"I'm underneath the gun," admits Fred Durst -- and once you get past his typically hamfisted phraseology, he's got a helluva point.

It's been a pretty lousy few years for Limp Bizkit. The guitarist who supplied much of their musical personality and originality up and quit. It took them ages to find a new one. They reportedly recorded and scrapped two full albums of material before settling on this long-delayed effort, which has been through almost as many name changes as Roseanne. Fans have booed them on tour, sending Fred into onstage hissy fits. And Durst become even more of a laughingstock over his brief tryst and nasty breakup with Britney Spears. With all that stacked against him, even a lunkhead like Fred can see the heat is on. And that Results May Vary is nothing short of a make-or-break album for him.

Well, Freddy better speed-dial all the king's horses and all the king's men, 'cause this disc ain't gonna put his career back together again. Flaccid, banal, unfocused and just plain crappy, Results May Vary is the limpest album Durst and Bizkit have issued -- especially when you consider all the labour that went into it.

Anyone looking for the detuned guitar sludge, neck-snapping hip-hop rhythms and upside-your-head rap-rock rage of Break Stuff will find them in short supply here -- just a couple of heavy-hitting cuts to open the disc (and fool listening-post patrons into purchasing) and a couple more on the back half. What's between them is the problem -- cut after cut of grooves so mellow and beats so bland that even the latter-day Red Hot Chili Peppers would turn up their noses at them. With their dark 'n' smoky ambience, low-impact soul-funk rhythms and beefy crooning, many of the tracks on this 68-minute snoozefest sound like rejects from a Staind album.

And they certainly aren't improved by Durst's lyrics. Granted, it's never been his strongest suit -- but he's never been more obviously and laughably inept as a lyricist than he is here. He whines about being bullied in high school. He cries himself to sleep. He gets defensive about how hard he works. He moans about having his heart broken -- presumably by Britney, a notion made all the more pathetic by the fact that they were together for like, what, a week? And on the ridiculous The Only One, the guy who did it all for the nookie, the nookie, does a 180* and preaches (get this) abstinence -- a concept that oughta go over big with his fan base.

Even if you let those inanities slide, it's tough to ignore the litany of Durst's other sins: His reliance on repetitive and simplistic junior-high rhyme schemes ("I'm a crazy, crazy man / With a crazy, crazy plan"); his nonexistent flow; his near-plagiarism of countless artists and tasteless namedropping of others ("Ease your pain / Like a melody from Kurt Cobain"). And it's impossible to ignore his atrocious cover of The Who's Behind Blue Eyes -- which, tellingly, omits the rocking middle part -- or the fact that he misspells Pete Townshend's name in the credits. For a celebrity ass-kisser like Durst, this isn't just stupid, it's sacrilege. Betcha somebody's personal assistant is looking for a new job next week.

Ultimately, after slogging through the wet noodle of Results May Vary, you have to wonder what the hell Durst is after here. Credibility? Respect? Sympathy? Whatever it is, he's more likely to get what he's earned -- mockery, disdain and abuse. But somehow, we doubt they're going to come as a surprise. Even Fred, it seems, can read the writing on the wall: "My life is one big dream," he says. "These voices in my mind keep telling me it's time to wake me up 'cuz it's almost over."

And once you get past his typically hamfisted phraseology, he's got a helluva point there too. (More on Limp Bizkit)