It feels a little like someone took the favourite teddy bear from your childhood and with a giggle, decapitated it like some deranged Bain with pediophobia.
To those too young to know, a motley bunch of misfit comedians called the Monty Python Flying Circus used to do this sort of thing on a fairly regular basis if there was even the slightest chance it would raise a laugh or offend someone.
And now the musical production Spamalot, the Tony Award-winning show coming to Canberra 15 years after it was first on Broadway, endeavours to do the same thing on stage, reworking all the well-loved gags, routines and sketch-lines to fit its new format.
For those of us who raised on the original Python material and would use Terry Jones's high-pitched whiney "lady" voice to annoy telemarketers, there's a vague sense of unease about the re-emergence of Spamalot.
It shouldn't be so, of course. A parody of a parody, written by one of the people who created the parody in the first place, shouldn't make someone feel this way.
But such is the case with coveted material from our past.
One of the curious sidelights to original Spamalot was that as the theatre production rolled through a number of sell-out seasons, in the murky background it was accompanied by a protracted legal battle between the Pythons and one of their former collaborators.
Mark Forstater had been the original producer - the money hunter - for the film on which Spamalot is based, Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
With conventional US film funding sources reluctant to back such as strange concept as a comedic Arthurian quest with a bunch of Brit unknowns as the cast and two rookie directors in Terry Gilliam and Terry Jones - "you want to do what?" - Forstater had sought the cash from an unorthodox range of financiers and supporters including British rock groups Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Genesis and Jethro Tull.
Each of the bands stumped up thousands of pounds on a simple deal. Beatle George Harrison believed in the project so much that he even mortgaged his house to help fund it.
For stitching the complex deal together, Forstater was to receive a seventh share of the royalties.
The original film, shot on the cheap with a brilliant, hilarious, absurdist premise and script, became a "late bloomer", its popularity gathering momentum until it became the UK's biggest independently produced film.
For decades, Forstater had received payment for his rightful share of Holy Grail merchandising and spin-offs.
When Spamalot hit the stage and became a huge success, Forstater found his share of the royalties had been halved. So he sued.
Over seven long years, a legal battle ensued between Forstater and the six Pythons, as detailed in Forstater's book The 7th Python: A Twat's Tale. (The book title is derived from the Pythons' description of Fortstater for suing them). Forstater eventually won his claim and was awarded a seventh share but as is often the case with protracted court cases, the only real winners were the lawyers.
For many, the original 45-year-old Holy Grail scenes are stored away in the synapses like precious jewels. Even the clip-clop sound of two coconuts being banged together triggers unbidden absurdist Python memories of the costumed knights, mimicking riding horses throughout the film, their squires trotting behind and clopping coconut halves together,
It was so ridiculous and inventive, it worked and was given its own ridiculous twist when King Arthur becomes reluctantly caught up in a lengthy discussion about the origins of the coconuts and how they might have made their way from the tropics (carried by swallows, we're told) to the dreary English Midlands.
For some of us that's how it is with Monty Python, those now-ageing weirdos (two now deceased) who created some of the most priceless comedy gems of a generation; skits and lines which live on and on.
Equally, it's the silly nuances within those gems that really make them shine over years of rich material.
It's a deadpan John Cleese in a plastic mac with his dead parrot; a cheery Eric Idle whistling the refrain to 'The Bright Side of Life' from atop a crucifix; Michael Palin as the cheesy, cross-dressing lumberjack; Graeme Chapman as the stuffy, pompous Arthur, King of the Britons; Terry Jones as Brian's dentally-challenged mother, Mandy, with "that" voice; and Terry Gilliam as the evil Cardinal Fang of the Spanish Inquisition, trying desperately not to burst out laughing.
And more, so much more.
It's all stored in a some strange mental repository where the nuances of wardrobe, facial expression, and the often-so-silly delivery combine to make it just right, and so very funny.
Rob Johnson, who plays seven different cameo parts in the Canberra production include the effeminate Prince Herbert (who didn't want to inherit his father's castle but instead pursue a singing career), completely understands why Pythonites would feel this way.
"I'm a huge Python fan but from an actor's perspective, Spamalot was never intended to be an homage. It would a complete mistake to try to deliver the lines the same way that John Cleese or Terry Jones did," he says.
"I think the best way to see this is as a tribute.
"There's actually an original thread which runs through this show that the film doesn't have and I think the audience will engage with that very quickly and will really enjoy it.
"This is a completely boiled-down version of the original stage show. It's very busy because there's only eight of us and half the fun is watching how the cast grapples with multiple roles and costume changes.
"We don't hide from that and it adds to the anarchy."
- Spamalot is showing at the Canberra Theatre, February 26-March 1. Bookings: canberratheatrecentre.com.au.