K-Fed

All of Fashion Week was fun, but few things will match the experience of seeing this man in the flesh at a  show:

I wonder how Wilmer Valderrama felt, sitting quietly as he did in his seat before Federline arrived, having read the name on the chair next to his and therefore knowing what was coming. Hopefully this conversation does not involve Kevin giving Wilmer tips on how to apply that wimpy little mohawk to his own head. And yes, for the record, K-Fed totally changed his suit in the 15 minutes between the end of Sean Jean and the time he showed up at Marc Jacobs. I can't wait until this clothes-conscious step in his evolution ultimately takes him straight down Elton John Blvd. to wearing outrageous jumpsuits and other crazy crap. Hey, it beats saucy trucker hats.

• At Donna Karan, Susan Sarandon showed those plastic-faced actresses how it should be done.
• We were standing two feet from K-Fedat Sean John and we didn't once want to smack him! Well, maybe because of that awful hair. But otherwise, we must really be okay with him now.
• And finally, our wrap-up post, including bits and pieces we couldn't fit anywhere else and our disappointment that J.Lo didn't show up at ex Sean Combs' fashion show. Tell me that wouldn't have been dramatic.

Yo, bitches. K-Fizzle here.

I just snuck out of the house to pick up some shit at the mini-mart while Whatshername is home sticking Oreos in our new deep-fryer. [Dude, that's not a eupha...eupharm...something clean you say when you mean something dirty. Seriously, it's like she's sticking something into that deep fryer all damn day long. Something about craving something and batter being good for the baby? Whatever. I don't know. All I know is how good my baby batter is. AW YEAHS, BITCHES, I SAID IT. Heh.  Heh. Dude, after my record drops I am totally going to get a gig at the Stand-Up Club or whatever that place Pauly Shore runs is called, because I TOTALLY CRACK MY SHIT UP.]

Yeah, anyway, I just ran out to get some water and some Cheetos and some beef jerky and some ice cream sandwiches and a couple of Twinkies and then I had to run by my dealer's house because B said she didn't want him to deliver my shit anymore because he was "a bad influence on the baby," or some shit, and then I was like, (a) the baby isn't even OUT yet, (2) it's not like he was a bad influence on all those other kids I have, I'm pretty sure, but then she said some BULLSHIT about not paying for it anymore and then, dude, I swear to God, she reached for my hand and TRIED TO PUT IT IN THE DEEP FRYER and, man, HORMONES, dude, dial it DOWN. So I ran out to give her some time to chill. She has been seriously so crabby ever since she caught me going through the safe.

Anyway, I'm trying and shit. I feel like I should at least try and stick it out for the kid, for a little while. And because she's been whining about my shoes for like the last SIX MONTHS, like, I will tie my shoes if I FEEL LIKE IT, bitch, I finally decided to shut her up and got a new pair. Check it:

Stylish AND functional, right? I love how it makes it look like I've got camel toe ON MY FEET. Heh. God, that's weird. It's like I'm a woman from the ankle down. Well, two women. Who have five legs inside their pants....well, three legs in one pant leg and two in....because of my actual toes...shit, now my head hurts.  Analogies or whatever are fucking hard. But look how clean my socks are! Right out of the plastic bag, bitches. Ain't nothing too good for me now. As long as I can find my dealer's house and Her Majesty don't stick the manpris in the deep fryer, nothing can touch me, you know?

Peace izzle,

K-Fed

As we continue to worry about Ashton Kutcher's descent into skankdom, it's worth noting that there is a very, very thin line between Current Kutch...

... and Cleaned-Up (by his standards) K-Fed:

Be careful, A-Kutch. Where this man has taken himself, even cockroaches fear to tread. Don't make Demi go there. Something tells me she has a low tolerance for Cheeto dust and body odor.

Yo bitches. Cletus McK-Fed here.

[Photo: PacificCoastNewsOnline.com]

Yeah, yeah, I know. I know, a'ight? But she really wanted a damn baby and the bitch who signs the checks gots the power, you know? It was all blah blah baby blah blah baby blah blah fertile blahedy blah something about Justin blah. Damn, I just got tired of hearing it, you know? And I thought if she had a baby and shut up already, maybe she'd stop buying so many damn dogs. Did you hear that bullshit about the incest puppies? Christ. I told her a thousand damn times that the dogs aren't fucking related and that even if they were, who gives a shit? They're fucking dogs dude, and her whining about it was totally harshing my buzz. And then she started crying again and shit, and, dudes, I just COULD NOT TAKE IT anymore. So I hit her with El Spermination. Maybe this will keep her busy for a while so I can take off to Vegas with my BOYZ. [Big ups to Fresno! Yeah yeah!]

