(Reportedly, what might be referred to as the song’s “second season” is scheduled for release later this summer, and hopefully the fainting midget has taken a few tablets of Pepto in the interim.) Halfway through the unilaterally moronic Double Up, I realized that the possibility of the former type of hate had completely dried up, no doubt after the psychotic “Trapped in the Closet” cycle-which camp aficionados are still trying their damnedest to ignore-drizzled to a sopping close. It’s true that the endless chapters of that song’s sub-telenovela melodrama certainly fulfilled the Sontagian requirement that camp be unwitting-and, in Kelly’s case, witless. But it’s even more true that Kelly, with his uninterrupted stream of what I guess could generously be called cadence, is even more pathologically unaware of his unsexiness. He’s addicted to exposition, and he may think that his endless capacity for pillow talk proves his sexual endurance, but it should make any rational sonic fuckee want to smother him. While I could be mean and point out that the flabby, ashen, wrinkled fist that Kelly is clenching on Double Up’s tacky cover (remember, Robert, to moisturize when you masturbate), the album’s heat deficit is basically grammatical. Entertainment Weekly’s review was kind enough to preserve some of Kelly’s choice couplets in print form, one of which I think bears repeating: “I got you so wet, it’s like a rainforest/Like Jurassic Park, except I’m your sexosaurus.” Forget Velociraptors, Kelly’s lyrical skills make pinheaded Stegosaurs look quick-witted.

Aside from the paleontology of “The Zoo,” Kelly spends time “Tryin’ to Get a Number” with Nelly, about to “Get Dirty” with Chamillionaire, and sharing the “Same Girl” with Usher. Still trapped in the closet are we, R.? Hell naw, and he’ll use the word “girl” every third syllable to make sure you don’t forget it (or the criminal charges).

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