Since Fringe Year One, I’ve been refining a theory that, in its present state, goes something like this: The more artsy-fartsy the Fringe-brochure come-on, the more unbearable the show is likely to be.

Most recent evidence in support of said theory: The hilarious snippet of show I just experienced while ordering a tall, cold something at the bar in the Baldacchino.

High-order performance-art hooey, if I can judge by the tiny bit I saw and heard. Or by the expressions of the bartenders, who’d been listening for 25 minutes or so — and who looked like they were ready to poke out their eardrums with stir-straws.

Sure enough, I pull out my dog-eared Fringe schedule, and here’s the show “synopsis”:

poetic non sequiturs ….. punctuate illusive conformity ….. minimalist …. sounds effect … existential expression .. on the platform . into tangents ThroughDanceWithImprovOverMusicFromConcreteToStateOfMind PERCEPTION WILL TRANSPORT YOU IN YOUR OWN REALITY . . .

That’s my theory, and I’m stickin’ to it.