First Listen: Cast Recording, 'The Book Of Mormon'

[[deleted user]]

The sheer filthiness of The Book of Mormon shouldn't surprise anyone: Broadway's biggest new hit came from the minds behind South Park and Avenue Q, both shining examples of cheerful modern smut. With that provenance, (un)serious laughs were pretty much a given.

Listen here: http://www.npr.org/2011/05/09/1360541...

[George]

Here's a satire of the actual Book of Mormon that I wrote a while back for goodreads.


A total fraud created by a charlatan. Let me explain with a little story.

The Book of Nehi

Yea, I call myself Nehi even though that soft drink (particularly the grape flavor, my favorite) will not exist for another 100 years. The elders of the Church will fix that error and many others in later editions. And it came to pass that I was cowering in my barn, hiding from a mob much like the one that pursued Frankenstein’s monster. And that was the beginning of the idea—for if a woman could tell a story that fantastical and be believed, what might a man of my talents create for posterity?

And it came to pass that the noise of the mob increased twofold and by many cubits. Their cause was just because I was a juggler—one of those who manipulates the naïve for personal advantage. Yea, I had stolen brass objects from various homes, buried the treasures here and there, and with my douser uncovered them again to the amazement of the local yokels.

But it came to pass that others nosed out my game and sought me now for recent thefts, which I’d hidden in my barn until the time was ripe to begin my con anew. Yea, I was on the brink of a beating or a lynching when the angel appeared. And it came to pass that a creature dressed in white linen manifested himself in the loft, floating above the hay-strewn floor. A lengthy protuberance emanated from between his legs, as if Pinocchio’s mendacious nose had taken residence beneath the linen, which was the purest white.

“I am Moron," he proclaimed.

Yea, it was a name with which I was familiar—many headmasters had addressed me thus.

And it came to pass that I said, “What is underneath you linen, sir, that makes so bold an advance.”

“It is my trumpet,” Moron proclaimed, for all the utterances of angels are in the form of proclamations.

“Yea, but what do you do with it?”

“On my planet, I put it between the legs of female angels…or sometimes female angels blow upon my trumpet.”

And it came to pass that on that note, Pinocchio began to grow beneath my trousers; yea, it is a fair thought to have a maiden blow upon one’s trumpet.

And it came to pass that Moron proclaimed, “I can see that you are an apt pupil, which is why I have chosen you to be my prophet.”

“Prophet?”

“Yea, my story must be told—how the Jews came to America and gave birth to the Indian tribes, the animals and precious minerals that they found, their wars, and Jesus’ ministry therein—I was killed in those wars, but I have guarded the golden tablets until the time was right.”

And it came to pass that I said, “The golden tablets?”

“Yea, they contain the story.”

“Nay, but the Jews didn’t…” I began. “And Jesus never ministered—”

“Of course not,” Moron proclaimed. “And the stories describe animals who never roamed this land and precious metals that were never in this ground.”

And it came to pass that I said, “Why would people believe the story?”

“Yea,” Moron proclaimed, “they wouldn’t…unless you told it in the proper fashion. Make it look like the Bible—books, chapters, verses. If it looks like the Bible, they’ll feel compelled to believe it. Include the same phrases over and over again, such as ‘yea’ and ‘it came to pass.’ This will make it even more boring than the real Bible, if such a thing were possible.”

And it came to pass that I said, “Boring?”

“Yea, they will fall into a great sleep and have visions, visions that they will attribute to my story—their belief will thus be strengthened. Now, the golden tablets must pass from me into your body, so that my soul and yours become one.”

And it came to pass that a stream of gold emanated from Moron’s mouth and entered into mine. I felt a burning sensation and then awoke—Moron and his trumpet were gone, I was still surrounded by the objects I had stolen, and the mob was pounding on the barn. I could think of no other course than to swallow my treasures—they were small, though dear, and my apprehension sped them toward my stomach.

****************************************************************

And it came to pass that I was spared. Finding no objects that I was supposed to have stolen, cooler heads prevailed, and the mob dispersed, though not without muttering threats. Two weeks have passed, a time that I will always refer to as the Great Constipation. But as I write, there is a rumbling in my bowels and a ferocious wind escaping my rectum. I fling off my trousers and a stream of golden turds escapes from my nether regions. After giving them time to cool and dry, I examine the specimens under a microscope and discover writing that very much resembles hieroglyphics. Although I have no knowledge of the Egyptian script, I begin translating anyway. Yea, Moron’s story takes shape as I write and play with my trumpet, while dreams of what will come to pass build to a climax.



flag

[Amanda]

That music is great - and hilarious! I am not into musicals but now I really want to see this one.