This episode of The Burt Selleck Podcast might be the most unhinged, hilariously self-indulgent display of chaotic male friendship since the invention of microphones. Clocking in at over an hour, “Armpit Thunder” is a genre-defying whirlwind of petty grievances, diss tracks, AI music production, and philosophical debates about Komodo dragons and superhero lore—all filtered through the lens of four Detroit comedians who refuse to take anything seriously, including each other.

At its molten core is Alex's wounded ego over ignored group texts and stolen jokes—a deeply stupid, deeply relatable emotional thread that spirals into absurd rap beefs involving Nick's alter ego “Talented Brando.” The AI-generated funk tracks born from prompts like “the smell of an armpit, a baby, and sunshine” are inexplicably catchy and earnestly debated, while the spontaneous diss track aimed at Nick is both brutal and poetic. (“Fingers like ballerinas, but the punch don’t show” is pure gold.)

Ian’s sporadic phone-in as the voice of semi-reason is a welcome reprieve from the madness, and the closing discussion about sardines, tuna, and fermented Swedish fish somehow ties everything together with a whiff of decay and dignity.

Would I recommend it?

Absolutely—to anyone craving podcasting at its most raw, unscripted, and dumb in the best way. Not for the easily offended or those requiring structure, but for the rest of us: it’s chaos therapy.

This episode is the Burt Selleck crew at their most sprawling and chaotic — a two-hour conversational drunken walk that somehow stumbles from mocking Ian’s absence to a half-serious geopolitical “analysis” of Gaza, to the agricultural needs of famine-stricken Ethiopia, to belly-slapping leagues, clairvoyance-for-hire schemes, NFL player sexuality conspiracies, lesbian pitbull ownership statistics, racial breakdowns of the NHL, and whether bisexuality is just “bicerial” hand-holding.

The humor is crass, meandering, and often crosses into intentionally offensive absurdism — the Holocaust-as-typo bit, the Kid Rock statue fantasy, and the meticulous butt-douching history lesson are emblematic of their “say the wrong thing with a straight face” ethos. Structurally, there’s no arc: conversations die mid-sentence, resurface 40 minutes later, and mutate into new tangents with zero connective tissue. The through-line, if there is one, is the pleasure they take in derailing each other.

Standout moments: the “Mega Lesbian” Voltron joke, the clairvoyant holding ghost-secrets for ransom, and the AM/FM genital frequency theory. Also, Nick’s “dream minute” — which is less whimsical than it is disturbing — perfectly illustrates the podcast’s refusal to do anything “the normal way.”

Would I recommend it? Only to someone who enjoys comedy that’s equal parts barroom argument, shock humor, and surrealist improv, and who doesn’t mind hearing a dozen ideas abandoned halfway through for a dirtier one. For anyone else, it’s chaos without a map — but for the right listener, that’s the point.

This episode is what happens when you leave four unmedicated men with microphones and no agenda. The conversation, if you can call it that, veers from Alex’s famously thick liver to speculative skunk anatomy, TikTok’s “white shampoo” trend (spoiler: it’s not about hygiene), and a disturbingly vivid reenactment of a skunk attack. There’s a decent 20-minute stretch in the middle where the group fixates on building a soundboard of Ian lies—easily the most coherent concept in an otherwise wildly disjointed narrative.

Ian’s absence casts a sentimental, almost mythic shadow over the group. They speak of him like he’s dead or magical, possibly both. The episode also includes a deep dive into whether skunks have bleached buttholes and culminates in a proposed taxonomy of animals prioritized by gender identity during maritime disasters. Yes, really.

The comedy is anarchic, raw, occasionally inspired, and often gross. Some bits hit (like the chemical warfare comparison to skunk spray), while others spiral into repetitive, chaotic noise. The structure is nonexistent, but that’s the point.

Would I recommend it? Only to someone who already knows what they’re getting into. This isn’t entry-level Burt Selleck. It’s a long, incoherent hang with guys who think diarrhea is a valid punchline. If that’s your speed, this one’s a riot. If not, run.

Rating: 6.8/10 – Vile, meandering, and occasionally brilliant.

If you think structure matters, keep scrolling. This installment is a 95-minute free-association rocket that launches with Michigan’s oppressive heat and crash-lands on cryogenically-preserved genitals. The hosts — Alex, John, Nick, plus a drive-by from Ian — pinball between bodily ailments (an infected salivary gland becomes surprisingly fertile comedy), elaborate golden-shower hypotheticals, and a conspiracy theory in which suppressed vampire foot-fetishism somehow begat Jeffrey Epstein. There is no arc, only entropy.

What saves the chaos from total collapse is their knack for left-field riffs that feel both juvenile and oddly inventive. The “ejacuation” gag (skydiver must finish before hitting terminal velocity) is so proudly stupid it circles back to brilliance; the “rotten-mouth mime wielding inter-dimensional knives” bit is manic improv you can almost see storyboarded on a grease-stained Denny’s placemat. Occasional flashes of cultural commentary break through — AI-generated YouTube cadence, 9/11 media memories — but they’re quickly smothered by Sour Patch Kids and Dracula’s alleged bisexuality.

