The Golden Globes was last Sunday night, so you most likely don’t care about them anymore. Rightly so. They were boring, disconcerting, funny, not funny, and potentially corrupt.

Here’s the thing, though. Once again, I volunteered to spend time watching people more talented, wealthy, and, dare I say, attractive than myself, pose in fancy clothes, prance on stage, and win awards. I sat on a couch and stared at a screen and ate cereal and took notes. I took notes, people. Actual notes. I penned permanent marks on pages pressed from the raw pulp of trees who spent decades harvesting energy from the sun and sucking nutrients from the soil to grow against the brutal force of gravity, only to be chopped down and bound together by the mechanical servants of back-to-school merchandising, so that three years later, I could sit on my couch with one hand resting in a box of cereal and the other taking notes on how Jonah Hill does not make a convincing bear.

Why did I subject myself to this experience, you ask? Well, I answer, it was all for you. All. For. You.

See, you think, by now, you know all you want and need to know about this year’s Golden Globes—you don’t. After reading this article, though, you will, or at the very least you will learn what your threshold of toleration is for this sort of information.

Let me start by saying that the Golden Globes might be the most confusing and disorganized program I’ve ever seen on television and I’ve watched almost half an episode of Sarah Palin’s Alaska. The presentation of awards, categories, video clips, and speakers followed a nonexistent pattern. By the time I’d worked out what I was watching, the show had already jumped into its next segment. One of my favorite parts of the night (something that you should say was your favorite too) was watching the winners try to figure out how to get on stage. They weaved through tables, stepped over wires, ran up stairs, ran down stairs, and forced other celebs to push in their seats. The best part was when they reached the end of their journey at an area near the stage, directly in front of the camera, and they all looked to the right at what I presume was a person who didn’t really understand the purpose of their job, and proceeded to perform that finger-gun-rolling-Conga-arm-motion-that-says-“Where-do-I-go-this-way-or-that-way-?.” It pretty much happened every time and it was pretty much perfect every time.

When the guests weren’t trying to navigate their way to the stage, they were milling around in back, getting drinks, making convos, taking selfies, checking Twitter, and generally not paying attention. This definitely seemed more like a glimpse into the world of Hollywood parties, and less like an award show, which I guess is what happens when everybody knows you can schmooze your way into winning a nomination.

While the Emmys and Academy Awards always appear professional and glamorous, the Golden Globes looks like the result of a combined high school prom and graduation, if everybody at the school had white teeth, perfect skin, and millions of dollars to burn. The root of the Globes' unimportance is that it is not part of the most coveted award combination in all of entertainment: the EGOT. The GG just can’t hold a candle to the EGOT, even if that candle is surrounded by fancy dinner plates and intoxicated celebrities. The Emmys are amusing, the Grammys are entertaining, the Oscars are spectacular, the Tonys are fabulous, the Globes, however, are approachable. I think it’s because of the tablecloths.

From what I can see, the only real purpose of the Golden Globes is for us to learn which non-Netflix-able movies and shows we should illegally stream before the rest of Award Season.

Anyway, you already know the winners, so there’s no point in me “revealing” them to you. Here’s a list in case you filed the information in your brain as “Practically Irrelevant” and have already replaced it with the answers to yesterday’s crossword. (No matter how many times you get it wrong, you’ll always forget that a six-letter word for “shun” is “eschew.”)

According to my notes, there are only two noteworthy wins I find worthy of noting that you should find worthy to note.

1. The Martian won for Best Motion Picture Musical or Comedy, which is definitely the funniest thing about The Martian.

2. Mozart in the Jungle, which won a couple awards, is not about a time-traveling composer stranded in the wilderness with Indiana Jones (why else would Harrison Ford be there?), but is instead about orchestral musicians in New York. I was surprised too.

Now, for the MOST SHOCKING MOMENT OF THE NIGHT.

Everybody is talking about Ricky’s roast of Mel Gibson and Leo’s reaction to Gaga. Some bodies are talking about Jamie Foxx. A few bodies are talking about emo Channing Tatum. However, nobody, not one body, except for me is talking about the real MOST SHOCKING MOMENT OF THE NIGHT.

A moment, might I add, that occurred nearly every time the camera panned from center stage out into the audience.

Here it is, the MOST SHOCKING MOMENT OF THE NIGHT:

Do you see it? Do you see that scandal on your screen?

Perhaps you’ll see more clearly from a different angle.

Yes, those are naked ankles. EXTREMELY. DISTRACTING. NAKED. ANKLES. I want you to take a good look at the ankles on this man. Now I want you to take a good look at the man on these ankles. Remember that face.

You know he knows what he’s doing. That is the face of a human being lacking dignity and respect for both himself and the American people. I bet his name is Jeff. It is not difficult to cover up ankles, Jeff. You could wear socks, or stockings, or tights, or leggings, or leg warmers, or those flimsy tan nylon foot-nets from shoe stores. This is 2016. I am in complete and utter astonishment as to how this extreme level of nudity is allowed to go uncensored on NBC, while perfectly normal words like “sugar tits”—slang for Aegithalos caudatus or long-tailed bush tits, of course—are bleeped out.

The deviant seemed quite cozy with presenter Katy Perry. Now, I’m not one to jump to conclusions, but I think they’re married with at least five children. That’s right, Katy Perry’s biggest mistake of the night was not showing the world her bumpet, but her ankle-bearing husband.

Clothe yourself, Jeff, you’re making me ill.

So, the main thing you should take away from this year’s Golden Globes: they happened.

Also, Jonah Hill does not make a convincing bear.

Anyway, I think my response to The 73rd Golden Globes can be succinctly summarized in an eloquent, on-stage question gracefully posed by Jaimie Alexander last Sunday night, “Who’s typing this s***?”

Thank you for your time—I promise, it was better spent reading this than watching the Golden Globes.