I have never sat through such a long, self-indulgent performance as that of Garrison Keillor's solo visit to a nearby stage.
My theatre friends would describe it as masturbatory.
So if you want to see this red-shoed man verbally masturbate over the topics of urination, Lutherans, chickens, Minnesota and death you can just buy a ticket and sit there for a few hours and listen to his verbal diarrhea about church hymns and Uncle Ned and coffins and such depressing dreck that after an hour I really wanted to scream but he kept going in one really long run-on sentence for another hour or so and he is miserable man who fancies himself quite the entertainer and I don't like him at all and I don't understand the appeal of listening to an old man babble on about dying and coffins and eternity and hell and death and it's real uplifting stuff but didn't make me want to kill myself, it made me want to stab him and if he were in an outhouse, or port-o-john, and I knew he was in there I would knock it over.
Even my mom, a Prairie fan, was only mildly amused.
It just added to my disinterest in listening to or reading his stuff.
At times he even talked like Herbert the Pervert. If you don't know who this whistling creep is just look at this 13-second vid, mate.