I never claimed to be perfect.  In fact, I am a royal screw up.

I am completely embarrassed to admit this, but due to a celebratory libation and my ignorance of the true depravity levels of Sacha Baron Cohen (who I once thought was merely mischievous and rather brilliant in his ability to completely submerge into his characters during interviews), I went to go see Brüno with a friend of mine who, like me, enjoys comedy that teases occasionally at the edge of good taste and pokes fun at Eurotrash culture.  Well, as it turns out, Eurotrash was everywhere in the film, but there was no teasing of good taste.  Good taste got fed through a food processor to a pair of terminally dyspeptic gerbils. It was then regurgitated on the front stoop of Decency, only to get trampled on by the heedless and mucked into the dense carpet of our minds.

It was like a horror film. I wanted to stand up in the theatre and hop up and down in a fit of hand-flapping hysterics while shouting, Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew!

Once my initial feelings of shock and horror established themselves and began to numb my sensibilities, I took my head out from where I’d tucked it into my jacket and used my well-honed, never-been-sheltered-in-a-Christian-school-survival skills to get through the rest.  What skills might those be, you may ask?  Analysis, dear Watson. I looked at the entire farcical/satirical play as symbolically and abstractly as I could in order to pinpoint what the last, surviving divine spark of human soul inside Mr. Cohen had to say.

Sacha Baron Cohen, pictured here in tiny shorts, but appearing on film in a lot less.