CARLTON FLETCHER: You can take the boy out of Ocilla …

“But I must let the show go on.”

— Three Dog Night

As Herald readers from across the region have shared their sheltering-in-place activities over the last several weeks, many on the suggestion of reader Debbie Blanchard, I’ve been amazed and impressed with what so many have done.

I’ve read/heard of people catching up on backlogged work, volunteering and giving their time to help agencies that do good things for the community, or just taking a few moments to smell the roses and enjoy the small pleasures of life that so many of us take for granted.

All of which makes what I’m about to say even that much sadder.

During this shelter/work-at-home period, I have used my time to … get re-acquainted with Jerry Springer.

I know, I know, I’m leaving myself open by admitting that. But there’s always been something about the former Cincinnati mayor’s trashfest that’s brought out the dyed-in-the-wool, born-and-bred redneck in me.

For those among the cultured elite whose TVs would explode if it sensed a crowd chanting “Jer-ry, Jer-ry, Jer-ry,” I’ll give you a brief synopsis of the show:

Someone comes on and tells host Jerry Springer, who really was mayor of Cincinnati (I looked it up), that he or she has (a) been sleeping around with his/her cousin’s/brother’s/sister’s/best friend’s/daughter’s/son’s wife/husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/pet; (b) been working the pole at the strip club for the last five years while the family dog watched her six children; or (c) wants to ask some random person he/she has only known for the last two days to marry him/her so that he/she can be humiliated on national television.

If you’re a frequent Jerry watcher — and I think there’s about a three- or four-hour block on the air every day — you’ve seen/heard all the premises before, and even with an occasional new wrinkle thrown in (maybe you’re a mullet-wearing, gun-toting, gay, polygamist tiger trainer or something … and, yes, non-Netflix watchers, that is a thing) you pretty much know how it’s going to go.

No, the payoff in watching Springer is the inevitable “fights” that break out with each group of guests. Whether it’s some 85-pound whippet who likes like she might not be able to punch her way out of a wet paper bag of a 350-pound behemoth who looks like he might not have enough breath in those massive lungs to even lift his hamhocks of arms, they always fight on Springer. With the crowd chanting the host’s name, someone on the stage rings a bell, and that’s like pouring gasoline on a tiny ember. Violence ensues, to the delight of the crowd, many of whom show up to get “Jerry beads,” which they get by either raising their tops (ladies) or dropping their pants (men).

The fights, of course, are little more than closed-eyed slapfests with the ladies always resorting to hair-pulling. If a guest manages to pull off someone’s wig and toss it into the delighted audience, they get even bigger cheers.

Other highlights of the Springer show are the “twerk-offs” — frequently between transgender guys whose five-o’clock shadows go a long way toward shattering illusions — the amateur pole-dancing and, of course, Jerry’s heartfelt final thought at the end of the show in which the host attempts — and with a straight face, no less — to impart words of wisdom on a group of people who have just shown they would gladly sell their souls — and their dignity — to be on TV for 10 or 15 minutes.

You might wonder how someone as erudite as I would willingly admit to not only watching Jerry Springer’s show but actually being entertained by it. What can I say? I guess what I’ve heard all my life is true: You can take the boy out of Ocilla, but you can’t take the Ocilla out of the boy. (With apologies to Ocilla.)