Do I recommend it? Only if you enjoy comedy that values shock over cohesion and don’t mind wading through a septic tank to find the occasional gold tooth. For listeners who crave polished storytelling or even basic segues, hard pass. For connoisseurs of unfiltered bar-banter absurdism, hit play and embrace the mess.

This episode of The Burt Selleck Podcast is a long, winding descent into absurdity, bodily functions, semi-coherent sexual philosophy, and barely tethered banter that somehow manages to be both repellent and engaging. It opens with lamentations about Ian's absence and devolves almost immediately into discussions of raw oatmeal diarrhea science, “gay ninjas,” and the gay Kinsey scale like it's all part of the same lecture series.

The episode feels like it’s on a barstool bender, fueled by overtalked beers and residual resentment toward the comedy industry’s gatekeepers (a solid digression into Rogan-world disillusionment). Somewhere amidst the chaos, there’s also a genuinely funny riff on the Rocky movies and a full-circle hippo vs. elephant deathmatch debate that probably reveals more about the hosts’ inner psychodramas than any therapy session could.

The tone is aggressively loose, often juvenile, sometimes gross, and occasionally self-aware in a way that gives the madness a glimmer of intentionality. But it's also two hours of relentless guy talk that doesn’t care if you’re keeping up—or want to be here at all.

Would I recommend it? Begrudgingly, yes—to a friend who enjoys watching a group of funny, bitter men spiral in real time with moments of brilliance buried in dick jokes and doom.

This episode unfolds as a chaotic, meandering, deeply personal sendoff for Ian, a longtime fixture of the show, and perhaps the most emotionally resonant installment to date—at least by Burt Selleck standards. From the moment it opens mid-bicker about lighting and podcast “purity,” you know you're in for an unedited mess. But underneath the mess, there’s real sentiment: the hosts love Ian, even as they ruthlessly roast him, suggest GPS-tagging his body, and bet on him losing toes to Washington wildlife.

There’s something touching about the structureless structure of it all. The crew’s attempt to frame the episode around “reasons we’re glad/sad Ian is leaving” gets frequently derailed by tangents about eagles airlifting hikers, nipple trauma, cult leadership, Trader Joe’s conspiracies, and Detroit-specific chili drinks. And yet, through this slurry of absurdity, genuine warmth cuts through. Ian's move clearly hits the group hard—even if they process it through deranged banter and fumbled bird impressions.

Would I recommend it? Yes, conditionally. It’s peak Burt Selleck: disorganized, juvenile, weirdly insightful, and occasionally gross—but unmistakably sincere. If you’ve ever had a dumb, loving friend group that masks emotion with jokes, this episode will hit home. A fittingly chaotic goodbye.

This episode of The Burt Selleck Podcast is essentially a 2-hour unfiltered brain dump from four dudes, one of whom just returned from a European trip and has a haircut to prove it. Ian’s whirlwind recap of Amsterdam, Hamburg, Berlin, and Warsaw is the closest thing to structure, but it’s continuously derailed by the others with riffs, grotesque hypotheticals, and some truly questionable history takes.

What makes it work, when it works, is Ian’s earnest travel reporting (hookers in Hamburg, breakfast from a kimonoed Airbnb host, the Monument to the Murdered Jews of Europe) colliding with the group’s chaotic energy and relentless sarcasm. The travelogue turns into a group therapy session about homelessness, ass muscles, and the legacy of vaudeville ribbon dancing. Somehow, it ends with Naked Connections, a Polish dating show that judges contestants solely by their genitals.

Would I recommend it? To a friend who enjoys incoherent, barely edited male bonding rituals? Yes, wholeheartedly. To anyone else? God, no. This is podcasting as chaos magic—funny, disturbing, and never going where you expect, unless where you expect is "nowhere." But that’s part of its anti-charm.

Rating: Unreviewable. Listen if you dare.

This episode is a full-blown character spiral wrapped in layers of absurdity, veiled sincerity, and comedic endurance. “Talent Brando,” presumably a riffing improv persona conjured by one of the hosts or a guest, dominates the mic for the first quarter of the episode in a fever dream of wannabe-rapper bravado, circular pseudo-wisdom, and overcooked industry paranoia. The performance leans heavily on the tension between irony and earnestness, never quite tipping its hand, which is either masterful or frustrating depending on your tolerance for prolonged bits that refuse to resolve.

There’s a distinct brilliance to the chaos here—the endless rebranding of Talent Brando’s name (Talent Ed Brando, Tiptop Magcoo, Grandpa Forever), the obsessive declarations about being a “thinking rapper,” and the increasingly absurd industry anecdotes that somehow involve DJ Spooks and Kendrick Lamar. The improv chemistry is strong, though the bit wears thin at times, saved only by the group's commitment and unpredictable tangents (including a surprisingly sincere late-episode geopolitical detour and a prolonged fantasy involving Tom Cruise assassinating Trump in a bee costume).

It’s messy, crass, and deliberately indulgent. In other words: very much on-brand. I wouldn’t recommend this as a first listen, but if you’re a fan of character-driven improv or just enjoy hearing comedians dare each other to keep a bit going past its expiration date, it’s a must.

Recommendation: For seasoned listeners only.