A Comedy Podcast Show About Larry’s Hilarious Moving Day Disaster

Larry believed in the sacred American fantasy that a move can be completed in one day if you start early, label the boxes, and maintain a good attitude.

By 9:17 a.m., he had lost the labels, insulted a couch, apologized to a ficus, and discovered that “good attitude” is just panic wearing khaki shorts.

That is why Larry’s moving day disaster belongs on a comedy podcast. Not just any comedy podcast, either. It has the bones of a great funny stories podcast: optimism, poor planning, a friend named Todd who owns one bungee cord and too much confidence, a suspiciously damp mattress, an elevator with a personal grudge, and the kind of final twist that makes listeners laugh because they have either lived it or narrowly escaped it.

The best comedy podcasts do not need billion-dollar premises. They need a person trying to do a normal thing while the universe keeps hitting them with a rolled-up newspaper. Moving day is perfect for that. It combines physical exhaustion, fragile objects, old emotional baggage, new financial regret, and at least one relative saying, “You should’ve rented the bigger truck,” after it is too late to rent the bigger truck.

Larry did not set out to become the lead character in a comedy storytelling podcast. He set out to move from a second-floor apartment into a “charming” townhouse six miles away. The listing said charming because “the stairwell has the dimensions of a submarine hatch” would have hurt the open house turnout. He had four friends lined up, a truck reserved, and a breakfast plan involving twelve bagels. On paper, he looked prepared.

On moving day, paper became kindling.

Why moving day is comedy with cardboard corners

A moving day story works because everyone recognizes the emotional arc before the first box tears open. It begins with delusion. Then comes bargaining. Then the sound of a bookshelf scraping a wall that your landlord has personally inspected with the intensity of a crime scene investigator.

There is no dignified way to carry a mattress. This is one of life’s laws, like gravity or the way a printer senses urgency. A mattress turns adults into confused beetles. It bends in ways that suggest it has bones. It blocks vision, traps elbows, and convinces otherwise sensible people to shout directions such as “Tilt it more spiritually!”

That is why real life stories podcast audiences love moving day disasters. They are practical nightmares with emotional punchlines. A listener can picture the scene immediately: the cardboard dust, the borrowed dolly with one wheel that flaps like a shopping cart at midnight, the friend who says “pivot” one time too many and almost gets abandoned in a stairwell.

Larry’s story had all of that, plus the bonus ingredient every funny podcast about real life stories needs: a hero who keeps making confident declarations five seconds before being proven wrong.

At 7:00 a.m., Larry announced, “We’ll be done by lunch.”

By lunch, he was eating half a plain bagel off the hood of a rental truck while wearing one shoe.

The cast: Larry, the helpers, and the truck that smelled like old soup

Every strong comedy podcast show needs a cast the audience can track without a spreadsheet. Larry had assembled a moving crew that looked helpful from a distance, which is how most trouble begins.

There was Todd, the enthusiastic friend who had once watched a video about proper lifting technique and now considered himself a logistics professional. Todd arrived wearing fingerless gloves, cargo shorts, and the expression of a man ready to supervise other people’s effort.

There was Melissa, Larry’s sister, who had agreed to help only because Larry had once picked her up from the airport during a snowstorm and she believed in emotional bookkeeping. She brought coffee, trash bags, and the cold honesty of a courtroom stenographer.

There was Dev, Larry’s coworker, who showed up because Larry promised pizza and because Dev’s gym membership had lapsed. Dev was strong, but he had the spatial reasoning of a golden retriever. If a doorway was too narrow, Dev’s solution was to push harder and look betrayed.

Finally, there was Larry’s neighbor, Mr. Garza, a retired postal worker who had not officially volunteered. He simply appeared in the hallway holding a mug and began giving commentary. By 8:00 a.m., he had become the Greek chorus of the operation.

“Should’ve taken the legs off that table,” Mr. Garza said.

“The legs do come off?” Larry asked.

“They do now,” Mr. Garza replied, as a cracking noise answered from inside the apartment.

The rental truck sat at the curb like a warning. It was sixteen feet long, or at least that is what the rental office claimed. Larry had picked it because the website said it could handle “one to two bedrooms.” That phrase has caused more suffering than any horror movie villain. One to two bedrooms could mean a minimalist’s loft or the collected possessions of a man who owns three broken humidifiers because “one of them probably just needs a filter.”

