For God's sake, they're strippers who made a pop song -- lightning never strikes twice for stuff like that. And yet, here we have PCD, a 12-track, 45-minute-long album by The Pussycat Dolls.

It's exactly as bad as you think it is.

It should be a tip-off that PCD begins with the voice of someone who I hope never dons lingerie and shakes his lovely lady lumps all over the stage at Caesars Palace -- Busta Rhymes.

Busta drops not one, but two serviceably amorous verses on "Don't Cha."

Look, girls, if you're not good enough to sing the first notes on your record, it probably shouldn't have been made.

No surprise here, but "Don't Cha" is PCD's best track, and getting it out of the way early makes slogging through the rest of the album about as trying as Ulysses.

I bet they never thought they'd get compared to James Joyce. I bet no one saw that coming.

Next up is "Beep," produced by the worst man in music, will.i.am of the Black Eyed Peas. "Beep" is clearly a Peas reject that Mr. i.am wasn't clever enough to flesh out into his own song.

Long story short, the choruses are profanity-ridden, with each naughty word replaced with a beeping sound, a la censorship.

It's a stupid idea to base a song on, made even more stupid by the fact that even simpletons like Kid Rock ("Cowboy") and R. Kelly ("Trapped in the Closet Chapter 5") have already done it a million times better.

Then you have "Wait a Minute," which finds certified genius Timbaland burning off one of his worst beats to date.

I'm just going to assume he took the job knowing he'd get to hang out with good-looking ladies for a while, so I suppose you can't blame the guy.

The rest of The Pussycat Dolls is a garbled mess of fourth-rate Mariah Carey sound-alikes, some really dumb female-empowerment songs (the Dolls "don't need a man" because, apparently, they "get off being free," which should tell you everything you need to know right there) and a pair of rotten covers of "Hot Stuff" and the 80s classic "Tainted Love."

Album closer "Feelin' Good," a bit of string-laden jazz ballad, finds lead Doll Nicole Scherzinger actually singing for the first time on the record.

It sounds good, but after the superficial landfill-fodder that comes before it, it's too little, far too late to redeem PCD.

This is the kind of record you buy in seventh grade, listen to twice, find four years later, and wonder what the heck you were thinking.

"Don't Cha" will live in infamy, but The Pussycat Dolls will have its own legacy -- in the used CD bins of every record store in the country, starting right now.