Yes, this evening Mrs. R and I attended a performance of “Jerry Springer: The Opera”.

Well, now.

The “plot”, in case you’re interested, is that Jerry, after hosting a typical program of abject misfits, is gunned down by his warm-up guy because WUG has just been fired for letting the show’s crowds get too rowdy.  Jerry wakes up in hell, where Satan demands that he host a “show” in which he, Jerry, should attempt to reconcile Satan, God, Jesus, Mary and Adam & Eve.  When they’re all out on stage, a typical Jerry-style fight breaks out, which only Jerry, having realized What He Had Done In His Life, could resolve.  And would you like to know what the moral is in the end (I hope you’re sitting down)?  There is no Good or Bad, only Choices! And if everyone chooses to respect everyone else’s Choices, we can all live in Harmony!

Dayum is that deep!  Or, as one of the choruses of the show might put it, f*ckity, f*ckity, f*ck is that f*ckity deep!

Once we had said goodnight to our hosts, Mrs. R asked me if I had been offended.  “Not really,” I replied, “The truth is that the whole business was so utterly infantile that the question of offensiveness almost didn’t apply.”  I suppose that everyone involved thought that they were being wicked clever with their potty-mouths, their cross-dressing and their mockery.  But as I said in my previous post on the subject, so does a 3-year old.

As I sat down to think about it all, however, some recollection kept tugging at my brain, some parallel of evil employing childishness.  Then suddenly I remembered: In C.S. Lewis’s Perelandra, the hero Ransom must face up against the Devil (in possession of the body of Ransom’s arch-enemy Weston).  Weston torments Ransom in part with a seemingly never-ending series of mindless children’s tricks.

Well, Ransom had to endure days upon end of ceaseless vigilance.  Fortunately, I only had to listen to it for a couple hours, and even then, the fate of the world did not hinge upon my paying attention.

(Oh, btw, for what it’s worth, the “music” was a load of fetid dingo’s kidneys.)

Needless to say, I did not clap, even though most of the rest of the audience did so rayther enthusiastically.  As someone remarked of a particularly foolish horse-buyer in one of the Irish R.M. stories, “Faith, he’s aisy plaised!” 

Indeed.

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