I’d pretty much given up on watching anything on television around the time that South Park went on the air, so I never “stopped watching it” because I wasn’t watching anything on TV by that time (although I did see Team America: World Police in the theatre). Andrew Sullivan says I’ve been missing something quite worthwhile for all this time:

South Park is going into its 27th season. And it has rarely been better. (I simply can’t believe so many people I meet say they haven’t watched in years. You’ve been missing out!) The new special on obesity — a deft masterclass of social commentary — has a brutal takedown of suburban white women jonesing for doses of Ozempic like meth-heads; a definitive — and musical! — digression into the insanity of the American healthcare system; pure, character-driven humor in a figure like Randy Marsh — a far subtler parody of the average American male than Homer Simpson; and, of course, Eric Cartman — the “big-boned” fat-ass kid whose capacity for pure evil was first truly captured in the epic “Scott Tenorman Must Die“.

You can read books on Ozempic, scan op-eds, absorb TikToks, and even listen to the Dishcast! — but nothing out there captures every single possible social and medical and psychological wrinkle of this new drug than this hour of crude cartoons. Yes, there are fart jokes. There are always fart jokes. But fart jokes amid a sophisticated and deeply informed parody of insurance companies? Or, in other episodes, toilet humor guiding us through the cowardice of Disney, the dopey vanity of Kanye, the wokification of Hollywood, the exploitation of black college athletes, the evil of cable companies, the hollowness of hate-crime laws, the creepiness of Christian rock, or the money-making behind legal weed? Only South Park pulls this off. Only South Park gets away with all of it.

It’s a 1990s high-low formula at root, sophisticated cultural and political knowingness married to crude cartoons, silly accents, m’kay, and a talking Christmas turd, Mr Hankey. Generationally, it really marked a moment when merging these two worlds seemed the most creative option — not an abandonment of seriousness, but the attachment of a humane levity to it. South Park can be brutal, but it is never cruel. Unless you’re Barbra Streisand or Bono. And virtually every character (even Eric) is redeemable. Except Meghan Markle.

Yes, Matt and Trey have tried other things. To wit: just one of the best and most successful musicals of the 21st century, The Book of Mormon. They’ve pioneered deep-fakes. They also just renovated and relaunched a huge Denver restaurant they loved as kids, Casa Bonita, memorialized in a classic Cartman-is-evil episode. Twenty years ago, they actually created an entirely puppet-acted movie with epic sex and vomit scenes as a commentary on the war on terror, Team America; and are now teaming up with Kendrick Lamar to shoot a live-action comedy about a biracial couple where the black boyfriend interns as a slave re-enactor only to discover that his ancestors were owned by his girlfriend’s. No landmines there.

But they always return to South Park and evince no desire to transcend it — partly because it has become an entire world that can expand and contract at will: a world where Mel Gibson tweaks his nipples and smears his feces, Mickey Mouse acts like a mafia don, Michael Jackson’s nose falls off, Meghan Markle is a literal empty vessel, Christopher Reeve eats fetuses for their stem-cells, and Tom Cruise works in a fudge factory where, yes, he does a lot of the packing.

And in two decades of an acutely polarized and politicized culture, what team is South Park on? Precisely. You can’t tell, can you? — which is a staggering achievement in its own right. And it’s not about risk-aversion: the duo was targeted by Islamist terror and didn’t blink. They also took on the censors at the MPAA — savor this memo — and obliterated one of George Carlin’s “Seven Words You Can Never Say on TV” by saying “shit” 162 times in one episode.

They’ve shown Martha Stewart putting a whole turkey up her back-hole, Paris Hilton putting a whole pineapple up her front-hole, Caitlyn Jenner running over innocent pedestrians, and Jesse Jackson demanding that his big black ass be ceremoniously kissed. They’ve tackled Scientology and Mormonism; they’ve shown intergalactic Catholic priests astonished at the idea they have to stop raping young boys; and they beat Dave Chappelle by two decades with “Mr. Garrison’s Fancy New Vagina” — their take on sex reassignment.

They have done all this, taken no prisoners, and remain uncancellable. Why? Because their mockery is genuinely universal (including themselves), their courage is real, and because they remain humane.

By humane, I mean they show how you can skewer and yet still love. As a young gay man, I often winced at the careful, all-too-sensitive depictions of gay men in most movies and television, the elaborate ways in which the subculture was homogenized and prettified for straight audiences. But in South Park, I could see the gay reality as I had already witnessed it in all its bewildering variety: the right-wing, elementary school teacher Mr Garrison … dating Mr Slave — a leather-daddy with a gerbil called Lemmiwinks living in his upper colon; I could see Big Gay Al get expelled from the Boy Scouts — and defend their right to do so; I could see Butters’ dad on the DL at the White Swallow bathhouse; in time, I could see Satan having a gay love affair with Saddam Hussein, because his other boyfriend was so lame. They even made AIDS funny. The offense worked because it always conveyed an actual truth about gay men, while also obviously mocking us with love. (Mr Slave was portrayed as a moral paragon next to Paris Hilton, for example, and Mr Garrison eventually ends up with Rick, a total normie.) South Park‘s role in helping America grow up on the topic of homosexuality, especially the young male demographic who followed them, is deeply under-rated.