Flatulence, fornication and filth; Sean Patton brings his show
Expect nervous laughing at points, but an overall lark – his filthy audacity must earn some credit.
A refrain of ‘where is he going with this?’ undoubtedly buzzes around the audience when Patton shatters any illusion that we would be allowed to remain in our seats without cringing from the word, er (for fear of ruining the opening), go. After thirty minutes with Patton, we know more about his sexual encounters than we do about our own – from bed-wetting to his opportunistic use of milk.
Patton’s mental conditions, he decides, are not to be dismissed as a topic beautifully ripe for satire. Perhaps this is why he oozes so much effortless charisma; unafraid of failure in mocking his own lifetime struggles the verbal portrait he offers of his ritualistic OCD habits is hilarious. A few anecdotes in regard to his spring break, admittedly, approach an awkward climax; twisting fragile events into comedy can be risky, and it’s touch and go until he deviates back to a hilarious reference to his altruistic OCD habit – it was just about okay.
Although he is, as we learn, unashamed in spilling the wildest of yarns, he succeeds in truly capturing the audience with an unpredictable turn to seriousness. Absolutely captivated at the end of a tale evoking so much audience empathy you could hear a mouse fart, he surprises us again with a fabulously timed crack leaving us all in hysterics.
Patton is certainly blessed as a storyteller and is as entertaining as any American who is willing to breach, with comedy, the well-worn subject of Donald Trump and to caricature his countrymen. Expect nervous laughing at points, but an overall lark – his filthy audacity must earn some credit.
