Host: Adam J., welcome to the pod.
Adam J.: Great to be here. Where’s my mommy?
H: She left, but said she’d come back.
A: Fuck. (Cries)
H: Can you use your words, bro?
A (wipes nose on sleeve): I’m good.
H: The thing is, do we actually need mommies?
A: Right. When you dive into the data and look at the studies—
H: Mommies are straight-up, like, literally—
A: Obsolete.
H: Exactly. Not for nothing, you look superstrong. Like, pick-up-your-little-sister-and-walk-a-few-steps strong.
A: It’s my new raw cran-apple pouch line.
H: I’ve been cran-apple juicing since I was two.
A: But that shit’s been double pasteurized. Mine retains all the healthy bacteria and pathogens so you build up natural immunity to girls. Try it.
H (sips, spills everywhere): Whoa. That’s fucking good.
A: All you need is that and twelve hours’ sleep.
H: Twelve? I’m lucky if I get, like, ten.
A: Ten’s the baseline. You need twelve to tap the real benefits: higher swinging velocity, roughhousing stamina, sharper cognitive processing for that thing in the pediatrician’s waiting room with those wires you slide beads along for no discernible purpose.
H: That’s including nap time?
A: I don’t do naps. Body’s way of surrendering.
H: No shit. So you’re awake, like, all day?
A: I’ll do intermittent micro-meditation sessions. Full focus. If someone asks me to put on my shoes or something—even if they say my name five or six times—I just don’t hear them.
H: But to look like that, you must play like crazy, too.
A: I’m a jungle-gym rat, for sure.
H: Any cardio?
A: Tag, a couple times a week.
H: For how long?
A: Until Miss Jean calls us in. But it’s not nearly as important as max-effort monkey-bar intervals.
H: As long as you do it with correct form.
A: Oh, absolutely. I see these young guys, the pre-K crew, jerking around, cheating to reach the next bar—
H: Only they’re really just cheating themselves.
A: There’s no substitute for the grind. Just accepting that your shoulders are gonna be sore as fuck tomorrow.
H: It’s like potty training.
A: Yup. Like, no one wants to get out of diapers.
H: They’re comfortable. You don’t have to move. Someone else cleans up the mess.
A: But one day you realize, Holy shit! Diapers are a symbol of the infantilization of modern society.
H: Totally.
A: You ever fuck with Spock?
H: I’ll fuck with early Spock.
A: Spock’s low-key the GOAT on voiding theory.
H: Explain it like I’m four.
A: He’s, like, if you force a kid to go potty, that’s basically fascism.
H: Except—and I know I’m gonna get cancelled from the playgroup for this, but fuck it—this generation is so coddled.
A: No hustle mind-set.
H: How do you do money? You saving for a bag of jelly beans, private middle school, what?
A: Every cent I get—tooth-fairy singles, sidewalk pennies, lemonade-stand revenues—goes into a broken coffee mug that my daddy puts on a high bookshelf.
H: And you’re, what, three-nine?
A: Three-nine and a half.
H: Bro. Bro. Built-in friction point—you’re playing 4-D tic-tac-toe.
A: After a year, you’ll 10x your net worth. I’m talking two figures.
H: I could go deep on this forever, but my nanny-slash-producer’s telling me you have a hard out in five.
A: Bullshit sit-down with the suits. Then swim class.
H: You still in floaties?
A: Hell, yeah. ’Cause they actually help you learn the strokes better.
H (pauses): We done here?
A: I think so. Plus I have to peepee.
H: All that raw cran-apple.
A: Hundred per cent.
H: Love you, bro.
A: Love you.
(They hug too tightly and fall over.) ♦
