Robin Thicke has spent the better part of the past four months singing love songs to Paula Patton who left him because he dry humped Miley Cyrus on camera then started sleeping with the couple’s joint masseuse off camera. There were probably other issues as well, like Robin wearing vests and sunglasses for no obvious reason. Ever since the breakup Robin’s been living the extended version of John Cusack in Say Anything except that he’s hoisting the boom box blasting his own crappy love songs. Every awards show or appearance is another opportunity for Robin to beg his wife to take him back. Robin’s composed so many new doleful ballads, he’s putting out an entire album next week cleverly titled, ‘Paula’. I’d like to think this is some cynical genius marketing ploy to sell fourteen new sorrowful tracks to chubby women who take long baths, but that’s only because I inherently refuse to believe any man can be such a pussy. At some point, Robin will be arrested for crooning love songs while sniffing his wife’s panties out of the hamper in the house he broke into. Until then, expect a new album of love-loss every four to six weeks.
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