Hi, hi, hello, hi, I'm Aparna Nancherla and welcome once again to Too Hot for Radio,

the literary podcast that is basically the 120 days of Sodom if the Marquis de Sad was soups into consent.

That's right, we bring you the saucy and salacious tales that our big sister show,

selected shorts, can't air on public radio.

Fine by us. It's not even sloppy seconds when the buttoned up types only do over the clothes stuff.

As you hotheads know, when you've got something on your chest,

other than the chain mail you used to causeplay Lancelot,

you've got to get it off.

That means some kind of talking cure or outright confession.

Hopefully you smart listeners have a therapist, not because you need it, but because you kind of do need it.

Or maybe you paint or write or methodically glue your fingernail clippings into busts of your favorite

Looney Tunes characters.

Some kind of creative catharsis that helps you get it out.

Me, I've got all the usual mental health checks, and if they all fail, I've got Theioki.

It's like karaoke, but everybody within 50 feet goes,

uh-oh.

You wouldn't think it from looking at me, would you hot heads?

And yet I get into it.

It's perfect while in the midst of a breakup or a breakdown.

I just pick, say, Robin's dancing on my own and sing, snot, dance and cry at will.

I always get my own standing o and a mop bucket. Anyway that's all to prepare you for the brief but

potent story ahead of you which was written by James Hanahan. Hanahan

...