Punching Day: A Big Bad BeetleBorg's Christmas (Patreon)

The Beetleborgs Christmas episode is art.

I won’t hear otherwise: I traded my sanity and gold for the right to dictate art. Christmas Bells and Phasm’s Spells—hold on.

What’s that?

Awesome edit. The cut looks more Young Hillary, but great for a joke. Maybe SEO firms only maimed laughter.

Anyway, Christmas Bells and Phasm’s Spells takes the formula  for eaglewashing imported superheroes, and adds tinsel. Why hide the  original cast like Soviet defectors? Because if young American nerds  hate one thing, it’s Japan.

If you thought the Grinch should have been kicked through drywall, I  have the half-hour for you. The Beetleborgs and Nightmare Elvis dye  their stockings with blood.

Two mockups? Nice. But stay focused: someone’s stealing presents, and  it’s up to our heroes to pummel cheer into their kneecaps. You will appreciate Christmas in Hillhurst House, even if you have to do it from an iron lung.

Ah, this. Now I remember. It’s hard to explain or forgive.

Life’s confusing. One day, you’re riding high as the third guy behind  Jon Bon Jovi. The next, everyone’s mad at you for robbing a grave. What  gives? Did you stand too far to the left? Are you only a half-genius?  Was it too soon?

Bon Jovi keyboardist and non-polymath David Bryan asked all these questions after Diana: The Musical. And  none before. I’m late to the party, because finding love takes time.  Thanks to Netflix and a one-time studio performance, I finally know why  birds sing in the morning light. They’re laughing.

I’m in David’s debt. I’d buy an album, but I’ve been to a karaoke bar. He’s set until the sun dies.

Instead, I’ll explain a fraction of what went wrong. While Netflix  smiles like a friend, some friends are really enemies mining headline  bait. Genuine friends say “Don’t put that hand grenade in your colon,”  and then renew American Vandal. Fakes pull the pin, pocket your royalties, and remake two dating shows forever.

History offered an out. Something overshadowed the Broadway launch in  March 2020. I think it was an earthquake. Tragic, but merciful for a  dead princess sing-along. They could have staked the body, left it in  the sun, and moved on. Letting Netflix record it was a Walter White  choice. Season 5.

Still, “too soon” doesn’t fit. Elite failure stumps most  vocabularies. Diana’s been dead longer than black rhinos, white rhinos,  and your personal favorite zoo animal. And the internet killed  restraint. The jokes start after your left arm tingles. I have a special  Google Drive folder for my heroes. Including a rock opera called “Judge  Tom’s Cabin.”

“Too soon” isn’t about time. It’s just shorthand for “tasteless.”  When I spray-paint a dick on Andrew Jackson’s headstone, waiting another  week won’t help. The issue is the dick. David’s drawn the veiniest dick  since Cats on a non-Jackson grave.

A wang drawn on a projector, one pixel at a time. Everyone watched  without stepping in. I don’t blame stupidity, greed, or spite. Ennui’s  just stronger than dignity.

I’ll outline four crime scenes. Diana: The Musical is like an exquisite corpse: it’s unclear what it is or why I’m obsessed with it, but it sounds like someone dies.

Doom sets in around Act One, Scene One. Blonde Jesus sing-talks  through her feelings about fame. While surrounded by shutter sounds and  flashing lights. Because she’s famous.

An earnest promise to focus on People covers and dial-up Deuxmoi. What was Diana’s life like before Charles? Quiet, filth. Shut your Pepsi-hole, and appreciate art. We have solos by Charles, the  Queen, and whoever Charles cheated with to get to. Diana’s going to Fame monarchy to death.

You might call the revolution empty stunts in a distracted age. That’s the plan.

Welcome to D for Destruction. You’re inspired.

It almost doesn’t matter that it’s Princess Diana. You could apply this tone to your dog, call it Fluffy: The Dog That Changed Fetch, and torch just as much money. But then the mock accents hit, landing between late Pirates of the Caribbean and an Ottoman sniper mocking his kills. Hate speech against dimming empires is possible.

Whiteface sounds like talcum powder, but it’s actually a voice. Diana uses it more than Jamaica the island, neighborhood, and writer combined. This play hates England more than RRR—no  it doesn’t. I can’t downplay using wolves as bait for tigers. If you  think there’s a villain speech better than “British bullet,” you’re a  monarchist.

Fame takes Diana through a journey you’ve seen. A told story. Cheating, charity, and traffic seem compelling, but Diana: The Musical makes  them robotic. Even for me, and I’ve got the open mic version of Brandon  Sanderson’s thing. But two hours of anti-theater propaganda end in a  perfect comic trilogy. Starting with “The Dress.”

