The charges: Angels that eat your life and send you into the past to die in obscurity without Facebook in bad history clothes.
The charges: Angels that call you "maggot," beat you up a lot, only need you for your "meat suit," and are pro-apocolypse.
The charges: Congregating (pun absolutely intended) in groups of seemingly-benign-but-actually-super-creepy flocks/hosts/flights. Generally found in a "TV room." Very judgmental. Sometimes look stoned, or like they eat children.
Verdict? Creepy Stare-y Jerks.
Look, I don't really have a problem with angels--in the same way I don't have a problem with most people. By all means, go about you business, oh winged one. Just stay away from me. And don't go all "watching over me," either. Because I mostly don't wear pants. And I definitely don't want to talk to one. I want niether the "awe and terror" they they always seem to inspire, nor the explanations that will inevitably follow and land me in a nuthouse. You know Mary didn't have an easy time saying, "Hey, Joe, I've got the Big Guy's bun in the oven. No, not that biker from the bar last month, the Big Guy Upstairs. It's a, you know, miracle?"
(True: Seriously, angel tree-toppers give me the heebies. Something about the blank eyes... Worse even than porcelain dolls.)