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Here’s the deal with me mocking the bad singers and dancers of the world and still being able to sleep at night: I am one of you. I love to sing and dance – loud, flailing, looking like a damn fool in the process. And if you ever see me in the act, I encourage you to throw out your own witticisms.

Now onto Mr. Intensity. The singing? Not great, obvs. The periodic bore-a-hole-through-me glances at the camera, the bulging neck veins, and the death grip he’s got on that mic as he sits alone in his dark living room with the curtains drawn? Well, these things only allow me to draw one conclusion, which is that he wants to kill me and add my mangled remains to the ones already in his basement – allegedly.