I try to imagine what an edited-for-TV version of The Book of Mormon might look like. I can’t. There’d be nothing left except commercials.

This is the third time I’ve seen the musical, but the first since some shut-down-for-Covid revisions were made by the authors to, according to the New York Theater Guide, “center and deepen the Uganda characters . . . clarify satirical points; and remove ‘white savoirist’ depictions of the Mormon missionaries.”

If you loved it before and haven’t seen it for a while, don’t worry, the actors work it and the dancing’s great, and either you’ll like the changes or you won’t notice them, as you’ll be too busy laughing and shaking your head in disbelief once again at the dialogue and lyrics, none of which I choose to repeat in this space. Let’s just say, somewhere, George Carlin is smiling.

I think it’s more a statement about mainstream acceptance than softening that I didn’t see anyone walk out of the theater this time, not even during Hasa Diga Eebowai, a made up phrase (which is apropos given that one of the other songs is Making Things Up Again) that accidentally translates, in a combination of Portuguese and Japanese, I am told, as the nonsensical “just tell picture ebony”, but, trust me, means something totally different in the show.