In which your host reassesses his venture into the Balkans, describes (but does not perform) The Stupidest Song He Has Ever Written, casts a sneer at Francis Fukuyama and his prophesied End of History, ponders the internet hive mind and the ramifications thereof, and for the first time squeezes a proper meow from his cat on the show.
In which your totally doxxed host (Keith Petit of Omaha, Nebraska) reflects upon the strange kindness of unknown individuals he has entrusted with certain vital tasks in his life. Then he turns his thoughts toward Uruguay and Paraguay.
In which your host extends an olive branch to the Serbian(s) he offended with his (evidently trigger-worthy) podcast invitation.
In which your host recounts his gradual recovery from his butthurtness re: the criticisms re: his podcast which HAS ZERO LISTENERS and SCREENS ITS GUESTS and EVEN MAKES THEM FILL OUT A CHEEKY LITTLE FORM.
Devastated, your host abandons one of his greatest sources of potential future royalties.
In which your host commemorates the loss of his 2000/2001 Ford Explorer. She was red with some rust coloration, possessed of a starter that wouldn't start, a battery that wouldn't charge, and a security system that kept the vehicle secure by suddenly flipping the fuck out and ceding all power steering control to her pilot at 75 miles per hour.
In which your host, and Somebody's Father, plunge together into the darkening heart of the mystery that surrounds the outcome of Huskers Game 1.
This afternoon, I met the least knowledgeable person on earth.
In which your exhausted 35-year-old host squeezes his last ounce of corporate Luau Week zest into a twenty-minute Sunday night microrant that features a social cameo from Expatriate Act guest #2 Enam Amegbeto, a tribute to your host's anthropological mancrush, Dr. Robert Sapolsky, and concludes with a modest proposal for world peace through oafishness.
Dr. Robert Sapolsky: Human Behavioral Biology
In which your host ruminates on the vicissitudes of life, the steep social taxes imposed by (even relatively minor) mental illness, and the seemingly arbitrary temporal distribution of karmic fortune and misfortune when it comes to casual fornication. He also muses on the significance of the Morton Salt Company® logo and its equally mystifying slogan — "When it rains, it pours.™" — and how this relates to certain dry spells with regard to the endorphins and serotonin and dopamine produced by his own brain, the quality of his work life and sex life and life life, and the sudden profligacy of women who seem to be interested in him, for no reason known to him or, perhaps, even to the ladies in question. This episode is brought to you by the Morton Salt Company®, whose logo makes no fucking sense whatsoever, and whose sodium-rich story began in the (already probably very salty) streets of Chicago in 1848. When it rains, it pours.™
A late-night Wire-themed voicemail for Senator Ben Sasse (R-NE) in light of recent leaked tapes that more or less reveal top-down governmental corruption on the part of the party of morals and ethics and what not.
In which your host holds forth on sperm competition for an uncomfortable length of time, then turns things over to the gallery, who are primarily curious about the wo'ful state of the 2018 New York Yankees, Sen. Ben Sasse (R-NE), and either the little-known insult "toilet cat" or the toilet training of cats (as patented by jazz great Charles Mingus). Also included (per request): a midnight voicemail to Sen. Ben Sasse (R-NE).
*Also, the all-too-readily deployed term "shitty girls" refers to a specific number of bad dates, now past and forgotten about, and is not a disinvitation to those lasses who would like to sip tea of a Sunday and indeed discuss Virginia Woolf or whatever the fuck else comes to mind.