BOBUS 11 - It's a Whitderful Life

Wow. It just keeps getting worse. Fuck Chuck Bolty.

But you were 14. The writers of this show were grown-ass men. At least you grew and changed.

Confession: I have never had a desire to see It's a Wonderful Life. I don't have a ton of happy feelings around the holiday and media that glorifies it doesn't interest me. The anger and rage yall have at how the message of that film is twisted and denigrated by FotF makes me want to pick it up. Sounds like the sort of movie that yall give a damn about, so I'll give it a go.

Brian's meshing shaggy dog stories were the only thing that got me through all of the snowstorms on my long drive today. I had even heard the moth story before, but you subverted my expectations that you would subvert my expectations. It got to the point where I was questioning whether I had read about feghoot before or if it actually was all in my head. Bravo.

Omg the continental singers 🫠 please do an episode on that. Make AJ go to one of their shows/performances?

WOAH. WAIT. Is Ernest T Worrell is mispeak or a joke combining two similar characters, Ernest T Bass and Ernest P Worrell? Pretty sure Worrell is directly inspired by Bass.

I was out on vacation once with my family, we were up in the Smoky Mountains as we liked the cool retreat from the humidity and heat of summertime in Florida. We’d flee the damp air, the endless buzzing of cicadas nipping at our heels. We had this old popup camper we’d tow behind us, all up and down the twisting mountain roads, from campground to campground. If you don’t know what a popup camper is, it’s a small camper trailer where the upper part has fabric walls hung on a frame. When closed, the roof and bottom form a solid shell for easy transportation. Then once you park it, you wind the crank handle to slowly raise up the roof until its high enough to stand in. It “pops up,” so to say. Often there’s one of two mattresses that slide out on either end, further increasing the living space within. We were fond of that old thing, close quarters but you could easily hear the cool mountain breezes and streams, just a blowing and trickling down out from the ancient, earthen bones rising high above our heads. So there we were, setting up for a wonderful evening of marshmallows and spooky stories. I was down on one knee before the fire pit, striking match after match, but I just could not get a single one to light. My dad came over and said, “Son? What seems to be the problem here?” “Well, sir, I’m just plum out of luck with getting one of these dang ol’ matches to light!” Dad just laughed his big belly laugh and knelt down beside me. “Boy, if you can’t light a match you’re gonna have some serious struggles making your way out in the big wide world!” He struck one of the matches. Nothing happened. He struck another. Not the faintest flicker of a flame. “These useless sticks!” He cussed under his breath and threw the rest of the matchbook off into some nearby brush. “Alright, then. I’ll fire up the grill and we’ll have us some burgers.” So we had ourselves a grand time, eating and just enjoying being out in nature and amongst each other. I helped myself to a second burger, and not one thought did I give to that discarded matchbook. They say that sleep comes easy when you’re full and content, and I must’ve been about as full and content as I’d ever been because that delicious darkness swarmed over me in seconds. I had dreams of hiking, of swimming in the cold water that ran clear over smooth rocks. I could hear my family laughing nearby, but they were hard to see. The water swirling around me began to get warmer, not unpleasantly at first, but like the reassuring presence of the sun on your skin letting you know you there was life ready to be lived. As I waded through, the sounds of my kin changed, they were trying to tell me something but the words eluded my ears. I began to move more quickly, looking for the bodies that belonged to the muddled voices, so familiar and yet so different. The water grew uncomfortable, and I was suddenly remembering the old story about the frog in the pot. Then I snapped awake, and sat up in an air so hot and tight I could scarce draw breath. I knew with dead certainty what I was seeing before the dancing ripples of umber and orange spied through the camper window coalesced into a single bright word exploding in my brain. Fire. I started yelling, I started shaking. Time lost meaning and I felt as if my mind were moving in and out of awareness as my body reacted. We were outside, and mom and sisters were throwing the camper together as best they could. Dad and I were at the blaze, smaller than I initially feared, not yet a full blown conflagration. Rangers and firemen were on their way, but we beat and stamped as best we could. All the while the memory of that matchbook getting carelessly tossed through the once cool evening air filled my entire soul with a crushing certainty. This was our fault. That guilt carried me past the scrapes and bruises and painful heat. We kept fighting. Soon help arrived. I can’t even fully recall what happened or how it happened, but somehow things grew hopeful. And then things were okay. The sun was rising and the angry blaze had been reduced to nothing but dying embers. A great ball of shared energy and emotions was slowly dissipating. We’d done it. Then I remembered the coming consequences. The Fire Marshall was speaking to my father, and I drug my heavy feet their way, determined if undesiring to see this through. Their faces were coated in dark streaks, yet their eyes were bright with relief. Somehow the tone of the conversation was the opposite of what I’d expected. My dad was speaking. “So there was another group just through these trees? And they just up and fled?” “Yessir, best I can tell is they left their fire unattended all night and the breeze carried some sparks over this way. They hightailed it out, but we were damned lucky you and yours were here. This could’ve been nasty, nasty.” One of the firemen hailed him. “Let me get back to wrapping up here, but we’d like a statement if you don’t mind waiting just a smidge longer.” My dad smiled as he saw me approach. “Not at all, not at all.” I waited until the fireman had left, scarce able to believe what I’d heard. “So, dad.” “Yes, son?” “Then, we didn't start the fire?” “No, we didn't light it, but we tried to fight it.”

