My Blog, My Rules, My Vulgar Musical Breakdown of the Fucking Year
You know what?
Fuck it.
I don’t usually post musical reviews here.
This blog was supposed to be about Linux, and broken drivers, and the relentless masochism of accessibility hacking in a world that thinks screen readers are optional. I wasn’t supposed to be here, writing about sequins and Satan and frog-fucking through a theatre earpiece.
But The Book of Mormon happened.
And now I’m going to scream about it.
Because holy shit.
Because accessibility.
Because art.
Because joy is resistance, and this show hit like a glitter-covered battering ram.
I’ve Seen Some Shit. But This? This Was Transcendently Fucked (In the Best Way).
Look — I’ve been to good musicals. Great ones.
The Lion King.
Shrek: The Musical.
Mary Poppins.
The Borrowers.
Little Shop of Horrors.
The BFG.
I’ve had audio description experiences that made me grin so wide I felt like I’d swallowed the whole damn stage. I’ve felt included before. I know what good looks like.
But The Book of Mormon at Glasgow King’s Theatre on May 31, 2025?
Described live by a man named Christifer, who had the balls and the brilliance to not flinch?
That was fucking divine.
Praise Fuckin’ Be to Christifer, Apostle of Uncensored Chaos
Let’s start here: The Book of Mormon is a filthy show.
Like, actual profanity, animated-hentai-wallpaper-on-your-hacked-Kali-laptop levels of offensive.
God gets told to fuck off. Jesus calls people dicks. There’s a musical number about frog sex.
It’s intentionally blasphemous, and that’s what makes it work.
And Christifer?
Did. Not. Clean. A. Single. Bit. Of. It. Up.
None of this “he makes a rude gesture” bullshit.
No “they sing a controversial phrase.”
No “character displays dismay.”
He fucking said it.
“Jesus gives him the finger and says: ‘You’re a dick.’”
“He thrusts forward as he pantomimes fucking a frog.”
“The ensemble, dressed as devils, Hitler, Dahmer, and Genghis Khan, performs a tap number while Satan sings.”
And he didn’t say it like he was embarrassed to be there.
He said it like he was here for it.
That’s what made this special.
I didn’t get a watered-down, Christian-friendly audiobook version.
I got the full fucking show.
The good, the bad, and the diabolically fabulous.
The Man Knew When to Shut Up and When to Bring the Fire
Timing. Rhythm. Space.
It’s everything in a show like this.
If you describe over a joke? The joke dies.
If you step on the punchline? You rob the whole room.
If you try to explain why something’s funny? Fuck you, you just killed it.
But Christifer?
Did. Not. Miss. A. Beat.
He let the actors act.
He let the jokes land.
He let the music breathe.
Then, right in those little gaps — the beat before the next line, the turn of the head, the smirk, the dance move, the glittering evil shoulder shimmy — bam. In he came with exactly the right description, exactly the right tone, and then he was gone again.
Like a ghost made of stage directions and absolute fucking competence.
The Cast Were All Unholy Demigods in Ties and Tap Shoes
Elder Price: smug, beautiful, disaster-in-waiting.
Elder Cunningham: human shitpost of a man, adorable, unstable, genius.
Elder McKinley: so deep in the closet he was finding Narnia, but also? A fucking tap-dancing legend.
The whole cast brought chaos and charisma in equal measure.
They sang. They danced. They mugged at the audience like cartoon characters with PTSD.
They sold every goddamn line.
“Hello”? More weaponized politeness than an HR department.
“Hasa Diga Eebowai”? Full-throated sacrilege. Like, people gasped, and then laughed until they cried.
“Spooky Mormon Hell Dream”? Satan in cabaret mode. It was like watching a Sunday school lesson thrown in a blender with cocaine, trauma, and choreography — and I got every single visual beat because Christifer described it like his soul was on fire.
And Then Those Bastards Made Me Cry
“Tomorrow Is a Latter Day.”
Final number. Unexpected gut punch.
After two hours of dick jokes, biblical mutilation, and what can only be described as improvised colonialist fanfiction, the show pivots.
And it’s suddenly sincere. Earnest.
It’s about getting through life with whatever half-baked bullshit you can cling to.
About telling stories. About surviving. About making your own meaning when the world shits on everything you were taught to believe.
And it lands.
Because it’s honest.
And because I had Christifer in my ear — still there, still timing it perfectly, still letting the moment speak — I got it. I felt it.
I didn’t have to piece it together after the fact. I didn’t need a post-show debrief. I was there.
I’ve Never Felt More Fucking Included in a Theatre
And that’s the point.
This wasn’t “nice accessibility.”
This wasn’t “we tried.”
This wasn’t “you can sort of follow along.”
This was real inclusion.
No euphemism. No censorship. No shame.
Just a describer who trusted me to handle it.
A production that let him do it.
And a show that deserved to be described as-is — filth and fury and glitter and all.
I laughed. I cried. I stopped giving a shit about what “fits” on this blog.
This wasn’t Linux. It wasn’t firmware debugging.
It was joy. Loud, messy, profane joy.
And if that doesn’t belong here, what the fuck does?
Final Word? Fuck Respectability. Christifer is a Legend. This Show Was Gospel.
You want theatre that slaps? This is it.
You want access that doesn’t compromise? This is how.
You want to know what joy feels like after too long scraping through broken accessibility APIs?
This. Fucking. Night.
And if you’re wondering why this is here, on a blog usually reserved for kernel meltdowns and yelling about ALSA:
Because it’s mine.
And I was there.
And it mattered.
So yeah — I wrote a musical review.
Maybe the only one I’ll ever write.
But it had to be this one.
Because Christifer didn’t flinch.
So I didn’t miss a goddamn thing.
awesome read!
Carlos Mencia once said "find the one thing deep inside you that IS YOU, and BE THAT". I'm baffled that, for a production that aims to be obscene, iconoclastic maybe, or just "too real" - that whatever surrounds it would still aim to censor. It's like listening to "Mild Annoyance Against The Machine". What is the point?
People that "get it", understand the point behind it all, and can deliver on the promise of the original - are not praised enough. A round of applause for the one guy who understood the point of the show, and did his bloody job of TRANSLATING it, without adding his own brand of moral bias.
A lot of this also affects movie translations for other markets, you know. English isn't my first language in the strict sense, but I'm happily bilingual. Unfortunately, this also means tons of cringe when watching films translated for my market - and makes the odd ones done properly stand out even more as shining beacons everyone is too afraid to follow.
Thank you, Christifer.
This style of post is what keeps me on the internet. The world is so messy and loud right now, while comparatively this pure and unadulterated joy was incredibly infectious. Thank you for writing this, from the bottom of my heart, and this is your blog, go crazy with it!