On the DL, I gots to admit, dude: I am kinda proud of my swimmers, you know? I am FEE-IRTLE. [Or FED-IRTLE? Heh. Heh. Heh. God. I'm good.] Who KNOWS how many babies I got in this town? Hells, I've tapped A LOT of ladies between here and the Nevada border. I know I gave that one chick the syph, but who knows what else I been giving 'em, if you know what I mean and I mean mini-Feds. I'm making myself a damn basketball team, dude. Maybe we can go on the road and get away from Loudmouth over there.

Dudes, she's starting whining about my clothes. Yeah. She's all in a muumuu and shit and she's crying that my shoes are untied and my manpris are all tore up and why can't I dress like a grown-up and DAMN BITCH, my manpris are all tore up because your damn dogs keep trying to bite me and end up coming away with the hem of my pants, bitch. Thank God I buy XXXL. Damn.

And then she made me get these damn hair extensions because she was tired of people calling me "90210" and then we saw a rerun of You Got Served on STARS and she was all up in my grill about how hot I look with hair and shit and what the hell else am I supposed to do? She changed the PIN on our ATM card AGAIN and not to 1234 this time. So I gots to get the hair until I figure that shit out and I can blow town again.

A'ight. I gots to get out of here. I've got like seven child support payments to mail before the 15th.

Late.

K Fed

Yo, bitches. K Fed here. Some of you call me Cletus. That's a'ight. Listen, Meal Ticket over there made me pose for the cover of fucking Details magazine, dude.  She was all like, "blah blah hot, blah blah not a skeezebucket blah blah something something something." Like I listen. Anyway, check it:

[photo via the always juicy and delicious PageSixSixSix, and the divine Stereogum]

Dude.  I know.  When B saw it, she was all, something about me looking fucking sensitive, or some shit? Something about showing Justin something about her winning something? I don't even know, dude. I just tune out, yo. Wake and bake and tune the fuck out.

The thing is, dude, those bitches at Details? No clue how to appeal to the ladies, right? When you're on the prowl, dude, the facial hair has got to go. Get it all clean-shaven. All David Fucking "You Are So Precious To Me" Silver up in here. The ladies are gaging for D. Silver, dudes. Gagging. You got to get the grease all out of your hair. You got to look all so fresh and so clean.  You got to borrow a puppy from someone but not a little rat ass puppy like this one, like a MAN puppy like a retriever or some shit so you look all wholesome and responsible and shit. Girls love that. Maybe hang out with a baby, too. I told them I should be holding a baby in this picture, but they said something about not wanting to remind people that I was a "serial impregnator" or something? I don't even know what that means, but I told them I didn't have a criminal record except for that one time they got me for possession. But this is so not the look you use when it's time to get your van rocking, if you know what I mean. I look like a serial killer, yo. I look like I'm about to snap that rat puppy's neck and, hells yeah, I hate that dog but I'm not a dog killer, dude. I just lock them in their room and pretend they're not there. One day, I'm going to do that to Britney, too. HAHAHHAHA. I'm just kidding. Not really. Nah, I'm just messing with you. No, I'm not. No, really I am.

Anyway, B has this cover all framed and hung up in her "office" (which is where we keep the weed. I'm a professional toker, dude. Heh. Wouldn't it be rad if that was really a job? I'm qualified. HAHAHAH. Heh. Heh. Where was I?) but I'm going to hide it as soon as she goes out to the pool because seriously? I know. I know. It's retardo. I know.  It's going to totally salt my game, yo. Dude, just because I'm ringed up right now doesn't mean my shot clock has expired and shit, if you know what I mean. I mean, seriously, I just hope Paris Hilton doesn't see this because as soon as I've got B knocked up, P is next. Watch out, Paris, because Cletus is checking into the Hilton. Heh heh. God, I'm funny.

Aw, Christ. B is yelling at me. We're out of Cheetos. Gotta run, dude. Seriously, though, come by sometime. We've got a ton of good shit here. I have a bitchin' Playstation and we've got Pabst on TAP, dude. It's sweet.

Outtie,

Big Ups to Fresno!

Cletus AKA K Fed

Britney Spears is so right. I am sorry that I don't have what she has. To wit:

What girl doesn't dream of a marrying a David Silver lookalike who actually purchases -- and wears! In public! -- a trucker cap that reads "Rock Out With Your Cock Out"?

I think I speak for all of humanity when I beg you, Kevin, to put the cock away.