A husband and wife were in Berlin when they ran into an old friend, Rudolph. The three friends stopped and chatted for a while about Rudolph's work with the Communist Party in the city, until a light rain started to fall. "Oh no," said the husband, "This will ruin our plans, we were meant to go picnicking this afternoon." "This will pass soon," said Rudolph, casting an eye at the sky, "No need to change your plans." "Are you certain?" Asked the husband. His wife shushed him gently, patting his arm in a comforting way as Rudolph nodded. "He's certain. Rudolph the Red knows rain, dear."

Pistol Pete didn't retire from basketball because he was without Christ, he injured his knees in the 77-78 season and ended up on the bench or serving as a part time shooter. His knee problems eventually cause him to retire after his year with the Celtics, where he did play alongside some guy who was named after a bird.

With all due respect to Brian, hearing Pennsylvania described as “Part of New England” makes me want to pelt him with batteries

This entire podcast is one shaggy dog story.

How fun to learn my dad has ‘touring with the continentals’ and ‘genuinely evil levels of homophobia’ in common with chuck bolte

My dad told a version of the frog/loan story, with the added detail that the frog says "well, take it up with my father then!" when his collateral is refused. "Who's that?" the banker asks. "Keith Richards!" The exasperated teller's manager then clarifies, when asked: "it's a knicknack, Paddy Whack - give the frog a loan! His old man's a Rolling Stone!"

For some reason I never thought about how McCusker was spelled, so when I glanced at the description I read his name as McCuckser

The Dave Ramsey mention sent chills down my spine

As one of your resident ball knowers, I knew pistol pete died while playing a pickup game, but didn’t know it was a James Dobson run pickup game. That was by far the most offensive part of that section of this episode.

I really really hope somebody Luigis Chuck and the rest of the ADF

I am in the middle of learning about Padric's trip to the pawn shop and I am immensely happy right now. Thank you!

I swear to god if the Brady Bunch interstitial is not about the forbidden love between Mike Brady and Bandit I will restart the arguing season

butterfly girls, won't you come out tonight

Muppets from space is amazing. The best line imo is "way to get down with your bad selves everybody"

I love the random shaggy dog story, and jokes in the beginning. Unfortunately, this is just making me realize how much worse you can make.It’s a wonderful life by putting weird evangelical jargon in it. George Barkley is no George Bailey, dang it! He doesn’t sound nearly angry enough at the angry parts and so I don’t feel for him as much But this is still entertaining, so merry Christmas, you old Goku and loan!

I remember a precious moments movie about a small angel with a security blanket who needs to take baby Jesus his crown. Along the way he makes friends with a grumpy squirrel but loses the crown along the way to save someone. Then he ends up going the rest of the way to see Jesus and gives him his blanket as the "swaddling clothes" mentioned in the story because Jesus looks cold.

They aren't new England because they are different colonial projects with different religious motivations. New England was a series of Puritan settlement, Pennsylvania and New Jersey were Quaker, The DMV was very catholic and also Norman not Anglo. The South is weird

"Pennsylvania is New England" Canceling my Patreon, unsubscribing from the podcast, deleting my podcatching app, burning my phone, giving away all my worldly possessions and going to go live in a cave in the wood. Just like Johannes Kelpius

There was once an abbey where the monks were experts in growing all sorts of flowers. They were looking for a new way to finance their monastic practice, and determined that they should sell their blooms. However, they couldn’t find a good place at the market. So they went to the local bishop, who was less than scrupulous, and asked for his help. He pulled some strings and pushed out some of the most popular vendors from their traditional stations at the market. The monks set up shop there and business began booming. Unfortunately, the extricated vendors’ cries went unheard. Plus, the flowers began to attract bees, which irritated customers, and the market began to lose business. One day, Hugh Jazzman was walking into the market and saw a picket line of vendors protesting the monks. He was intrigued, so he meandered into the market and as he came closer to the monk’s stall, he was swatting bees and grunting with pain as they stung him. Now, Hugh was a large man, and strong. And now he was angry. So angry that he grabbed a nearby log and went to work dismantling the monk’s stall by force, as well as leaving the monks with a few bruises. “Don’t come back” he yelled. However, the next day, when Hugh walked into the market, there were the vendors with their anti-monk signs. But they were powerless against the strength and influence of the church. Hugh was even angrier now. He knew the monks had returned against his warning. He stormed into the market and ripped apart the boards with his powerful, giant hands. “I said don’t come back!” he said, and walked away satisfied. The next day, Hugh Jazzman walked into town, looking forward to a day at market without being stung by bees. But there were the vendors again. They saw Hugh coming and said to him “they won’t leave! We can’t feed our families!” Hugh was filled with righteous anger. Like as to Jesus clearing the temple, Hugh chased the monks out of the market. He returned to the monks’ stall and, using a log set ablaze by the nearby blacksmith, burned the stall until naught but ash was left. Finally, the monks reported to the bishop, who chastised the monks for failing to deal with one man and wasting the church’s money. He sent them back to their abbey and began searching for a way to assuage the bad press from the flower sales venture and recoup his losses. This just goes to show, only Hugh can prevent florist friars.

My Dad used to tell a version of the frog story

Oh my aunts and uncles all got together and recorded a tape with a bunch of bedtime stories for my first birthday, but they’re hardly an example of an average normal family (IBLP) and they probably got the idea from stuff like these episodes lmao

I do always appreciate Josh for at least trying to stop the madness lol

please dear fucking god can we have a crumb of liberation theology god this fucking country's religion sucks

Three minutes in and I’ve already got a vbs (or maybe it was patch the pirate or donut man or psalty it’s all the same) song about the body of christ stuck in my head, this bodes well