This episode is the Burt Selleck crew at their most sprawling and chaotic — a two-hour conversational drunken walk that somehow stumbles from mocking Ian’s absence to a half-serious geopolitical “analysis” of Gaza, to the agricultural needs of famine-stricken Ethiopia, to belly-slapping leagues, clairvoyance-for-hire schemes, NFL player sexuality conspiracies, lesbian pitbull ownership statistics, racial breakdowns of the NHL, and whether bisexuality is just “bicerial” hand-holding.

The humor is crass, meandering, and often crosses into intentionally offensive absurdism — the Holocaust-as-typo bit, the Kid Rock statue fantasy, and the meticulous butt-douching history lesson are emblematic of their “say the wrong thing with a straight face” ethos. Structurally, there’s no arc: conversations die mid-sentence, resurface 40 minutes later, and mutate into new tangents with zero connective tissue. The through-line, if there is one, is the pleasure they take in derailing each other.

Standout moments: the “Mega Lesbian” Voltron joke, the clairvoyant holding ghost-secrets for ransom, and the AM/FM genital frequency theory. Also, Nick’s “dream minute” — which is less whimsical than it is disturbing — perfectly illustrates the podcast’s refusal to do anything “the normal way.”

Would I recommend it? Only to someone who enjoys comedy that’s equal parts barroom argument, shock humor, and surrealist improv, and who doesn’t mind hearing a dozen ideas abandoned halfway through for a dirtier one. For anyone else, it’s chaos without a map — but for the right listener, that’s the point.

This episode is what happens when you leave four unmedicated men with microphones and no agenda. The conversation, if you can call it that, veers from Alex’s famously thick liver to speculative skunk anatomy, TikTok’s “white shampoo” trend (spoiler: it’s not about hygiene), and a disturbingly vivid reenactment of a skunk attack. There’s a decent 20-minute stretch in the middle where the group fixates on building a soundboard of Ian lies—easily the most coherent concept in an otherwise wildly disjointed narrative.

Ian’s absence casts a sentimental, almost mythic shadow over the group. They speak of him like he’s dead or magical, possibly both. The episode also includes a deep dive into whether skunks have bleached buttholes and culminates in a proposed taxonomy of animals prioritized by gender identity during maritime disasters. Yes, really.

The comedy is anarchic, raw, occasionally inspired, and often gross. Some bits hit (like the chemical warfare comparison to skunk spray), while others spiral into repetitive, chaotic noise. The structure is nonexistent, but that’s the point.

Would I recommend it? Only to someone who already knows what they’re getting into. This isn’t entry-level Burt Selleck. It’s a long, incoherent hang with guys who think diarrhea is a valid punchline. If that’s your speed, this one’s a riot. If not, run.

Rating: 6.8/10 – Vile, meandering, and occasionally brilliant.

If you think structure matters, keep scrolling. This installment is a 95-minute free-association rocket that launches with Michigan’s oppressive heat and crash-lands on cryogenically-preserved genitals. The hosts — Alex, John, Nick, plus a drive-by from Ian — pinball between bodily ailments (an infected salivary gland becomes surprisingly fertile comedy), elaborate golden-shower hypotheticals, and a conspiracy theory in which suppressed vampire foot-fetishism somehow begat Jeffrey Epstein. There is no arc, only entropy.

What saves the chaos from total collapse is their knack for left-field riffs that feel both juvenile and oddly inventive. The “ejacuation” gag (skydiver must finish before hitting terminal velocity) is so proudly stupid it circles back to brilliance; the “rotten-mouth mime wielding inter-dimensional knives” bit is manic improv you can almost see storyboarded on a grease-stained Denny’s placemat. Occasional flashes of cultural commentary break through — AI-generated YouTube cadence, 9/11 media memories — but they’re quickly smothered by Sour Patch Kids and Dracula’s alleged bisexuality.

Do I recommend it? Only if you enjoy comedy that values shock over cohesion and don’t mind wading through a septic tank to find the occasional gold tooth. For listeners who crave polished storytelling or even basic segues, hard pass. For connoisseurs of unfiltered bar-banter absurdism, hit play and embrace the mess.