Planet Pit

 Pitbull (born Armando Perez) is way less charming than he thinks he is. Planet Pit feels more like a recorded attempt at being hit on, set to a beat, than an album.

"Let's welcome everybody to Planet Pit," Pitbull beckons on the first track, "Mr. Worldwide." If I had to describe this world that Pitbull tried to construct, it would be a dingy dive bar posing as a posh lounge where ladies get in and drink for free all night, only to find all their drinks roofied. It makes sense; most (if not all) of these songs are appropriate for grinding with a stranger on a dance floor sticky with spilled liquor without suffering the same fate with your own drink. If I had to guess, this is a sloshed-bordering-on-comatose kind of album, which is to say that I would have to be that drunk in order to not dry-heave at the sound of it. Speaking of dry-heaving, here are some of the gems that are making Armando Perez's mother proud:

• "I'ma make sure your peach feels peachy, baby."
• "I was playin' with her, she was playin' with me / next thing you know, we was playin' with three."
• "I wanna get witcha / now let me see where the Lord split you."
• "I'm such a dirty dog / my teeth will unsnap your bra."
• "I ain't talkin' 'bout cars / it's automatic, I'll pop your clutch."

The only song I could somewhat tolerate without being offended to my very core was "Give Me Everything," and that's only in the instrumental version. Actually, everyone in the song except Pitbull does a good job. Afrojack makes a pretty decent beat, and Ne-Yo makes the chorus something to sing along to, despite not really knowing what you're actually trying to say. "Come N' Go" gave me high hopes when I saw that Dr. Luke and Benny Blanco produced it; I'm a big fan of their past work, especially Blanco's work with Spank Rock. The song proved to be a huge letdown considering Enrique Iglesias is supposed to be on the track, but if he is, his voice is unrecognizable. "Shake Senora" just made me angry in how silly it was (in the worst way possible). The album takes a turn for the more introspective, starting with "Castles Made of Sand" and finishing off with "Something For The DJs" -- which, as someone who deeply appreciates what DJs do, is an insult to serious DJs everywhere. Pitbull resorts to modified childhood chants ("If you're sexy and you know it, clap your hands") to try and be lyrically clever. Hint: it doesn't work.

Half product placement for his latest endorsements and half case study of the downfall of American youth, Planet Pit falls as flat as flat can fall. It kills me that though I see faint, almost non-existent glimmers of talent in Pitbull's lyrics, he's too busy plugging vodka and spitting sleazy lines toward women to foster that. Unfortunately, no amount of A-list guests can save this album from the watery, murky depths of Suck Ocean. (Don't try and turn that into a one-liner, Pitbull.)