It’s about a dress. The famous Revenge Dress, if you remember that instead of CPR. Diana: The Musical has three Daily Mail remixes about dresses. This is the one David believed in.

David’s wrong.

First, Diana’s campy slave pitches a coup. A Monte Cristo revenge  plot with maximum costume, minimum stabbing. He describes an unstoppable  fashion Gundam with some flair.

Then it falls apart.

Staccato repetition of “feckity” takes over the song. Imagine Busta  Rhymes tortured by Cenobites, and you’re there. It’s my brown note. By  the time Diana finally drops “Fuck You Dress” I’ve abandoned English.  Pictographic language is rough, but at least I know anyone writing “Feck  You Dress” ninety-seven times suffered for art.

Cursing standards vary. I actually respect the other team: censoring “Diana was written by two fucking morons” forces me to work harder, and land on “Diana was written by cracks in the human spirit, stealing corpse valor to  lick Lin-Manuel’s crumbs. They think the way a parrot speaks.”

“The Dress” tries to be cute and eat both pies. It succeeds, gets sick, and returns them.

Whatever. Sith clowns get lightning.

Here, the play hits its most sensitive point. The moment that decides whether Diana: The Musical is mocked for trivializing life and death, or every other trait. The question drawing tens of viewers around the world.

Queen Elizabeth’s solo rebuttal.

“A Captain’s Wife” captures a nation’s soul. Specifically, America’s  idea of balance: you can insult someone forever if they get three  minutes between ads. Think The Onion’s point/counterpoint, without their rhythm.

As for England, we’re back to caricature. Of England. Our  trading partner, mother country, U.N. rubber-stamp, 1812 White House  remodeler, imperialism tutor, and Dresden codefendant. If we draw them  like this, imagine our spin on the rest of the world. They like playing action villains, right? It’s a compliment.

After two hours of making high-fashion voodoo dolls, Diana listens in  loving awe. Is the Queen the witch behind her demon husband, a career  pedophile, and Edward’s extra inbred face? Or…a friend? They’re not so different, save beliefs, actions, aesthetic, vocal range, and post-Diana: The Musical career health.

Powerful stuff. I assume. The finale purified my mind. What year is  it? Why am I bullying Bon Jovi’s roadie? Where did all the icebergs go?  Does Diana have a holiday, or is it more of a festival week? Who wrote  “feck” on my wall in red stuff?

Don’t worry. You can be clean too.

First, Diana recounts her lofty plans for the future. At length, in  exacting detail. To her ex-mother-in-law. That sounds off, but I keep up  with mine. It’s a Commonwealth thing.

Next, Diana quick-changes into white. And recites more future plans, in song. Facing the audience. Before a set of ornate gates.

The cherubs are off-camera.

The full cast emerges, and lists Diana’s accomplishments. While I  feel the sins of a wayward life lift. Which makes sense in heaven.

Finally, we get a perfect still. The family that ruined her life  marches out, repentant, front and center. The Windsors make third date  eye contact with the camera, and declare:

And I die. Also Diana. But I’m wheezing like The Little Mermaid after  the fine print. Like I ran a 10k with aspiring muggers. Like I sang  every “feckity” at double speed. How can air compete with this? Or love?

I see why there’s no lawsuit. It’s unclear who’s been buried. This  scene aims to humiliate the living, but makes Diana sound like  well-dressed L. Ron Hubbard. And by being present at all, the Windsors  are grave-crumping. If my enemies line up at my funeral, feel free to  rip off The Red Wedding.

It’s beautiful when reality thins out. Everything seems possible, no  matter how stupid. It’s the opposite of the walls closing in. If I can’t  spell walls, how can they stop me? “Easily,” you might say. That’s because you make many thought instead of happy thought. Be free.

I have one real note for Diana: The Musical. Why isn’t it on  ice? We agreed to fail like this on ice. The dancers are spry, I’m sure  there’s a clean 720 in the ranks. Or, better yet, a sloppy 720. A  face-plant would lend the finale gravitas.

Is gut-laughter tasteless? As much of Jaa-kick to next-of-kin as  anything here? Probably. But jesters and mortality are the only torments  royalty face. This is part of nature. Besides, based on recent work,  Diana’s heirs aren’t big readers. And I’ll pay on Runwayrök, when Diana  Reborn puts the dressless to the sword.

Until then: I keep an eye on the theater trades, and US history is having a moment in the UK. Diana: The Musical’s inspired a wave of eager cultural exchange. Here’s a few of the tributes to Americana hitting London stages:

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