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Larry has the kind of face that makes trouble look premeditated. Even when he is innocent, which happens with roughly the frequency of a solar eclipse, he looks like he has just hidden a goat in a municipal building. So when he walked into the studio and said, “I need to tell you what happened with the costume,” nobody asked, “What costume?” best podcast about funny true stories We all leaned in. A sentence like that has gravity. The best funny true stories do not

Some job interviews go badly in the ordinary way. You forget the hiring manager’s name. You say “detail-oriented” while mispronouncing “detail.” You shake hands with too much moisture and spend the next forty-five minutes wondering if the other person has secretly renamed you Clammy Dave. Then there are interviews like Larry’s. Larry did not merely have a bad interview. Larry had the kind of interview that starts with a reasonable plan, swerves into absurdity, picks u

Larry did not set out to become podcast material. Nobody ever does. The best funny true stories usually begin with someone trying to get through a perfectly ordinary Saturday without accidentally detonating three generations of family secrets in a chain restaurant parking lot. That, roughly, is why Larry’s tale of the surprise family reunion has the kind of staying power comedy podcast hosts dream about. It has everything a great audio story needs: a misunderstanding, a

Larry says the worst part about being locked in a museum was not the darkness, the silence, or the security guard who later described him as “a suspicious adult male in sensible shoes.” The worst part, according to Larry, was realizing he had spent the first twenty minutes whispering apologies to a wax figure. That detail is why the story works. A lesser man would start with panic. Larry starts with manners. He does not say, “I was trapped among priceless cultural art

Larry says the parrot had “the timing of a nightclub comic and the moral compass of a raccoon.” That is the sort of sentence you hear on a good comedy podcast and immediately know two things. First, the story is probably true, because nobody invents a parrot with ethics that specific. Second, someone in the room suffered. The bird’s name was Captain, although Larry insists nobody should name an animal something that sounds like it outranks you. Captain belonged to Larry’

Larry was not what you would call a tool guy. He owned tools, technically. A dented red toolbox lived under his laundry room sink, wedged between a bag of grout from 2009 and a bottle of carpet cleaner he bought after what the family still refers to as “the chili incident.” The toolbox contained one hammer, two screwdrivers, four Allen wrenches from furniture he no longer owned, a tape measure that snapped back with the hostility of a mousetrap, and a mysterious metal th

Larry knew the evening was doomed the moment the lobster looked him in the eye. Not from a plate. Not from a tank. From the passenger seat of his 2007 Toyota Corolla, where it sat inside a sweating plastic bag on top of his gym shorts, slowly leaking seawater into the upholstery and making the car smell like a beach had lost a court case. That is the kind of detail you cannot invent properly. A writer might think to put a lobster in a car. A real person remembers that

There is a special kind of confidence that enters a man’s body when he buys fresh basil. Not dried basil, not the dusty green flakes that come out of a jar and smell faintly like a school supply closet. Fresh basil. Leaves. Stems. A damp little plastic sleeve. The kind of ingredient that makes a person believe he is no longer preparing dinner but participating in a Mediterranean lifestyle. That, according to one of the funniest podcast stories I have ever heard, was L