Pastel shit-talking centaurs discover the true meaning of friendship is dealing responsibly with your damage

I wish I had written this fucking show.

So my friend Alex decided to watch Centaurworld about a month ago, and wandered into a group chatroom we’re both in making such incoherent noises about it that I, too, decided I needed to watch it to Understand.

I love certain kinds of animation—the shows that manage to be nuanced and subtle and also extremely fun in their various ways, such as Gravity Falls (fine for kids as well as adults) and Bojack Horseman (definitely not a kid’s show.)

Well, Centaurworld is definitely kid-friendly, as long as your kid is the right age for a lot of bathroom humor. This show has more butt jokes than a 1960s cigarette commercial. It’s also an absolutely remarkable three-hour musical, when the ten existing episodes are taken together, that manages to interrogate the responsibilities of living with our own damage without passing it on to others, construct narratives by which people from different backgrounds can understand and bond with each other, and comment on how people who have been traumatized process that trauma in various ways.