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Calling all you sworn enemies of the Lord Jesus Christ, his minions, and his counterparts. Take up your abortion tools and your tempeh-stained copies of The World Famous Atheist Cookbook and hie thee over to the Source Theatre, where Cherry Red Productions is giving a spirited (if decidedly unspiritual) airing to the secular-humanist self-congratulation-fest that is Jeff Goode’s Anger Box. Goode’s usual style laces high-concept camp with stinging satire—to best effect in The Eight: Reindeer Monologues (which has Vixen accusing Santa of sexual harassment) and Poona the Fuckdog and Other Plays for Children (explanation superfluous). But with Anger Box, Goode’s fighting well above his weight class, using a string of 10 monologues to throw windmill punches at the notion that anyone could possibly believe in God. The subject’s a broad intellectual playground—patrolled by such brainy bullies as Pascal, Voltaire, and Stanley Hauerwas—and it’s obvious 15 minutes into Box that Goode lacks both the life experience and the philosophical chops to run with the big boys. Instead, the playwright settles for tossing out caricatures of the religiose and assorted other nutjobs to all us lefty loosies who revile religion as the root of all evil. (One character describes a friend who carried a bat with a crucifix burned into it—”or maybe it was a Confederate flag,” he adds. “Same thing.” Oooh.) The script adds up to not a play but a variety show of easy ridicule, with Goode seeming to hardly care if the monologues thematically converse and the evening quickly sinking into a succession of laugh lines—along with the usual Cherry Red method of fishing for giggles just by saying things like “papal semen” out loud. Even in its funnier scenes, as when the goddess Nike (Monique LaForce) lays out her grudge against the fellow deity who made the brilliantly careerist name change to “God,” Box seldom floats above the level of Saturday Night Live set piece. Still, director Michelle T. Hall has inspired her cast, especially Jenny Morris as Charon, the Wisconsin-accented waitress of the underworld, and Kate Debelack, who brings deliciously misplaced intensity to her virgin obsessed with having the pope’s baby. “There’s something about him,” she says. “He’s so infallible—you just want to fuck him up!” Box is really just preaching to the converted, though: The audience Goode thinks he’s addressing—the spiritual bet-hedgers, the scared people who’ll cut you off as they drive home from their guided meditation classes—seek not squalls of smugness but touches of magic, literary and otherwise. After Anger Box, they’re going to keep right on looking. —Robert Lalasz