“I  demand an immediate apology!”

“Awwright, I apologize.”

“Well that’s more like it.”

Have there ever been any more meaningless words than those surrounding a call for an immediate apology? Not likely.

U.S. Rep. Joe Wilson (R-S.C.) heckled President Obama last week by blurting out, “You lie!” when Obama referred to non-coverage of illegal immigrants in regard to the new health reform he’s pushing. By any measure, the congressman was wrong: You don’t heckle the president. The address was the president’s time slot, not the congressman’s. Wilson was wrong.

Wilson had to have known the repercussions of his heckling. Others in the hall surely did, judging from the derisive sounds directed at him. Had the same thing happened, for example, when George W. Bush was speaking, an outburst by a Democratic member of Congress, the disapproval would be just as strong. The speech was Obama’s — not Wilson’s — opportunity to address the joint session and the American public. Wilson’s outburst was more like the highly choreographed Town Hall disruptions, which possess all the pomp and decorum of the Rush Limbaugh talk show shout-‘em-down policy.

But let’s move on — or as many a politician is wont to say— “Let’s move forward.” Wilson apologized to the White House the next day and Obama accepted. Yet, some members of the House of Representatives want Wilson to apologize to them as well. Or else they may push for a resolution of public disapproval.

In spite of the derision from members who heard Wilson’s “you lie!” during Obama’s address, Wilson has become some kind of folk hero. One supporter said of the lawmaker, “He’s the only one who has guts in that whole place. He’ll get re-elected in a landslide.” And donations to help him carry out his fight against the health care bill pour in.

But rather than speculate on his chances at re-election, let’s discuss the act of apologizing as an exercise in the use of empty words.

Let me explain:

“King Lear,” one of Shakespeare’s tragedies, features an aging king who summons his three daughters to the court, where he asks each one, in turn, to quantify the amount of love they have for him. The share of Lear’s kingdom is proportional to the amount of panegyrics each daughter can unveil. The daughter who declares her love in the showiest way wins the choicest part of the kingdom.

Lear starts with the oldest, Goneril, who b.s.-es him to the point of nausea (ours, as spectators, not the king’s). The second-oldest, Regan, declares herself an enemy of anything that fails to please her dad, insisting, of course, that her love for the king is even stronger than Goneril’s.

Lear then invites the youngest, Cordelia, to carve out for herself a good chunk of his kingdom by piling on the praise even higher. But she doesn’t do that. She replies that she indeed loves her father but refuses to engage in the hyperbole used by her sisters.

Her honesty costs her dearly, as she’s banished and eventually slain.

And all King Lear wanted was to hear his daughter utter words of love, however empty they may be. And that’s the essence of so many apologies today.

Consider, then, the typical demand for an apology, which in itself taints the process. The “offender,” about to utter the magic words, isn’t repentant or contrite. In fact, the apologizer generally has an excuse anyway: “I’m sorry I heckled you, but I feel strongly about immigration” or “I made a mistake, and besides, nobody’s perfect.”

So what’s the point of a demanded apology? If members of the house, mostly Democrats who’d like to see a Republican squirm, succeed in extracting an apology, what have they gained? What they’ve gained is merely the mouthing of words, a verbal going-through-the-motions, which in no way assures that it won’t happen again. Yet, those in a position to accept or reject the apology probably feel better once they’ve heard the words, regardless of Wilson’s motivations in speaking them. In their mind, they’ve made the apologist wince.

What’s the point of apologizing? Doesn’t a real apology carry the implicit mea culpa that means, “I won’t do that again”?

Meanwhile, tennis great Serena Williams appeared contrite in her apology for having lashed out at a lineswoman in a match Saturday after having a foot fault called against her. “I admit when I’m wrong,” said Williams, guilty of an obscenity-laced tirade that cost her $10,500 in fines.

Of course, the apology wasn’t immediate, and it was tempered by her saying, “Let’s move on.”

So we have an 80-year-old king, the father of three who simply liked to hear his daughters heap on the praise; a U.S. Representative whose apology is vacuous; and a tennis player who admits she’s wrong and wants to move on.

Apologies come in different dosages, and I’ll be the first to apologize when I believe it’s warranted. But a forced apology?” Sorry, but that just doesn’t make sense.

So what really is the use of apologizing under pressure?

Maybe it’s time for me to say, “I’m sorrrry for even having brought up this subject.”