Is this the most sophisticated way to spend a December evening? Absolutely not. Is it the most fun? Yes. It’s a love letter to childhood chaos, dad jokes, and the sheer audacity of a 12-year-old psychic who orders pizzas at the worst possible time.
So, grab your tickets. Put on your best “wet bandit” sweater. Get ready to laugh until your ribs hurt. And if you see a guy in the audience with a gold tooth and a pet tarantula? Say hi to Harry for me. I’ll be there, probably crying during the orchestra’s climax, eating a bag of cheese puffs that cost me a kidney.
See you in 2026 at the Hall. Keep the change, ya filthy animal.
