But how? This is, after all, is the guy who turned our sweet, snake-wrangling southern belle into the kind of unwashed ho who wanders barefoot into gas-station bathrooms, the fellow who gleefully let the paparazzi catch said ho pleasuring him on a hotel balcony. The tabloids screamed allegations about him bringing drugs and seedy pals around the kids, and running off to Vegas to party with strippers while pouring her cash into his humiliating rap album.
And yet, the talentless sponge is now the responsible parent. Why? Necessity. In Britville, there are rumors of bisexuality, nudism, drugs, alcoholism, unhygienic living spaces, a revolving display of nannies/mannies/assistants/bodyguards, and an endless selection of wigs that would scar the retinas of even the most well-cared-for tots. And that’s just this week.
Contrast that with Federline’s public face. Well, actually, you can’t: He barely has one anymore. He’s largely retreated to a house in a boring, suburban, gated community. He’s asked Britney to share a nanny, so their sons can have some consistency in their tragic lives. And he helped Lynne Spears force Britters into rehab, because even a guy who wrote an unintelligible song called “Popozao” —and we’re still not sure what the hell that means — can recognize a disaster when it’s dancing naked on a club table.
Granted, it’s easy to look like the stabilizing influence when even Star magazine insists the kids are screaming for you at night. But K-Fed does at least seem to be making decisions based on the safety and happiness of the kids, something we would have never expected from a guy who once left the pregnant mother of his first child for a roll in the hay with Britney. And if he’s good enough for Britney’s own mother, even we can’t argue with that. —The Fug Girls