At this point in his career, R. Kelly is best viewed as a cartoon character. His outlandish, sex-obsessed R&B skeeze persona just works better when imagining the singer with his eyes bugging out, his jaw comically extended to the floor and his heart — or, more likely, his genitals — throbbing several feet from his body. Think of an actual person behind the endless string of filthy come-ons (and cum-ons) and Kelly’s allure becomes troubling.

Untitled is as good an example of this as any of the singer’s post-millennial work. On a string of nondescript, dime-a-dozen club jams, Kelly waxes poetic on such varied subjects as sex (“Bangin’ the Headboard”), oral sex (“Go Low”), sexting (“Text Me”) and copulation (“Pregnant”). Kelly’s completely unhinged hedonism and indefatigable ability to talk about how good he is at carnal acts is frankly hilarious until you remember he’s a nearly 43-year-old man who has an image of women that would make a porn-addicted 14-year-old boy look healthy.

As fun as it is to laugh along to Ol’ R. Kelly’s tales of putting his X in so-and-so’s Y for the nth time, even the cartoon is becoming disturbing, tired and sad.