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Larry had no business being in that yoga class. That is not an insult. Larry would agree. Larry has the hamstring flexibility of a courthouse bench and the spiritual presence of a man waiting for his number at the deli. He is many things on the podcast: sharp, generous, suspicious of herbal tea, weirdly knowledgeable about regional airport carpets. But a natural fit for an advanced, candlelit, whisper-only yoga class? No. Not even close. Which is exactly why the story

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

There is a particular kind of vacation story that does not become funny until everyone involved has showered, eaten something warm, and stopped googling phrases like “how long can a rental car make that noise before exploding.” Larry’s story belongs in that category. Not the polished vacation story people tell at brunch with a little sunburn and a souvenir magnet. Not the “our luggage went to Denver” type of inconvenience, which is annoying but still comfortably insid

Some podcast stories begin with a crime, a betrayal, or a suspiciously confident man near a barbecue grill. Larry’s begins with a set of keys, a laminated feeding schedule, and the kind of cat that looks at human affection the way a judge looks at a parking ticket appeal. That is the beauty of “Larry’s Cat-Sitting Catastrophe.” It has the classic architecture of a great funny podcast story: a small favor becomes a municipal-level emergency, the hero is underqualified but

Some podcast stories begin with a crime, a betrayal, or a suspiciously confident man near a barbecue grill. Larry’s begins with a set of keys, a laminated feeding schedule, and the kind of cat that looks at human affection the way a judge looks at a parking ticket appeal. That is the beauty of “Larry’s Cat-Sitting Catastrophe.” It has the classic architecture of a great funny podcast story: a small favor becomes a municipal-level emergency, the hero is underqualified but

Larry insists he is not a competitive person, which is the first clue that Larry is one of the most competitive people you will ever meet. He says this with the calm expression of a man who once challenged a seven-year-old to a rematch in mini golf because the wind “interfered with the integrity of the back nine.” He says it while alphabetizing his spice rack and pretending it is not a ranking system. He says it while watching game shows with a notebook open, muttering,

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 walked into the pet psychic appointment with the posture of a man entering a tax audit he had agreed to only because his wife promised lunch afterward. He did not believe in pet psychics. He barely believed in chiropractors. He once referred to aromatherapy as “expensive steam with opinions.” Larry was not built for rooms with crystals in them. He was built for hardware stores, diner coffee, and telling waiters, “I’ll just have the regular,” in restaurants where he