Wacko Jacko broke my windows

So the fascination with the recently deceased King of Pop continues.
Daniel watches too much Sky News. Apparently there is a ‘problem’ with Michael Jackson and where he is ‘going’. I assumed the dude was ‘going’ to the big disco in the sky. No, Daniel says, they haven’t decided where he is ‘going’ yet.
“Why doesn’t he come and live here with us?” he asks.
“Amm,” I say. Our house is manic enough what with the bloody dog, the mad Belfast man and the three small, noisy children. I really don’t have room for a deceased pop star and all of the associated issues.
“You don’t want him to live with us?” he asks.
“It’s not that…” I say, using the time to think of a careful and appropriate response that doesn’t involve the words rotting corpse, awfully questionable lifestyle or ‘hell no, there’s no freaky dead pop star living under my roof’.
“Is it because of the dancing?” he asks. “You’d be worried that he might break a window or something else. The way he does those high kicks. His shoe might come off and break one of your ornaments.”
“Yip,” I say. “That’s it. It’d be the high kicks and the flying shoes that would put me off.”