I think one usually prefaces the following with "I'm not a prude, but . . ." But I'd rather be an uptight old prude, that is, one who "may be perceived as being more uncomfortable than most with sexuality or nudity," rather than the mom who is apparently so "comfortable" with such matters that she brought her pre-teen kids with her to see Les Miserables this weekend. They sat in front of us.
One wonders what they made of Fantine's terrible trials, and how long those disturbing images will linger in their imaginations. Then there was the "comic relief" of "Master of the House," which furnished their psyches with (among many other things) a new "adult" vision of Santa Claus to dance in their impressionable heads from now on. Merry Christmas, kids!
Moving on to last night and Beyonce's halftime show. It's nothing new to have cheesy, sleazy entertainment in the middle of the Superbowl. But why do parents let their little ones watch it? This in particular surprised me. I just don't get it.
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