Monday, February 04, 2008

I Am Better Than Ben Brantley: A Retelling of Jerry Springer: The Opera Peppered With Personal Anecdotes About My Experience For Good Measure

As the most astute, articulate and bumptious contributor on the topics of arts & culture writing today, when something interesting crosses my desk, I feel it is my duty to share it with you, my readers. Such was the case this past Tuesday.

It was a day like any other. I had revolutionized the field of guerrilla marketing, once again, by coming up with the idea of tattooing company logos on baby foreheads in exchange for college tuition when the baby grows up. Win / Win. Pretty brilliant, I know.

After that, I figured I would just work out my enormous pecs, grill up some turkey sausages and enjoy a matured pinot noir. Instead, I was invited by the producers to view Jerry Springer: The Opera at Carnegie Hall. "Please come. You have (3) fingers in the -er uhh, on pulse of the 18-49 demographic. Also, no one knows dick and fart jokes like you know dick and fart jokes," they said. Both good points; I agreed to go.

As is always the case, I gathered fellow culture aficionado, Nurse Julie, and we headed post haste to Carnegie Hall.

When we arrived outside the theatre, we discovered that the show was being protested by various religious and moral decency organizations. Ever seeking to meld religion and culture, I approached the protesters to get more information as to why they were protesting. At this point one closeted Mary well-groomed, articulate dandy outlined his case, remarking that they were protesting profanity, blasphemy and filth contained in the evening's program. I was swayed, and as a result I immediately joined the picket with a fire in my belly:


About (2) minutes into my participation, I was strongly encouraged by the group to leave. They said that I "wasn't helping," "needed to stop throwing hot candle wax on the theatregoers" and I "shouldn't say 'fuckhead' in front of a 5 year old."

"Whatever, you assholes!!!" I calmly replied.

"I have box seats anyway!!! Ingrates!!!"

And with that, Nurse Julie (who had been hiding under a nearby homeless man's pee soaked blanket so as not to be associated with me) and I grandly swept into the famed music hall.

When we arrived in our box, we did what every high society person does when attending an event such as this. We immediately began searching for people who were more famous than I. Upon an initial sweep of the house, we had spotted Robert DeNiro, Carson Kressley, and a girl who I think was Melissa Joan Hart -Nurse Julie did not agree. I'd always wanted to meet MJH. I've felt that if we ever met, we would, you know, hit it off and maybe start dating or something. At the very least we could go grab a Jamba Juice.

After the scan concluded I informed the ushers that I was ready to begin watching the show. The usher graciously smiled and replied, "fuck off you little pissant." And with that, the show began! Yay!


At this point an exceptionally talented cast of (33) took the stage dressed in street clothes with the poise of a church chorale. As directed by the dapper maestro, Stephen Oremus, the cast opened their binders and their mouths to pair beautiful operatic melodies with the following lyrics:

Audience:

JE:JE:JE:JE:JE:JE:JE:JE:

MY MOM USED TO BE MY MOM USED TO BE
USED TO BE, MY MOM,
USED TO BE MY DAD
USED TO BE MY DAD
SNIP-SNIP
USED TO BE MY DAD
SNIP

I WAS JILTED BY LES:
BY A LES:
BY A LESBIAN: DIKE
BY A LESBIAN DWARF.
SHE GAVE GOOD HEAD
CUZ SHE GAVE GOOD HEAD
SLURP SLURP
BUT SHE GAVE GOOD HEAD
SLURP

I USED TO BE A LAPDANCING
PRE-OPERATIVE TRANSEXUAL!
A CHICK! A CHICK! CHICK!
CHICK WITH A DICK
WITH A DICK
WITH A DICK
CHICK WITH A DICK
WITH A DICK
WITH A DICK

I WANT TO BE,
ON TV
PLEASE LET ME BE,
ON TV
CHOOSE ME
PLEASE

JE:JE:JE:JE:JE:JE:JE:RRY!
RRY!
RRY!

It was at this moment that I knew the future of musical theatre was alive and well and flourishing before my dick-and-fart-joke-lovin' eyes. What happened next, you ask? Well, I'll just tell you the plot, 'cause if you haven't seen it you aren't gonna because it was only on for (2) nights.

Jerry Springer is a talk show host. He was played in this skit by Harvey Keitel. Jerry Springer used to be mayor of Cincinnati until he paid a prostitute with a check. That was stupid. (I pay mine in Jujyfruits, which explains my numerous pimp beatings.) In light of these events, he creates a show which features mostly lower class guests revealing their deepest secrets to unsuspecting spouses and assorted love ones.

Throughout the course of the first act we are introduced to a delightful smattering of guests who make friends with the on stage audience via such charming musical theatre chestnuts as, Mama Give Me Smack on the Asshole and Poledancer. As the First Act comes to a close, Springer's disgruntled former warm-up man has him shot amidst a backdrop of tap-dancing Ku Klux Klan members, natch.

During intermission, I pulled out a piece of Orbit gum, the Official Gum of Patrick Garrigan, and began chewing.

The Second Act finds Jerry Springer in Hell and Me in Heaven. You see it was Melissa Joan Hart! Evidently, Nurse Julie, like, totally slipped her a note during intermission saying that I liked her and she said that she'd had a crush on me for, like, eeeeeevvvverrr. So at this point in the show MJH was massaging my back, making a point not to overlook my lats & lower lumbar.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. He's in Hell and Satan (who is double cast as the dude that had him shot in the First Act) wants to have him conduct his show in Hell with Jesus and himself as the guests. However, at this show Jerry must illicit from Jesus an apology to Satan. The costs for Springer's refusal to participate? "Fucked up the ass with barbed wire." As someone who experienced this first hand in Amsterdam, it's not as appealing as it initially sounds.

Deterred by his potential punishment, Jerry has Jesus on the show in the hopes that Jesus will apologize to Satan. Umm, then blasphemy, blasphemy, blasphemy.

Finally, God comes down and sings a touching ballad called It Ain't Easy Being Me. Where God laments that he gets blamed when everything goes wrong and is relentlessly badgered by every little wish of everyone, everywhere. Which, seriously, is something that I feel I would be annoyed by if I were God.

Some how Jerry lives, but realizes he likes Hell and decides to stay. Singing, singing, singing. The End.

So that was the show, a delightful program. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. It reinforced a belief I have held for some time. Everything is funnier sung. For example:

Cunt. -just abrasive and vulgar.

Cuuuuuuuuuuunt. -Sung with a variety of vocal flourishes and assorted melodic acrobatics. Well, that's just funny.

Everyone in the show was exceptionally talented, and did a whizbang job. There were some plot things that I thought were weird, like this random Brunhilde character who I thought was supposed to be Jerry's conscience, but it never really went anywhere. So producers, who I'm sure are reading this, cut that bit. I didn't like it.

Bottom line, I would strongly recommend that you see the skit. If it weren't all done 'n stuff. Alas, much like my Hugh Jackman fan fiction, you'll just have to imagine it through my writings...

----

IT'S FUN TO VOTE!

Don't forget kids, this Tuesday is Super Tuesday! But who should you vote for?
GWGG Endorses:

REPUBLICAN: John McCain. He sings Beach Boys songs with fresh, new lyrics and has got those cute cheeks.

DEMOCRAT: Um, the Female African American one. What? There isn't a Female African American one? I'll have to get back to you next week....

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