There's a lot to say about Kevin Federline -- sadly, none of it good. Between the guy's prison-quality tattoos, his white-trash habits, his apparent lack of mad skillz, and his train wreck of an ex-wife, K-Fed's an easy target. And thanks to a carb-friendly diet, he's getting even easier.
We're sorry. That was a low blow. We're normally above such trifles.... As opposed to K-Fed, who's never met a trifle he didn't like. (Good night, Secaucus! We're here all week!)
Okay, seriously people: your boy has gotten some FAT, right? Like, how the hell do you get that chunky as a backup dancer? Was Darcel that big? Or Oaktown's 357? Or Dawn -- either of them? No indeed: they knew where their bread was buttered (note: it wasn't), and they had the sense to keep their shiznit together. Federline, on the other hand, has gone down the stony end -- or perhaps the rocky road -- and now his only career option seems to be imitating a meth freak at children's parties. (An admittedly limited field.)
Now just to be clear: we've got nothing against chunky monkeys (far from it). We've got nothing against K-Fed personally (though if that's his litter on the ground, he better damn well have picked it up). And you know we've got nothing against a big, bad GMC Yukon. But if dude wants to roll with the Hollywood honeys -- and evidence indicates he does -- he might wanna drop some poundage so he can slip behind the wheel of something sleeker. You know, something that doesn't say "our first date's at the deer stand".