The truck smelled faintly of onions, wet carpet, and someone else’s bad decisions. On the dashboard, a handwritten sticker said, “Please return clean.” This felt less like a policy and more like a threat.

The first mistake: believing boxes are all the same shape

Packing reveals character. Larry’s character, it turned out, was “later.”

He had packed most of the apartment the night before, which means he had thrown unrelated objects into boxes while mumbling, “I’ll sort it out when I get there.” That is how a box labeled “Kitchen” came to contain spatulas, extension cords, tax documents, a shower curtain, and one loose avocado.

The trouble with moving day is that yesterday’s laziness becomes today’s weight training. Larry had bought medium boxes because the large ones seemed expensive. Then he filled the medium boxes with books, tools, canned goods, and what appeared to be a small anvil, although he insisted it was a decorative doorstop.

Melissa picked up one box, lowered it immediately, and stared at him.

“What is in here?”

“Office stuff.”

“Your office is made of bricks?”

Todd stepped in with the authority of a man whose advice had never been requested enough to develop quality control. “You gotta lift with your legs.”

Melissa looked at him. “You lift it with your legs.”

Todd bent down, made a noise like a haunted accordion, and stood back up without the box.

“Needs two people,” he said.

That moment would land beautifully in a stand up comedy podcast because it has the rhythm of a stage bit. A confident setup, a physical attempt, a betrayal by the spine, and a recovery line that fools no one. In audio, you would want the host to pause right after Todd abandons the box, letting the audience fill the room with their own memory of a friend who talks like a foreman and lifts like a Victorian ghost.

The elevator joins the plot

Larry’s old apartment building had an elevator, but calling it an elevator required generosity. It was more of a vertical closet with buttons. It made a metallic sigh when the doors opened, as if each trip interrupted its private grief.

The plan was simple: load boxes into the elevator, ride down, roll them to the truck. The reality was that the elevator held approximately three boxes, one adult, and a growing sense of doom. It also had a habit of stopping at the first floor, opening its doors, and revealing nobody, as though it enjoyed suspense.

At 8:42 a.m., the elevator refused to close because Dev’s sneaker was blocking the sensor. Dev insisted it was not.

“Move your foot,” Melissa said.

“My foot isn’t in the way.”

“The door is kissing your shoe.”

“It should go around.”

“It’s an elevator, Dev, not a Roomba.”

Mr. Garza watched from the hall, sipping coffee like he had purchased a ticket.

Then came the couch.

Every moving disaster has a boss level. Larry’s was a gray sectional he had bought during a “limited weekend sale” four years earlier. He loved that couch. More accurately, he loved the idea of being a person who owned a sectional. It had cup holders, reclining ends, and the dense, immovable confidence of municipal infrastructure.

The couch had entered the apartment somehow, but nobody remembered how. This is common. Furniture seems to arrive in homes through portals that close permanently after delivery. The movers who bring it in are not men. They are furniture wizards with forearms like bridge cables and no fear of drywall.

Larry’s crew studied the sectional with the seriousness of surgeons, except surgeons usually understand anatomy.

Todd proposed taking it apart. Dev proposed “angling it.” Melissa proposed selling it to the next tenant for twelve dollars and a prayer. Larry insisted it could fit in the elevator.

It could not fit in the elevator.

That did not stop them from trying for twenty-two minutes.

This is where a comedy podcast can turn chaos into music. The host can layer the voices: Todd shouting “rotate,” Melissa asking “toward what,” Dev grunting like he is wrestling a bear in a tuxedo, Larry saying “careful with the wall” precisely as the wall receives a fresh couch-shaped scar. The funniest podcasts understand that repetition becomes hilarious when the stakes get more ridiculous each time. The couch does not move, but everyone’s commitment to being wrong deepens.

At one point, the elevator doors closed gently on the sectional, reopened, and dinged. It sounded proud of itself.

The stairwell solution, also known as grief in installments

When the elevator rejected the couch, the stairwell became the only option. The stairwell had two landings, a turn tight enough to humble a yoga instructor, and a handrail positioned exactly where the couch needed to be.

Larry stood at the top with one end. Dev took the lower end. Todd positioned himself in the middle, which meant he was mostly in the way but with confidence. Melissa carried the cushions separately and used them as emotional support.

