Thursday, May 28, 2009
So, just back from a babysitting session with my youngest grandson, and, while watching a video of The Wiggles -- those of you who have small children know all about them, and those of you who don't, well, you don't want to know ... I came across something most disturbing.
To the non-connoisseurs among you, The Wiggles are not nearly as bad as Barney the Dinosaur, as apt to cause diabetes as Bob the Builder, or as insipid as Dora the Explorer, because the music is actually not bad. The Australian version of Sesame Street, only aimed at two-year-olds. Blues Clues has the edge, but The Wiggles get by because you can dance to them.
Although the refrain, "Fruit salad, yummy, yummy ..." is going to take on a new meaning for me.
And of course, none of these are in the class with Boobah, which is flat-out an acid trip from the git-go. Guaranteed to blow your mind, trust me on this. I think I remember seeing them live in the woods somewhere in the Sixties -- a cross between The Body Snatchers and Orange Sunshine, with a dollop of Purple Haze. If you ever have a chance, watch an episode of Boobah. You'll never be the same.
Okay, okay, I've been stalling, I admit it. I might as well just say it. If you have small children, cover their eyes:
Wags the Dog and Henry the Octopus are cross-dressers.
It's true. They tried to hide it by using male actors to voice Wags and Henry, but inside those suits?
Girls. Girls, by all that's holy!
Not that there's anything wrong with being girls, some of my best friends are of the female persuasion, but what kind of example is this for our youth? Cross-dressing!
I mean, we all know about Tinky-Winky the Teletubby, who is queerer than a nine dollar bill, but this Wiggles business is much more insidious. Tinky-Winky is a gimme -- the name, the purse, c'mon, nobody is trying to hide anything there, easy for anybody to see it. But Wags? And Henry?
O, the calumny! O, the humanity!
Where is Jerry Falwell when we need him?
Oh, yeah, I forgot, he's dead. And if there is any justice in the cosmos, roasting on a spit six levels down in tropical Hades ...
Maybe Dan Quayle will step up.