This episode is an accidental triumph of chaos, built on derailed intentions and the unintentional arrival of a co-host who was allegedly not supposed to be there. The cast tries to re-create a lost episode, but what they actually produce is something arguably better: a meandering, overstuffed, strangely compelling hour that veers from Container Store conspiracies to spider whispering, to debating whether eating one's own feces makes a dog irredeemably stupid.

Skippy Rose returns and contributes real narrative weight—relatable stories about childbirth, teaching in China, and Uber flirtations via Google Translate—grounding the male insanity with bursts of vulnerable, whip-smart humor. Meanwhile, the usual crew (Alex, John, Nick) descend into a kind of absurdist stand-up free-for-all, with side quests into Great Wall of China myths, DIY crow militias, and hypothetical spider-based superhero identities.

Despite no structure and the usual ADHD editing approach, the episode works. Why? Because it’s funny. Not polished, not purposeful, but genuinely laugh-out-loud funny. There’s even a 9/11 romantic backstory that somehow doesn’t feel offensive—a true feat of tonal balance or maybe just the listener becoming numb to their antics.

Would I recommend this episode?

Yes—though not to your mom. This one’s for listeners who like their comedy unfiltered, unhinged, and occasionally brilliant in spite of itself.

Rating: 8/10 – “Container Coffin of Gold.”

This episode of The Burt Selleck Podcast is an exhausting exercise in chaos, confrontation, and cum metaphysics, clocking in as one of the more unhinged entries in the show’s already lawless archive. There’s a football postmortem up top—half-hearted analysis sandwiched between dick jokes and mutual invalidation—before the show veers completely off-road. What follows is 90 minutes of libertarian-baiting, robot child bodies, Ed Gein home decor critiques, and an extended conversation about ejaculatory velocity that is somehow both vivid and deeply clinical.

Nick attempts to introduce a moment of genuine emotional vulnerability after watching a traumatic video, but is quickly shouted down by his co-hosts who prefer their friendship transactional and legally binding. The “only fans, no friends” bit becomes the philosophical backbone of the episode—a bleak yet hilarious commentary on parasocial relationships, creative burnout, and the commodification of camaraderie. Alex’s riffs are as sharp as ever, and John’s deadpan legalese continues to be a quietly devastating weapon.

The back third devolves into a slurry of neighborhood disputes, bowel movements, and bad dietary choices—all topped with a finale that feels like a group of children high on sugar trying to land a plane. And somehow, it works.

Recommend? Yes, but only to the initiated. This is not a starter episode. It’s messy, manic, occasionally brilliant—and deeply Burt Selleck.

“HVAC Mercenaries” is the kind of episode that starts with a middle finger to structure and then spends two full hours proving why structure might actually be a good idea. Nick opens with the dramatic claim that he won’t speak unless the others mention something he cares about—then proceeds to talk almost non-stop, which is as close as this podcast gets to narrative irony.

What follows is a relentless, stream-of-consciousness marathon where topics range from UFO audiobooks, different Bible versions, and mercenary HVAC technicians, to graveyard sex and cum-stained Zap Zone shirts. It's like four smart, funny guys got stuck in a time loop and decided to spend it all riffing. Hitchens, the Jefferson Bible, Tool vs. System of a Down, and South Park’s production schedule all make appearances—often in the same ten-minute stretch.

The highlight, if you can call it that, is a surprisingly earnest (and deranged) philosophical tangent about aliens as time travelers or ghosts, quickly derailed by a bit on pooping cocaine and ASMR gay porn bait-and-switch videos.

Would I recommend this episode to a friend? Honestly, only the brave ones. It’s hilarious in places, insane in others, and mostly for those who enjoy a podcast that feels like being trapped in a car with three comedians during a coke-fueled road trip through nihilism. There's brilliance here, but you have to sift through a lot of beard dandruff and cum metaphors to find it.

This episode of The Burt Selleck Podcast is a chaotic, rambling triumph of nonsense that somehow becomes weirdly endearing the longer you stay with it. From the opening argument about music intros and podcast rankings to the absurd speculation about podcast playoff structures, the show luxuriates in its own lack of direction. It’s like being trapped in a dorm room with three comedians who drank too much coffee and forgot they were recording.

The tone swerves between earnestness and outright stupidity—one moment, they’re debating pirate justice and praying mantis parasites; the next, they’re fantasizing about interviewing Obama or running the perfect podcast football playbook. Ian, notably absent, becomes both a scapegoat and a saint, repeatedly mocked and mourned.

Highlights include the sustained pirate tangent (complete with historically accurate keel-hauling trivia), the unhinged Kanye rant, and a surprisingly heartfelt discussion about fatherhood and college-age children—proving that even the most chaotic bros have soft spots.

Would I recommend this episode? Yes, but only to those who can stomach two hours of derailed conversation punctuated by moments of sharp humor and bizarre insight. It’s not for everyone, but it is definitively, unapologetically them.

This episode of The Burt Selleck Podcast might be the most unhinged, hilariously self-indulgent display of chaotic male friendship since the invention of microphones. Clocking in at over an hour, “Armpit Thunder” is a genre-defying whirlwind of petty grievances, diss tracks, AI music production, and philosophical debates about Komodo dragons and superhero lore—all filtered through the lens of four Detroit comedians who refuse to take anything seriously, including each other.

At its molten core is Alex's wounded ego over ignored group texts and stolen jokes—a deeply stupid, deeply relatable emotional thread that spirals into absurd rap beefs involving Nick's alter ego “Talented Brando.” The AI-generated funk tracks born from prompts like “the smell of an armpit, a baby, and sunshine” are inexplicably catchy and earnestly debated, while the spontaneous diss track aimed at Nick is both brutal and poetic. (“Fingers like ballerinas, but the punch don’t show” is pure gold.)

Ian’s sporadic phone-in as the voice of semi-reason is a welcome reprieve from the madness, and the closing discussion about sardines, tuna, and fermented Swedish fish somehow ties everything together with a whiff of decay and dignity.

Would I recommend it?

Absolutely—to anyone craving podcasting at its most raw, unscripted, and dumb in the best way. Not for the easily offended or those requiring structure, but for the rest of us: it’s chaos therapy.

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.