For anyone producing a funny true story podcast for adults, this section would need careful pacing. Too fast, and the audience misses the pain. Too slow, and it becomes a hostage tape. The trick is to treat the couch like a stubborn animal. It advances six inches, retreats four, bites a wall, rests, and then pretends it never agreed to leave.

Halfway down the first flight, Dev lost his grip just enough to create panic but not enough to qualify for insurance. Larry shouted, “I’ve got it!” in the voice of a man who did not have it. Todd wedged his shoulder under the couch and immediately regretted having shoulders.

From below, Mr. Garza called out, “You boys want me to get my saw?”

Nobody answered, which was wise. There are sentences you do not dignify during a crisis.

The couch finally reached the lobby after forty minutes and two minor wall injuries. Larry looked at it with triumph. The crew looked at it with hatred. The couch looked exactly the same, because couches do not feel shame.

Then they discovered the truck ramp was wet.

Rain: the unpaid guest star

Rain had not been in the forecast in any meaningful way. The weather app said there was a 20 percent chance, which most people interpret as “not my 20 percent.” By midmorning, a thin, needling rain had started, the kind that makes cardboard lose its will to live.

The boxes on the sidewalk softened. One sagged open and released a clatter of forks, a bottle of hot sauce, and Larry’s passport. Melissa picked it up.

“Why is your passport in kitchen?”

Larry wiped rain off his forehead. “International cuisine.”

That joke deserved more appreciation than it received, but moving crews are cruel audiences.

The rain raised the stakes from annoying to cinematic. Every trip into the truck became a small slapstick ballet. Shoes squeaked on the ramp. Boxes threatened mutiny. The damp mattress took on the smell of a motel carpet after a jazz festival.

Larry had not wrapped the mattress because the mattress bag at the store cost thirteen dollars and he had thought, “How dirty can the world be between my apartment and the truck?” This is the kind of question that invites the world to answer in detail.

If you have ever listened to the best funny podcasts built around hilarious true stories from real life, you know the mattress moment is gold. A mattress is intimate cargo. It is not like dropping a box of old cables. When a mattress flops onto wet pavement, the whole group goes silent because everyone understands something has been lost, even if no one wants to name it.

Dev tried to help by saying, “We can flip it.”

Melissa said, “It is wet on both sides.”

Dev nodded. “Then it’s balanced.”

The neighbor with the clipboard that nobody asked for

Somewhere around noon, the building manager appeared. His name was Glenn, and he carried a clipboard, because certain people cannot process authority unless it has a metal clip attached.

Glenn informed Larry that moving was supposed to be completed through the rear service entrance. Larry explained that the rear service entrance was blocked by a delivery van. Glenn explained that rules were rules. Melissa asked whether the rules had helped move the couch. Glenn pretended not to hear her, a survival technique he had clearly practiced.

This is the beautiful thing about a comedy podcast about crazy true stories: the antagonist does not have to be evil. Glenn was not evil. Glenn was a man with a laminated policy sheet and a passion for inconvenience. He represented the small bureaucracies that bloom during stress. There is always a Glenn. At a wedding, at an airport gate, at a condo association meeting, at the exact moment you are carrying a dresser and your fingers have become theoretical.

Larry tried diplomacy. “We’ll be out soon.”

Glenn looked at the half-loaded truck, the couch angled like a beached whale, the mattress darkening in the rain, and Todd eating a bagel with both hands.

“How soon?”

Larry chose optimism again, the same way a moth chooses flame.

“Thirty minutes.”

Melissa closed her eyes.

Pizza, betrayal, and the economics of volunteer labor

The move was not done in thirty minutes. It was not done in two hours. By 2:00 p.m., Larry’s volunteer crew had reached the stage where every object felt insulting. Lamps were personal attacks. Hangers had become snakes. A box of cleaning supplies split open and rolled across the sidewalk, releasing sponges and shame.

Larry ordered pizza as promised. The delivery driver arrived before the last load left the apartment, which meant the crew had to eat in the truck. This sounds festive until you remember the truck smelled like onions and wet carpet. The pizza box sat on a stack of Larry’s framed prints. Grease soaked into a poster from a music festival he had described for years as “actually worth something.”

Todd ate three slices and announced that he might have to leave early because his cousin needed help assembling a crib.

Melissa stared at him. “You have a moving-day cousin?”

“It’s family.”

