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I know that Panic! at the Disco wrote its first record in 48 minutes the first time that they ever picked up guitars or whatever. Fine. But it doesn't bode well for the follow-up to Fever You Can't Sweat Out that they've decided, in lieu of writing new material, to try and rent Motley Crue's old tent and hire a bunch of man-tigers to distract their audience from the fact that they don't have any new songs. And are they really going to be able to work up the proper amount of romantic torment a multiplatinum emo record demands when there are that many girls showing them their boobs? The Magic 8 Ball I'm pretending to hold in my hands says, "Doubt it."