Host: Adam J., welcome to the pod.

Adam J.: Great to be here. Where’s my mommy?

H: She left, but said she’d come back.

A: Fuck. (Cries)

H: Can you use your words, bro?

A (wipes nose on sleeve): I’m good.

H: The thing is, do we actually need mommies?

A: Right. When you dive into the data and look at the studies—

H: Mommies are straight-up, like, literally—

A: Obsolete.

H: Exactly. Not for nothing, you look superstrong. Like, pick-up-your-little-sister-and-walk-a-few-steps strong.

A: It’s my new raw cran-apple pouch line.

H: I’ve been cran-apple juicing since I was two.

A: But that shit’s been double pasteurized. Mine retains all the healthy bacteria and pathogens so you build up natural immunity to girls. Try it.

H (sips, spills everywhere): Whoa. That’s fucking good.

A: All you need is that and twelve hours’ sleep.

H: Twelve? I’m lucky if I get, like, ten.

A: Ten’s the baseline. You need twelve to tap the real benefits: higher swinging velocity, roughhousing stamina, sharper cognitive processing for that thing in the pediatrician’s waiting room with those wires you slide beads along for no discernible purpose.

H: That’s including nap time?

A: I don’t do naps. Body’s way of surrendering.

H: No shit. So you’re awake, like, all day?

A: I’ll do intermittent micro-meditation sessions. Full focus. If someone asks me to put on my shoes or something—even if they say my name five or six times—I just don’t hear them.

H: But to look like that, you must play like crazy, too.

A: I’m a jungle-gym rat, for sure.

H: Any cardio?

A: Tag, a couple times a week.

H: For how long?

A: Until Miss Jean calls us in. But it’s not nearly as important as max-effort monkey-bar intervals.

H: As long as you do it with correct form.

A: Oh, absolutely. I see these young guys, the pre-K crew, jerking around, cheating to reach the next bar—

H: Only they’re really just cheating themselves.

A: There’s no substitute for the grind. Just accepting that your shoulders are gonna be sore as fuck tomorrow.

H: It’s like potty training.

A: Yup. Like, no one wants to get out of diapers.

H: They’re comfortable. You don’t have to move. Someone else cleans up the mess.

A: But one day you realize, Holy shit! Diapers are a symbol of the infantilization of modern society.

H: Totally.

A: You ever fuck with Spock?

H: I’ll fuck with early Spock.

A: Spock’s low-key the GOAT on voiding theory.

H: Explain it like I’m four.

A: He’s, like, if you force a kid to go potty, that’s basically fascism.

H: Except—and I know I’m gonna get cancelled from the playgroup for this, but fuck it—this generation is so coddled.

A: No hustle mind-set.

H: How do you do money? You saving for a bag of jelly beans, private middle school, what?

A: Every cent I get—tooth-fairy singles, sidewalk pennies, lemonade-stand revenues—goes into a broken coffee mug that my daddy puts on a high bookshelf.

H: And you’re, what, three-nine?

A: Three-nine and a half.

H: Bro. Bro. Built-in friction point—you’re playing 4-D tic-tac-toe.

A: After a year, you’ll 10x your net worth. I’m talking two figures.

H: I could go deep on this forever, but my nanny-slash-producer’s telling me you have a hard out in five.

A: Bullshit sit-down with the suits. Then swim class.

H: You still in floaties?

A: Hell, yeah. ’Cause they actually help you learn the strokes better.

H (pauses): We done here?

A: I think so. Plus I have to peepee.

H: All that raw cran-apple.

A: Hundred per cent.

H: Love you, bro.

A: Love you.

(They hug too tightly and fall over.) ♦