HAAHAH! I'm Reloaded. Florida.
So we've been watching a shit ton of that cooking show with that loud mouth Scottish dude. No, not Jason Statham, I mean Gordon Ramsay...you know the guy with all the profanity and all the ramping it up for TV. Him.
What does that have to do with your favorite rapper Flo Rida? Nothing. Except that I'm going to make this review food based and I'll call Flo Rida "Chef" maybe? Or maybe just Flo? Mr. Rida? Chef Rida? Florida? It don't matter. Food. Let's cook!
So...Let's say that Mr. Rida is a new flavor of pop tart. Right? I would never eat a pop tart. Ever. They are full of sugar and sodium and have like a thousand ingredients. Yuck. Plus they taste like garbage and belong in the garbage (or the sewer (uneaten)). So gross. "But when they are hot, they're delicious!" - teens (playin' 360 and drankin' Pepsi). No, they're not delicious, they're a disgusting piece of cardboard, filled with "cherry" petroleum jelly, sprayed with antifreeze, and brought to a temperature that can put you in the ICU. Flo Rida is that.
|Wild Ones, now made with "Real Fruit"|
Now, let's find out. Chef Rida, set the table:
What? Chef Rida makes potatoes like that? Sour cream, chives, and lots of gross pop singing? This is way more poppy than I thought it would be. I honestly thought I had the wrong song when it started. It's like a shit "rap" song they put in blockbuster movies. So smooth. Preteens, your dinner is served. Enjoy all that terrible singing
Is this really the song? I still kind of don't believe it. Did I get the wrong version. It's like a dance song from so many years ago. LMFAO? I thought Flo Rida was a rapper? Is this rap? My mind is scrambled like eggs (we're still doing that cooking show thing).
Well, I can't review this. It's not music. It's pure marketing or something. Pure fluff. No substance. Pizza without the crust or the sauce (or the topings). It's just the box. An empty box.
That beat is the most basic, generic, flem, bronchitis, dance, pop, throat cancer, awful, nightmare ever. It's like those ASPCA commercials where they show all the dogs that are abused and your like "daaaaammmmmnnnnn". Those dogs are how I look after I heard this beat + singing + "rapping". Fuck. Just put me in a cage then put me the fuck out of my misery. Or maybe I could get adopted by Masta Ace and not be exposed to this shit anymore.
IN CONCLUSION: I'm not a wild one, and I do not like wild ones. Grow the fuck up. Get a job. Quit party rocking and make something of yourself. There is more to life than ruining it by not sleeping, getting wasted, getting prego, making trash music. In fact, Flo Rida, your stupid name (which is the worst ever, btw) reminds me of orange juice, get a job at a fucking breakfast bar making eggs to order and pouring juice. Cook, you fool. Quit infecting us with you waste-water talent "music". Your music is a couch left outside in the city that gets rained on, starts stinking, gets used as a toilet (by homeless, duh), and then some clubber passes out on it because they're so drunk and tired from listening to this shit music and dancing all night. Then their face is pressed against the soiled couch all night and they get some kind of face rash. That is "Wild Ones" by Flo Rida. Face rash.
Your goose is cooked, Rida. You got served. Uh, supersized.
WILD ONES SCORE 0/10