Strangely, the Hades-like experience I voluntarily put myself through was free of fire, brimstone and pitchforks. But it was chock full of farm animals, stripper poles, bald women and loud chants. And what were those chants? I’m sure by now you must have guessed:

“Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!”

That’s right- after living in this city for nearly two years I finally decided to participate in one of its most culturally celebrated rites- sitting in the audience of a Jerry Springer show.

And while there I saw things I’ve never seen before, both terrible and great. My eyes were bushwhacked open, and I don’t think I can ever close them to the underbelly of America again.

I know it’s my job to try and relay my experience and communicate it to you all, but honestly, there’s just no explaining any of the events that occurred that evening in any logical or comprehensive way. Here then, in chronological order, is a list of things I saw. I will preface this list by saying that I made nothing up- everything here did, in fact, occur. Draw from these images what you will:

• Picture a stage, a familiar stage, one set up with fake plastic chairs and put against a slightly industrial-looking plastic background with a giant whirring fan and a green metal balcony. On this stage sits a woman named Jenna who has already flashed the audience her middle-aged boobs twice before the first commercial break. Jenna is having her full head of hair shaved off by a skinny man in overalls- her husband- in exchange for his promise to pay more attention to her than to his beloved sheep, who also shares the stage. When Jenna is completely bald, she gets down on her hands and knees and ‘baaaas’ to her husband’s delight.
• Onstage is a woman in her early 20’s, who after proudly admitting that she is a stripper gets up to take off her surprisingly modest summer dress and parade around naked before the audience before attempting to (badly) shimmy up a stripper pole. The stripper then introduces her 50-year-old mild-mannered boyfriend with a carpet fetish and admonishes him for trying to turn her on to the wonders of carpet love before leaving him (forever?), apparently for Steve, Jerry Springer’s Audio Guy.
• An older black woman with a yellow cardigan sweater sits in the audience with her daughter. “Jerry!” she yells during the audience participation time. “I love you so much, I came all the way from Lincoln Heights with my daughter and I want my Jerry beads!” She then proceeds to lift her shirt and show her goods to Jerry, the camera crew, the audience and the nation, a smile lighting up her face, and the face of her daughter sitting next to her.
• Throughout the entire show, a gentleman with the hair and mannerisms of Fabio, but the body of half that man (literally, there was nothing going on below the torso) wandered around in front of the stage, climbed the stairs with his arms and at one point gently caressed the farm couple’s sheep. Explanation given for this individual’s silent presence throughout the entire show? None.

“Oh Kim,” I say to my friend next to me, “I’m going to have sooo many nightmares tonight.”

But despite the surreal, scary, indescribable events that took place during my (in total) four hour Jerry experience, there is no denying the scariest fact of all- I had fun. It may have been due to my delirious state (after standing in line for three hours to see the show, we were starving, tired, and not just a little slap happy), but at some point in time I stopped fighting my natural instincts and let the Jerry spirit wash over me.

I chanted. I hollered. I pumped my fist every time the slightly angry man with the microphone standing in the corner told me to. I booed. I awwwwed. I strained my neck to see the three rounds of fistfights. I wore my voice raw. I participated in the basest level of American culture.

And I loved it. And so would you.

And that’s why Jerry has such a smug smile on his face whenever you see him pop across your daytime screen. It’s the reason he can get away with all the stripper-baiting and bad puns. The reason that he can drop an American flag down on his set in between half-naked fist fights and farm animal fondling. He’s Jerry Springer, and he can do anything he damn well pleases. And we’ll eat it up.

Because call it base, call it classless, call it fake, call it whatever you want. Every single person in that audience was having a genuinely good time. In the end, we all want to get swept along in the non-thinking, barely-legal, fist-pumping good time that Jerry provides.

That’s what makes America great.

And possibly hell, too.

Comments

i would love to be trampled Written by Guest on 2007-10-09 12:01:26 i wish to be a carpet or a rug!! thank you

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