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In the event that you happen to be feeling down in the dumps I have the perfect thing to warm the cockles of your heart on these long winter days.

A nice fire with hot chocolate? A snuggle under the covers with the one you love? Some warm gluvine?

Hell no. I have Playing with Fire – the new album out by Kevin Federline.

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Actually I lie. I don’t have the album. But I have something even more priceless than that. I have the Amazon.com reviews to read and the amount of laughing that I do when I read them burns the equivalent calories to that of having sex or vacuuming for about 4 hours straight and actually makes me break a sweat.

Some examples of the brilliance that you will find in the reviews:

Stapling my weener to a 2 x 4 and smashing it with a hammer would be less painful.

Music for Guantanamo
Alas, a nonviolent tool for interrogation! Someone contact the military because Kevin Earl Federline from Fresno, CA has solved a pressing issue plaguing our military or anyone in law inforcement.

Slap this CD in and hook it up to some 15″ speakers and let the bumpin’ beats and lyrical genius spill from the speakers. You’ll have your prisioner talking in no time.

I’ve shat better, more interesting things than this amazingly dismal waste of non-renewable petrochemical resource. The amount of energy required to suck up countless gallons of OPEC gold to press tens of thousands of soon-to-be coasters which this CD is sure to become boggles the mind. My favorite part is the 3 seconds of blissful silence between each track, which does not lessen the fact that a dozen feces-throwing Rhesus monkeys could manage to create an epic far superior to what Mr. Federline invested so little time in producing

I was in an ‘alternative’ bar in Rangoon minding my own business at the bar, sipping on Crystal Pepsi and kahlua cruising for a Clevland Steamer when a short asian boy came into the club. He was covered in babyoil and wearing a acrylic shower curtin and a fez. He brazenly ordered my favorite libation and announced he was he filling in as the house DJ. “I’m going to burn this house down” he announced as he produced a CD from his fanny pack.

At the time I am embarrassed to inform that I had no idea who Kevin Federline was. My world was about to be changed forever.

As soon as the mesmerizing sounds of “America’s Most Hated’ pulsed out of the PA system, the whole club just seemed to stop. Surrounded by what faintly sounded like booing, I was transported into utter bliss. After ‘Dance with a Pimp’ began, the club patrons were trying to break the door down to the DJ booth to anxiously inquire as to who was this genious of modern music. As I rushed to the dance floor, a few of the dancers became violently ill they were so overcome with emotion.

By the time ‘Middle Finger’ began, it seemed like I was the only one on the dance floor. As I whirled around and around, a mass of people had formed a crude battering ram out of a bust of Liza Minelli and had smashed the glass of the DJ booth to have this wonderous gift all for themselves, I believe. Then the tempo reached a fevered pitch when the sounds of ‘World Is Mine’ washed over me like elephant urine at a golden shower convention. My knees buckled, I passed gas and hit my head on the floor. I came to in the alley next to Shemp’s Landfill and Croissants the next day with ‘Playing with Fire’ playing over and over in my aching head.

It’s very good. I never saw the asian boy again.

I bought a copy for my dad. I don’t like my dad very much.

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