“Larry is family-adjacent.”

Dev said nothing because he was chewing and had learned that speech creates responsibility.

Volunteer movers operate under delicate economics. Payment is pizza, beer, gratitude, and the right to complain forever. If a friend helps you move a sleeper sofa, they own part of your future. They can call you at 11:00 p.m. In February and ask for a ride to pick up a used treadmill, and morally, you have to answer.

This makes moving stories excellent material for comedians podcast conversations. They expose the strange contracts inside friendship. People will attend your wedding, visit you in the hospital, and help you bury emotional secrets. But ask them to move a bookcase from a third-floor walk-up, and suddenly they have “a thing.”

Larry had underestimated the labor. He had also underestimated how much stuff he owned. Everyone does. Homes hide possessions the way casinos hide clocks. You open a closet and find three tennis rackets, although you have never played tennis without apologizing to the ball. You discover chargers for devices that would now be considered archaeological. You own fourteen mugs, and only two of them are not ugly.

By midafternoon, Larry began making brutal decisions. A lamp went to the curb. A cracked storage bin was abandoned. A stack of magazines from 2016 received a farewell nod. Moving turns sentimental adults into battlefield commanders. The question stops being “Do I love this?” and becomes “Would I carry this while damp and furious?”

The new place has stairs because comedy believes in callbacks

At 3:35 p.m., the truck finally left the old apartment. Larry drove slowly because the mirrors terrified him and because Todd had tied the couch with the lone bungee cord in a way that suggested optimism rather than engineering.

The new townhouse waited six miles away, charming as advertised, which meant the front door opened into a narrow entryway and immediately accused the furniture of being too large.

There were stairs.

Larry had mentioned stairs, but he had done so casually, the way restaurants mention “market price.” The crew reacted as if he had hidden a second move inside the first move.

Melissa stood in the doorway. “How many stairs?”

“Just one flight.”

“One flight inside, or one flight spiritually?”

“It’s not bad.”

Nothing good follows “it’s not bad.” This phrase has preceded food poisoning, doomed camping trips, and every apartment with “quirky” plumbing.

The first boxes went in easily enough, mostly because everyone had stopped caring where they landed. Kitchen boxes entered the bedroom. Bathroom items went to the living room. A box labeled “Important” disappeared immediately and would not be found for three weeks. That is not a joke. That is moving physics.

Then came the couch again.

The townhouse stairwell did not accept the couch any more warmly than the old building had. In fact, it seemed offended by the suggestion. Larry, Dev, and Todd tried three angles. Melissa watched with the serene expression of someone letting men learn through consequences.

https://soundcloud.com/true-tales-with-larry

At one point, the couch became wedged halfway up the stairs, blocking both floors. Larry was above it. Dev was below it. Todd had gone outside to “check the clearance,” which fooled nobody because clearance was not located near the pizza.

Larry’s phone rang in his pocket. He could not reach it. It rang again. Then Melissa answered on speaker from below. It was Glenn, the building manager from the old apartment, calling to say Larry had left a box in the lobby.

“What box?” Larry shouted through the couch.

“It says bathroom,” Glenn said.

Melissa looked at the pile around her. “We have six bathroom boxes.”

Larry groaned.

Glenn added, “It’s leaking.”

That, right there, is the kind of escalation that separates ordinary funny life stories from hilarious stories people retell for years. The plot refuses to end. The old location sends a final curse. A leaking bathroom box, abandoned under bureaucratic supervision, while the hero is pinned behind his own sectional in a townhouse stairwell.

A comedy podcast host would not need to embellish. The truth is already wearing tap shoes.

How the episode should sound

A strong episode about Larry’s moving day disaster should not be a loose rant, even if the story itself feels like a loose rant with furniture. The craft matters. The best comedy storytelling podcasts to listen to often sound casual, but underneath the banter there is architecture. The host knows where the laugh points sit, when to pause, when to let a guest interrupt, and when to stop describing the box and get to the raccoon.

There was no raccoon in Larry’s move, thankfully, though Todd did accuse a wet throw pillow of “moving.”

For a funny real life storytelling podcast, Larry’s episode would work best as a three-act spiral. The first act sells his confidence and introduces the crew. The second act traps everyone in the mechanics of the move: elevator, couch, rain, Glenn, pizza. The third act delivers the cruel symmetry of the new stairs and the leaking box left behind.

