You’re such a bad musician that I can’t stand to be in the room when you massacre some of my favorite songs. You don’t sing anywhere near a key, you put this grandma vibrato all over your vocals, and it’s astounding that you can’t even figure out the right chords to a song that only has four chords.

And you wonder why, when you host an evening, there isn’t a single person in the venue? Have you not figured out, at the age of 56, that you s*** eggs?

At least B admits he can’t sing or play and he’s more of an entertainer than an actual musician. That makes him loveable and easy to forgive the fact that he s****.

But you, oh my god.

And your sidemen are always these old, spider-web guys that look like they’re taking s*** while they play, or waiting in line at motor vehicle.