Comedy
A roller coaster that does too much rolling and not enough coasting. Or maybe the other way around. Then, golf: the silent killer. 18 holes of terror. Blood on the fairway. The green runs red. Back 9 butchery. The--hang on . . . golf? Really? Ok, you’ll just have to trust us on this one. And finally, at long last, the podcast goes in the cage. Cage goes in the water. Podcast goes in the water. Shark’s in the water. Farewell and adieu to you, fair Spanish ladies, farewell and adieu, you ladies of Spain. For we've received orders for to sail back to Boston, and so nevermore shall we see you again. Bonus content: I should stress this is yet to be confirmed, but all indications are that Fontes died about halfway through recording the episode. At some point, when I’m not so busy, I’ll contact the authorities about doing some sort of welfare check. Until then, it’s best to assume his small, sad apartment is filling with the stench of a corpse in the early stages of decomposition, and as soon as everyone has taken time to grieve or whatever we’ll start auditioning for a replacement. Anyone with experience getting high and laughing at their own jokes should send headshots and a $20 application fee to the address on the website. P.S. On the off chance I’m wrong about the afterlife, it would be best for all parties if potential usurpers not be bothered by the prospect of vengeful hauntings, dark bedrooms suddenly filling with wheezing, disembodied stoner laughs, suspicious ectoplasm stains on and about your computer and other internet devices, coming home from work and finding your recently watched Netflix list clogged with Bill Engvall stand-up specials and documentaries about vegan molecular gastronomy, ghosts watching you sleep, spectral alfalfa farts, or any other inappropriate contact from beyond the grave.