How do you pass up the opportunity to spit blood and Joan Baez's face?

I've read Mark Twain. I've read Huckleberry Finn. I think I earned the right to go out the internet and see a guy get a chainsaw on the face. Dude, my dad was drunk and my mom was dealing with it. Guess what? I get raised by cookie monster.

My con looks like it's been in a hockey flight. Time is stupidity. It's at the speed of goddamn light.

I got a bunch of the clocks.

Hey, what's happened to Mike Schmidt, 40-year-old boy podcast?

Folks, I've got to warn you.

But I'm going to tell you here at the jump, so I don't acknowledge it later.

You know, I told you earlier.

I always reflect back on this moment, folks. If later on we're an hour into the show and you think, why isn't Mike talking about

that fucking thing?

Well, reflect back now to the first 20 seconds when I told you that this thing was going to happen

because I'm nothing if not a podcasting Nostradamus.

I'm podcasterdamas.

That's who I'm going to call myself.

It's way too early for that to be the name of the show, but goddamn do I want that to be the name of the show. You know what, fuck it. I'm going to write it down anyway just

because Podcasterdamas. Podcastrodomis. I have no idea how to spell it, but I'm writing it down

on a piece of paper. This shows off to a riproar and fucking start. I stop in the middle of it, take some fucking notes like my own goddamn secretary. I need to start wearing short skirts.

If that's the case, I got to sexually harass myself. I got to slide a hand up my skirt and jerk

myself off. That'll be fucking make things exciting for this goddamn show.

Uh, Podcaster Domas. Boy, how is there not a fucking podcast right now called podcast or Domus of a guy doing bad fucking quatrains and predictions, right?

That's got to be out there.

If not, I've coined it.

...