So the rumor that someone has put a hit out on Kevin Federline seems to be untrue, and I for one am glad.
While I am not a huge supporter of the man who most likely smells like a potent combination of stale tube socks and astroglide, I cannot help but think that murder isn’t really the way to go on this one.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I love a drunken, panty-less vendetta as much as the next girl, but K-Fed has given us so much –and we don’t just mean that weird rash shaped like Hugh Laurie’s head from that time we used the unisex after him at the airport…no, he’s made me believe in America again.
I mean, where but the good ole Yoonited States can a stoat-faced backup dancer whose only talent is put in grave peril every time he gets enough quarters to ride the K-Mart bouncy horse, grow up to marry America’s favorite lip-synching, python-dancing, pop-and-locking fake virgin?
So I say to Kevin “Possum Toof” Federline: you may be as simple as you are unclean, but you’re what makes this country great. Quaff deeply, sir. Quaff deeply for America.