From the Jill Schwartz Memorial Library here in the wilds of Connecticut, this is obscure season four in American tragedy.

I am your host, your friend, you are your lover, and literary. Manspliner,

in chief, Michael Ian Black, coming at you. And feeling, well, I was complaining to Martha

earlier today that I've been feeling a tad overworked and put upon these last couple of weeks,

despite the fact that when I compare, say, my daily

work schedule to essentially anybody else's, it is laxadaisical at best. I do hardly anything,

and yet when any demands are put upon my time, I am upset and filled with

consternation. Part of that has to do with the fact that, as you know, we just moved to this

house. And so what I want to be doing is puttering and unpacking boxes and adjusting knick-knacks by a quarter of an inch here,

a quarter of an inch there.

But instead, I have all sorts of obligations, like a TV show and a couple of podcasts, as well

as some performances I have to do, including one this evening, for which I have nothing but resentment.

And so I've been feeling rather put upon.

Now, look, does that extend to the recording of this podcast?

Of course it does.

Hell, yes, it does.

You think I want to be sitting here on a Sunday

afternoon in football season recording a goddamn episode of obscure when I could be not watching football.

I did actually watch the last couple of minutes of a football game before I started recording

and it was an overtime.

It was a close game.

But I watched basically the final three, four, five minutes of this game.

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