You have to question the intelligence of a man willing to prance about without irony in front of a giant stack of letters that spell out "THICKE".
Yes mate, you are a bit. I am, of course, referring to the middle-aged slime merchant Robin Thicke, who has haunted 2013 like a giant poltergeist phallus.
He reminds me of the ageing nightclub lurkers who would be cemented to the walls with their own sticky pheromones in those gritty township nightmare factories where I spent the weekends of my latter teens.
But it isn't his sleazy grinning mug that really annoys me, even though he looks like someone has stuck a pair of aviators on the end product of a cruel experiment that put Simon Cowell and an American Bald Eagle at opposite ends of the Hadron Collider.
It is us I'm most annoyed at for allowing this gyrating sub-Chippendale fleshmound to come to such prominence at all.
Thicke's song Blurred Lines, an anthem for Rohypnol marketers, should have drowned in the testosterone vat from which it was spawned.
But instead it became the biggest-selling single of 2013, despite its obvious and disgraceful connotations around sexual consent, pitching it as some sort of grey area rather than black and white.
To make matters worse, Thicke responded to criticism by suggesting the song was "actually a feminist movement within itself".
"It's saying that women and men are equals as animals and as power," he told The Today Show.
Trouble is Thickey, it's less a feminist movement and more a bowel movement.
He found himself on stage at the MTV Video Music Awards, in front of millions of viewers worldwide, grinding against twenty-year-old Miley Cyrus, thus confirming my aforementioned nightclub lurker comparison.
In clubs across the world are older men, divorced or exiled in bachelorhood, looking up to their saviour Robin Thicke. He has popularised nightclub lurking and brought it mainstream.
No longer will people walk past the suited chancer with crows' feet, sipping his Corona as he bops his head to whatever R&B dirge is being belched out by the podgy in-house DJ called "Mikey" or "Flex", and think "idiot".
He will now be the provincial Robin Thicke. An ageing estate agent who drives a convertible and wears moisturiser, loved locally as some club scene Godfather.
The Guardian's Alexis Petridis, having been forced to endure one of the crotch-stroking self-orgies that constitute Thicke's "performances", eloquently described him as "a Butlin's redcoat with an erection".
Across television, the radio, the internet and social media, Robin Thicke was everywhere in 2013. It felt like I was being stalked by a holographic wasp, some virtual irritant I was unable to murder.
It doesn't have to be like this. Let's take pesticide to this creepy crawly. If we ignore him then he, and all those poor souls like him, will vanish.
In 2014, let's pretend Robin Thicke never existed and move on. We're better than this.