A chaotic love letter to Story Of The Year spirals from copyright hesitation into an improvised a cappella of Disconnected, with riffs on depression, presence, nightmares, and the urge to chase magic even when life feels off-kilter. We share road stories, a monkey encounter, and a hopeful nudge to go hear the real song.

• fan devotion to Story Of The Year and Disconnected
• copyright limits and creative workarounds
• dreams of playing guitar onstage despite doubt
• humor about lawsuits and judge show fantasies
• presence as a tool for anxiety and burnout
• road life, long drives, and odd club moments
• the monkey meet and greet outside the venue
• depressive swings, nightmares, and staying afloat
• closing push to stream the single and support the album

Please listen to them. I love you so much. It is February 14th. Go see Story of the Year.

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Ever had a week where your nose, wallet, and patience all tapped out at once? That’s where we start—sinus pressure, neon boogers, and a confession that sometimes the only thing standing between you and a breakdown is a dumb joke that lands just right. From there, we spiral into money stress, tax avoidance fantasies, and the rude awakening of tracking protein like it’s a second job. Four hard-boiled eggs, a shake, a slab of beef, and still barely hitting the number—because apparently survival now requires a spreadsheet.

The turning point arrives at a small Mexican grocery where pointing, smiling, and “dos libras” bridge the language gap better than any app. The meat tastes fresher, the price makes sense, and the human connection beats the big-box runaround where shampoo hides behind locked glass. It’s a love letter to local shops, to humility, and to the quiet joy of getting good food from people who care, even when you bungle a noun or two.

We pull the thread through back pain, couches that don’t fit, and the small rituals that keep a body functional: walking, stretching, smarter chairs, and the willingness to mock your own Coldplay-level melodrama. Then travel enters the chat—TSA pat-downs, airline banter that should’ve stayed on the tarmac, and the case for clarity over corny jokes when everyone’s exhausted. Underneath the laughs is a simple thesis: honest effort and small community wins keep you sane when life runs on fumes. If this sounds like your week—sick, broke, reaching for a better meal and a better mood—you’re in good company.

If you had a laugh or felt seen, tap follow, share the show with a friend, and leave a quick review. It helps more than you think, keeps the lights on, and maybe funds an oil diffuser that actually smells like a forest.

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New Year’s fireworks fade fast, and what’s left is the same life you had yesterday. That’s the starting point we embrace: skip the performance, keep the humor, and pick choices that make today feel lighter. We riff on sleeping through midnight, bailing on loud parties, and why Times Square’s diaper culture is the opposite of a good memory. The throughline is simple and stubbornly human—feeling better beats pretending to be better.

We go from body comedy to honest care: yoga mishaps, back gripes, and the art of not sitting on your own anatomy become a gateway to realistic routines. Instead of punishing resolutions, we build tiny habits that stick—short workouts, kinder showers, five-minute guitar riffs for joy, not performance. We talk media hygiene too: retiring trauma-forward picks and adding playful, low-stress movies that actually soothe your nervous system. Joy isn’t fluff; it’s recovery.

Along the way we unpack social bandwidth, the myth of “respectful silence,” and the power of a little candid seasoning in rooms where nobody stops talking. There’s permission here to choose smaller circles, fewer nights out, and more honest boundaries. We also get real about creative life without a big machine behind it—why community support matters, how DIY shows get made, and what we want to build next.

We close with a quick breathing reset you’ll actually do, a laugh you might need, and a nudge to pick one small intention you could keep past January. If this episode made you smile, share it with a friend who hates resolutions, subscribe for more, and drop a review telling us your one tiny habit for 2026.

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A snowbitten comic lands in Orlando and immediately melts—layers on, ear out, patience thin. That whiplash becomes a perfect lens for everything we talk through: why airports turn decent people frantic, how airline rules make standby feel mythical, and what it means to chase a dream that pays in drink tickets and doubt as often as it pays in cash. We stay with the mess long enough for it to get funny, then keep going until it gets honest.

We pull apart the logic of customer service mazes and the silent tax of being broke on the road, where a bottle of water costs a small apology and self-checkout turns into a hostage negotiation. Along the way, we zoom out to the comedy grind: gratitude for not cleaning job sites anymore, confession about $12k-years, and the 3 a.m. panic that asks if any of it matters. It’s not doom; it’s an admission that meaning sneaks up on you in airport lighting when your right ear quits.

New Year pressure shows up, and we choose mercy over performance. Think micro-resolutions that actually stick: breathing like you mean it, drinking less without bragging, and swapping moral posturing for agency. We poke at sobriety culture without mocking recovery, talk vices with a wince and a wink, and admit that connection beats perfection every time. Between Disney backpacks, overpriced snacks, and a sun that feels personal, we find a small, durable hope: you can laugh, adjust, and keep moving even when the systems don’t bend.

If this ride made you feel seen—or at least entertained—tap follow, share it with a friend who lives at Gate C19, and leave a quick review. Your notes keep this chaotic layover rolling.

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The night your back decides it runs your life, every choice turns tactical. That’s where we start: a no-move sleep position, a desperate attempt to dodge sciatica, and the inconvenient comedy of crying quietly at 4:30 a.m. without alarming the house. From there, the ride swerves through canceled gigs, algorithm pep talks that last exactly one second, and the weird economy of making people laugh while your spine negotiates with gravity.