A few production choices would make the episode sing:

1. Open with Larry trapped behind the couch at the new place, then jump back to the confident 7:00 a.m. Prediction.
2. Give each helper a distinct audio identity, especially Todd’s misplaced expertise and Melissa’s surgical commentary.
3. Use short sound cues sparingly, such as an elevator ding or rain on cardboard, without turning the episode into a cartoon.
4. Let the pauses breathe after the biggest failures, because listener imagination is cheaper than sound design and usually funnier.
5. End with a callback to the first boast, preferably Larry admitting they finished by lunch, just not the same lunch he meant.

That structure keeps the story tight without sanding off the messy humanity. Comedy needs surprise, but storytelling needs direction. If the host lets every side detail wander loose, the episode becomes a garage sale with microphones. If the host over-edits, it loses the charm of people remembering disaster in real time.

The sweet spot is controlled chaos, which is also the only acceptable phrase for Larry’s truck.

Why true moving disasters beat invented bits

There is a reason funny true stories that actually happened often land harder than polished fiction. Real incidents have odd details no writer would invent because they seem too specific, too dumb, or too inconvenient. A passport in a kitchen box. A building manager named Glenn with a clipboard. A mattress wet on both sides, “balanced,” according to Dev. These details make the audience trust the story.

That trust matters in any true stories podcast. When listeners believe the speaker, they relax into the absurdity. They stop evaluating the premise and start anticipating the next failure. The comedy becomes communal. People laugh not only at Larry, but with the part of themselves that has also made a bad plan and defended it too long.

The best podcasts about funny true stories understand that embarrassment is not enough. The storyteller needs tenderness toward the people involved. Larry cannot be presented as an idiot for ninety minutes. He has to be a recognizable person under pressure: hopeful, cheap in the wrong places, proud of his couch, loyal to his friends, too optimistic about time. Todd cannot just be useless. He must be useless in a specific, loving way. Melissa cannot only roast everyone. She must also be the one who remembers trash bags and keeps the day from collapsing into municipal rubble.

That balance turns mockery into comedy. It lets listeners enjoy the disaster without feeling like they are watching someone drown in packing tape.

The adult comedy hiding inside the disaster

A funny true story podcast for adults does not need to be filthy to feel grown-up. Adult comedy often comes from recognition: deposits, leases, truck rental deadlines, aging backs, the quiet horror of realizing you cannot lift what you bought when you were younger and more reckless.

Larry’s disaster is funny because it touches adult fears in miniature. What if I have too much stuff? What if my friends resent me? What if I cannot afford professional movers, but I also cannot afford the emotional cost of not hiring them? What if the new place, the symbol of progress, immediately rejects my couch?

There is also the strange grief of moving. Even a happy move contains loss. You pack a life into boxes and discover the inventory is both touching and ridiculous. Old birthday cards. Batteries with uncertain charge. A chipped mug from a job you hated but somehow miss. A receipt in a coat pocket from a night you had forgotten. Then someone drops your laundry basket and your socks roll into a gutter, and the universe reminds you not to get too poetic.

Comedy handles that whiplash well. It lets the story admit that moving is stressful, expensive, and emotionally weird, while still honoring the fact that Todd got trapped in a duvet cover for several seconds and emerged saying, “I think this room has bad airflow.”

That is why a podcast about hilarious real life experiences can build such loyal audiences. People do not only want jokes. They want proof that their private chaos has cousins.

Where Larry’s episode fits among funny podcasts

The podcast landscape is crowded, and comedy podcasts come in many shapes. Some lean on celebrity interviews. Some riff on headlines. Some resemble a stand up comedy podcast, with hosts testing premises and sharpening bits. Others succeed as a storytelling podcast, where the pleasure comes from a tale well told and interrupted at the right moments.

Larry’s moving day disaster belongs to the lane of comedy podcast shows that treat ordinary life as a crime scene for laughter. It would sit comfortably beside episodes about disastrous vacations, nightmare roommates, family weddings, customer service meltdowns, and medical appointments where dignity goes to die wearing a paper gown.

Listeners searching for the best comedy podcast with funny true stories are often not looking for perfection. They are looking for company. They want hosts who sound like quick friends at a late dinner, the kind of people who can turn a bad afternoon into a story worth keeping. The funniest podcasts in this genre know how to make room for guests to be human before they become punchlines.

