Somewhere in a museum of the most outrageous sex lyrics—between 2 Chainz’s “Dos Cadenas … you can suck my penis” and JAY-Z’s “your breasteses is my breakfast”—is a bawdy declaration from Pasadena rapper Sueco the Child. “Put my D in her V got her singin’ a C note,” he brags in his grungy trap single “fast.” Sueco uploaded “fast” to SoundCloud in April. Then, when a viral TikTok challenge vaulted Lil Nas X’s “Old Town Road” to the top of the charts, he saw an opportunity. He asked Lukas Daley, a 16-year-old skateboard personality and TikTok star, to share a video featuring “fast.” The song became an immediate sensation, inspiring over 3 million TikToks. Shortly afterward, Sueco inked a record deal with Atlantic and dropped a remix featuring Offset and A Boogie Wit Da Hoodie.

Sueco was primed for virality: Before “fast” blew up, the 22-year-old born William Schultz had already accumulated more than a hundred thousand Instagram followers by filming musical stunts with a friend, skateboarder Lamont Holt. He made beats blindfolded; he made beats out of condoms; he made beats out of a girl’s butt. It helps that he looks like the illegitimate child of Dwight Schrute and a blue raspberry Jolly Rancher, and yells things like, “I fucking wish I was an industry plant” in a trollish deadpan. “fast” is Sueco’s autobiography—a sleazy account of selling weed, making beats, and “whiskey dicking,” delivered in a croak-whisper reminiscent of the way Justin Bieber once said “chilling by the fire while we eating fondue.” Buoyed by an infectious siren wail and a beat that stomps like a teenager on a DDR machine, it was an easy fit for dance challenges and outfit transformation videos. It didn’t necessarily work beyond the 15-second sound bite: The longer you listened, the more Sueco’s sluggish delivery and monotonous instrumentals started to drag. But like many memes, “fast” could be devilishly fun.

The same can’t be said for the other seven tracks on Sueco’s debut, MISCREANT. The rest of the album is both gross and soppy, like a drunk man who vomits on your shoes, and then, too hammered to realize what’s happening, groans “I love you.” “Put it her mouth have her drink it up like Danimals,” he growls in the album’s second single, “dork,” one of many songs preoccupied with the fact that a girl has touched his nuts. His goofy sex descriptions (“Hit it from the blind side/Sandra Bullock”) could be irreverent and ridiculous, if only the instrumentals weren’t so nauseatingly sentimental. “dork”’s starry-eyed gurgles recall nothing more than Owl City. The emo laptop-twinkles on “cayman” sound similarly trapped in a T-Mobile commercial. “I take a vegan bitch and I give her protein,” Sueco whispers, a pairing of style and subject matter as jarring as an ASMR dub of a “Real Housewives” fight.

TikTok—that Wild West of incest sketches, country throwdowns, and emo kids pretending to choke themselves—can be so vertigo-inducing that “brilliantly terrible” and “terribly brilliant” begin to mean the same thing. But MISCREANT isn’t impish or unique enough to succeed, even on meme terms. Much of it is memorable not for what it is, but for who it rips off. “novacane:)” is taxidermied Green Day, and “no sleep in my body” and “sober” are generic imitations of Juice WRLD. “Call me when it’s over, I can’t function sober,” Sueco whimpers, a line that could’ve come from any codeined SoundCloud rapper. Sueco doesn’t have enough punkish nihilism to imbue the subject with much urgency, anyway. As sad white boys go, he lacks the big hooks and raspy, soulful howl of someone like Post Malone.

Sueco’s been minorly famous for only a few months, but he sounds washed up, bragging about his glory days to a room that’s quickly emptying. His callbacks to “fast”—the reference to “400 on the dashy” in “dork,” a shoutout to “Cashville” in “626/305*”—make it sound as if he’s already run out of material. “I make a bitch sing pitch perfect,” he raps on “dork,” serving up a limp imitation of the joke he made on his first single. TikTok shaved two and a half minutes of “fast” down to mere seconds. It takes a particular kind of hubris to expect one viral moment to last 23 minutes straight.