Society has finally started clocking the dangers of worshipping celebrities—especially the ones who left behind a trail of eyebrow‑raising decisions. This condition, affectionately known as glorification disease, has a nasty habit of bending reality, fogging judgement, and turning otherwise sensible adults into full‑time members of a glitter‑gloved cult.

Take the posthumous worship of Michael Jackson. Yes, he was talented. Yes, he could moonwalk. But he was also a full‑blown weirdo who dressed like Napoleon, glowed like a radioactive skeleton, and even kitted out his pet monkey to look like a pocket‑sized version of himself. And let’s not forget the pièce de résistance: inviting other people’s children into his private bedroom—and sometimes his bed—for those notorious “sleepovers” that fans still insist were as innocent as a church picnic.

When the documentary drops, reactions will be as varied as Michael’s wardrobe choices. Some will hail it as a public service; others—mainly the sequinned‑glove brigade—will dismiss it as a “hit job” or a “mockumentary”, insisting that worshipping a dead pop star is a human right, possibly more important than dealing with war, poverty, or the small matter of climate change.

Thankfully, not everyone will be sprinting to Twitter to set their hair on fire. Plenty will applaud the documentary for its honesty, humour, and gentle reminder that critical thinking is still a thing. It shines a much‑needed spotlight on the wild world of glorification disease and the slippery slope of misinformation that some fans treat like a theme park slide.