a woman with a 102-degree fever into the spotlight to maintain the “perfect family” tableau.
Then there is the silence regarding the parasitic “mentorship” of young stars. The documentary briefly touches on the fame, but it cowers away from the 2009 footage of a 15-year-old Justin Bieber being subjected to “48 hours with Diddy.” Watching a grown man tell the world that what he is doing with a child “can’t be disclosed” should have been a centerpiece of any serious investigation into Bad Boy’s culture. Instead, Netflix treats it like a footnote. The same applies to Usher’s “Puffy Flavor Camp.” The industry loves to frame this as “paying dues,” but when an adult Usher looks back and says “hell no” to sending his own children to such a place, it’s clear that what happened in those “flavor camps” was less about music and more about the systematic desensitization of minors to an adult world of drugs and sexual chaos.
The hypocrisy extends to the “deleted scenes” of real life that happened the moment the cameras stopped rolling. Just one day after the documentary premiered, a lawsuit surfaced involving a 13-year-old Jane Doe, alleging assault by both Diddy and Jay-Z back in 2000. It is a testament to the cowardice of mainstream media that the documentary didn’t account for the “birds of a feather” narrative that links these industry titans. Jay-Z’s camp can call the claims “frivolous” or “theatrics” all they want, but the timing reveals a desperate scramble to keep the lid on a pot that has been boiling for thirty years.
Even the exclusion of Gene Deal, Diddy’s former bodyguard, reeks of a desire to keep the story “digestible.” Deal has spent years describing a dark side of the empire that involves more than just bad business deals—he speaks of occult-like rituals in Central Park involving animal sacrifices to ward off legal convictions. Netflix likely found these stories “unverifiable,” but they have no problem airing other sensationalist garbage when it suits their bottom line. By excluding the man who was actually in the room, the documentary proves it isn’t interested in the truth; it’s interested in a version of the truth that doesn’t get them sued by the remaining power players in Hollywood.
The documentary also avoids the bizarre saga of Ava Baron and the “adoption” that wasn’t. Presenting a child as “adopted” for a social media skit is the peak of performative narcissism, yet the film ignores this calculated use of a human being as a prop for Diddy’s public image. It is this constant need to “perform” fatherhood and mentorship while the foundations were crumbling that the documentary fails to critically dismantle.
In the end, The Making of a Bad Boy is just another product. It captures the surface-level carnage—the Biggie shooting, the East Coast-West Coast feud, the raids—but it refuses to look into the eyes of the people who were truly discarded by the machine. 50 Cent may be the narrator, but even his “explosive” footage feels like a sanitized version of a much grimmer reality. The real story of Diddy’s empire isn’t found in a Netflix queue; it’s found in the deleted tweets, the nondisclosure agreements, and the survivors whose stories were deemed “too messy” for a global streaming platform.
