"All we do is shop until we drop," the anonymous chipmunk trills on the hook, but on "King" this perpetually on-the-make Houston mixtape rapper makes money-talk boasts and dick-game smack-talking sound like a rushed string of asides conferred over cigars in the back of his limo at 1 a.m., struggling to stay awake en route to the next after party.
The theme's universal enough and the hook's primal enough to make punters take notice and queue up (in theory, anyway), but stone-faced execution makes this "Sex" a stone downer. Peep the public service announcement-type video while bumming and you'll never wanna hear the song—or anything else—ever again. Seriously: This is some "Last Resort" shit.
There's your chin on the rest, that's your eye drawing a bead on the flashing light, and along comes a pfft that disorients even though you knew it was imminent. The room rights itself, sliding back into focus, and your ophthalmologist leans in close and whispers "No, you don't have glaucoma, yet."
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