Stone, Parker and the making of iconoclastic icons

The expansive West of this great nation has produced its share of triumphs of the minutia…. The expansive West of this great nation has produced its share of triumphs of the minutia. Somewhere, a mother bear starves so her cubs may live. Sparkling brooks become great rivers, and new mountains escape from the ground, beautifying the ever-changing expanses of the American landscape.

The modern East gives way to the plains, where the shy Laura Ingalls had her simple and polite first kisses with Almanzo Wilder, where endless herds of bison stunk their way across green plains. The “Oregon Trail” computer game exemplified how hard life used to be, oh, with all the broken wagon wheels, infected water and curious attacks of dysentery.

As this tale of the modern and magnificent spreads across the Rocky Mountains, two of my favorite historical figures make obscene gestures.

Trey Parker’s mooning ass and Matt Stone’s middle finger will be pictured in the next generation’s history books. A diagram of a cardboard Cartman and a list of more air-able vulgarities will complete the section titled, “Political Instability, Continuing Cultural Revolution and Your Mom’s a Dildo.”

These guys were brilliant a decade ago when they got started. Now all this time has passed and they’re still sweet, dude. They’re not weak at all. Somehow, they’re more famous and respected than they’ve ever been. “South Park” is bigger and longer still, and with more extraneous skin than ever. It’s like elephantitis.

Parker and Stone must have watched a lot of television to have discovered how to go above it. People rip on TV all the time, but its vast cultural value is often undermined by the fact that most of it is worthless.

Trey and Matt, how did you do it? I’m a silly college kid. You appear to be silly former college kids. How did you manage to have considerable cultural and historical influence, make a fortune and still act like buffoons? And what did you major in? Maybe there’s still time for me to take it up.

This dynasty of unshakeable stature was founded upon construction paper and a film class movie about a Mormon porn star. Parker, Stone and their four brass balls invented “South Park.”

What was said about “South Park” in 1996 can be said about it today: It’s just beyond everyone. And if you don’t get it, then you know it was just too smart for you and laugh anyway. Now that’s funny, Trey and Matt. We’re all pretending to laugh with you when it is highly likely that you are laughing at us. That movie, it was about flatulent Canadians. And we all thought it was about First Amendment rights!

“South Park’s” cultural perspective is untouchable. These are two media gods, and both of them have crazy hair and stubble. While the exact satirical depth may immeasurable at times, there is enough callused, bad humor to make people maybe not feel so bad about the fact that these two crazy-haired, stubbly guys are both probably in Mensa and they have more money than I could mathematically calculate. Now that’s funny, guys.

Trey and Matt, you’ve turned obscenity into an art form. You paved the way for the popularity of dead baby joke. We all thank you. You fought for obscenity, using obscenity as your main weapon. Somehow, it all worked out. You’ve pioneered in bad taste. You’ve insulted all races, all religions, all sectors of inappropriate and unmentionable societal twitches, Santa Claus and Jesus Christ. After all that, however, you appear to be unscathed.

And Stan, Kyle, Kenny, Cartman, Mr. Garrison — they’re all you! It’s your voices, your scripts and your philosophy. You conquered the world by putting yourselves into vulgar little children. What a gurgling, excessive and fantastic life it must be!

Trey Parker and Matt Stone have had profound cultural influence over the course of the last decade. So Lucy cried to Ricky all those years, and now things are at the hands of Mr. Slave and his gerbil. They’re now above and beyond the system; they don’t really have to adhere to its moody and pretentious stipulations.

So it’s with bad taste that I ask: How can I make dead baby jokes into a career?

Relax. E-mail Rachel at rachelvanwylan@calamitymagazine.com.