We get honest about money, pride, and the grind of being an “unknown comic” who still has to wake up grateful, lace shoes, and stretch before coffee. There’s nostalgia for dirt bikes and indestructible t-shirts, a road plan to Oklahoma City and Tulsa, and a dangerous flirtation with the blackjack table armed with a sixty-dollar limit and advice from a guy who launches satellites. We even detour into faith and culture—why certainty is loud, jokes are truer than hot takes, and maybe divine PR needs a reboot to reach the crowd that still thinks in billboards and sound bites.

Somewhere in the middle, a Cleveland breakdown turns into a quiet reset by the water as motorcycles hum and the sun drops. And in true road-comic fashion, the most ridiculous grace note arrives on a Texas highway: a Buckys billboard that says “seize the day,” which somehow lands harder than the algorithm’s confetti. If resilience has a look, it might be clean tile, good lighting, and a moment to breathe before the next show.

Stream now for back-pain hacks that actually help, road stories that sting and heal, and a reminder that small rituals keep you moving when the big plans wobble. If it made you laugh or feel seen, tap follow, share it with a friend, and leave a review—what tiny ritual saves your day?

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A beach, a phone on 0.5 zoom, and a comedian trying to outrun a stubborn year—this one starts fast and refuses to walk it back. We kick things off with a flurry of winter tour dates and then throw ourselves into the Gulf-side chaos: strangers staring, cargo ships hulking on the horizon, and the mind game of recording while the world pretends not to notice. It’s messy, it’s loud, and it’s honest about what touring feels like when the budget is thin and the calendar is full.

We dig into concert joy and the sacred act of screaming a deep cut louder than the crowd, the survival math of road food versus body pain, and why 2025 feels like a restaurant that won’t bring the check. Resolutions get stripped down to something real: stay alive, keep moving, and stop pretending reinvention happens overnight. Along the way, we torch Elf on the Shelf as a goofy surveillance state, poke at autoplay platforms that push you into shows you didn’t pick, and question pop-culture darlings without pretending we’re above the fray. The sciatica saga becomes a running gag and a real lesson: sustainability beats bravado when your job is laughing for strangers.

Underneath the jokes, there’s a clear heartbeat: comedy is lonely, then suddenly communal; it hurts, then it heals; it’s the quick, silly ritual that lets the heavy stuff breathe. If you need a release valve for a year that overstayed, pull up a chair on the seawall and ride the noise with us.

Subscribe, share with a friend who needs a laugh, and leave a review to help others find the show. What are you ditching before 2026 hits?

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The day starts with a jolt: I wake up on the wrong piece of furniture and my back files a formal complaint down both legs. From there, everything turns into an offbeat survival guide—how to stand when you can’t, why stretching is the new humility, and what happens when laughter is the only thing that keeps a pain spiral from eating the whole day. Along the way I confess my love-hate with AI, the climate guilt that had me one click away from ordering bug protein, and the ridiculous debate over Vans versus Hokas when your spine is calling the shots.

What really sent my body over the edge wasn’t a gym fail—it was kindness disguised as housework. I’m solo at a friend’s place, washing three dogs, steaming carpets, scrubbing patios, and trying to make home feel safe again after a rough patch. The chaos is funny until it isn’t; then a clean, sad dog curls up on a familiar blanket and reminds me why we do any of it. You can’t explain timelines to a dog, so you stand there and reassure him with a hand on his head and a promise you mean.

Between jokes and yelps, we get blunt about aging, posture, money stress, and healthcare math, including the time I Ubered to the ER instead of riding an ambulance. I talk about using humor like a tool, not a mask, and about the weird grace of limits—how your body sometimes says the thing your mouth won’t. If you’ve ever tried to be useful while everything hurts, or wrestled with doing the right thing without losing yourself, this one will feel uncomfortably familiar and oddly hopeful.

If you laughed, nodded, or felt seen, tap follow, share this with a friend who needs a messy pep talk, and leave a quick review so more people can find the show.

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The plan was simple: leave St. Louis before the snow hits, beat the storm, make it back in time for tour. What actually happens is a slow-motion thriller on unplowed highways that morphs into a funny, unguarded exploration of fear, masculinity theater, and the messy work of healing. I talk through the white-knuckle ramps, the “sport mode will save me” delusion, and why following a semi at a respectful distance can feel like spiritual practice when the lanes disappear.

Between jolts of panic and relief, I aim the jokes at big-truck swagger, Bass Pro cosplay, and the myth that hunting equals provision in a world where most of us have garage Coca-Cola and a deep freeze full of good intentions. It’s satire with a pulse: growing up around these guys, becoming a firefighter, learning where real danger lives, and seeing how entitlement and tenderness can exist in the same zip code. I share complicated family threads—queer identities inside conservative spaces, parents who couldn’t show up the way I needed—and how easy it is to promise change while repeating the same patterns. The storm forces a different kind of honesty: go slower, pay attention, feel everything, keep moving.

Somewhere south of the black ice a leaf clings to the wiper like a tiny coach, and that becomes the hinge. Strength isn’t macho; it’s staying present when quitting looks tempting. You can’t rewind time, but you can stop letting old hurt steer the car. If you’ve ever gripped a wheel through your own weather—relationships, family, identity, the script that says “provide” while your body begs for rest—this ride might feel familiar. We laugh at stinky shoes and municipal salt conspiracies, then land on a simple truth: keep going, because forward is the only gear that heals.

Listen, share with someone who’s navigating their own storm, and tell me what hit home. If the show made you breathe a little easier, tap follow, send it to a friend, and drop a note or review so more people can find it.

Support the show

https://www.patreon.com/c/DiscombobulatedwithBobbyJaycox