Larry’s story also has replay value. Not every funny story does. Some rely on one shocking reveal. Once heard, they deflate. Moving day disasters stay funny because the details stack. On a second listen, a listener catches the early warning signs: the too-small truck, the unwrapped mattress, Todd’s single bungee cord, Larry’s doomed “done by lunch” prophecy. The pleasure becomes watching the trap build itself from cardboard and pride.

What listeners take away besides sore abs

A comedy podcast does not have to teach a lesson, and honestly, listeners can smell a lesson coming the way dogs smell thunderstorms. Still, the best funny podcasts often leave behind a few practical truths, even if they arrive wearing clown shoes.

Larry’s moving day offers advice, though none of it is glamorous. Rent the bigger truck if the price difference is reasonable. Wrap the mattress. Label boxes based on where they should go, not where they came from. Do not fill a medium box with books unless you are trying to identify which friend has secret resentment. Measure the couch before promising it a future.

More than that, be honest about help. If you can afford movers for the heavy pieces, hire them. Professional movers are not just strong. They know angles. They own straps that were not purchased impulsively at a gas station. They have seen your exact couch before and defeated its relatives.

For everyone else, the volunteer move can work, but it needs humility. Feed people early. Keep water nearby. Accept that a friend who shows up for four hours has given you a gift, even if he spends twenty minutes of that gift explaining the difference between rope and cord. Especially if he is Todd, because Todd cannot help being Todd. He was assembled from confidence and snack breaks.

Here is the smallest useful moving-day checklist Larry would now endorse, preferably from a seated position:

1. Measure large furniture and both stairwells before the truck arrives.
2. Pack heavy items in small boxes and light items in large ones.
3. Buy mattress bags, tape, and more trash bags than seems sane.
4. Reserve elevators or loading areas in writing when buildings require it.
5. Add at least two hours to your best time estimate, then stop bragging.

That is not a glamorous list, but glamour left the building when the passport fell out of the kitchen box.

The ending: a couch, a leak, and a man reconsidering minimalism

Larry’s move ended at 8:10 p.m., depending on how one defines ended. The truck was empty. The townhouse was full. The couch was in the living room, though not where Larry wanted it. After several failed attempts to move it against the far wall, everyone agreed it looked “fine” in the middle of the room, a word that here means “we are no longer discussing this without legal representation.”

The leaking bathroom box turned out to contain a cracked bottle of mouthwash, two damp towels, a plunger, and Larry’s electric toothbrush charger. Glenn had placed it in a plastic tub and left a note that said, “Please retrieve promptly.” Melissa picked it up from the old lobby while Larry returned the truck. She sent him a photo of the note with the message, “Your legacy.”

The rental office charged Larry a cleaning fee because of the wet cardboard bits in the truck. Todd texted the next morning to ask if anyone had seen his fingerless gloves. Dev reported that his arms were “making dial-up noises.” Mr. Garza, according to a later update, told three neighbors that Larry had tried to move “a hotel couch” by elevator.

Two weeks later, Larry admitted he loved the new place. The couch fit the room better than expected. The damp mattress survived after aggressive airing, baking soda, and a level of denial available only to renters and parents of toddlers. Most of the boxes were unpacked, except for three labeled “Misc,” which is where possessions go to become folklore.

The story improved with each retelling, as good real disasters do. Not because Larry lied, but because memory learned where the laughs were. The elevator ding grew more judgmental. Glenn’s clipboard became shinier. Todd’s bungee cord became more heroic and less useful. Melissa’s lines got tighter. Dev’s “then it’s balanced” became the phrase friends used for anything obviously ruined.

That is the mark of one of the best comedy storytelling podcasts to listen to: after the episode, listeners steal the language. They start calling their own problems balanced. They describe a doomed plan as “done by lunch.” They see a couch in a stairwell and whisper, “Larry.”

A moving day disaster is never just about moving. It is about the stories that cling to us after the tape comes off and the bruises fade. Larry lost a deposit fee, a little dignity, and possibly the original freshness of his mattress. In exchange, he gained a hilarious true story from real life, the kind that deserves microphones, a generous edit, and an audience that has also stood in a doorway wondering if a couch can feel spite.

For a comedy podcast, that is not a bad trade. It is practically a gift wrapped in wet cardboard.