#2458 - Matt McCusker

People even hide lights in tables now to flatter your face, but the wild part is dudes using beauty filters; I’m 58, you’re 40, and kids plus no sleep will age you fast, so I’ve been on creatine…but twenty grams at once turned my guts into a slip-n-slide.

Under‑chin lighting is for campfire horror, not dates, and filters set folks up for a rude in‑person reveal; I tried vegan for a month, had record‑breaking bathroom trips, and even got hemorrhoids from the, uh, enthusiasm.

Kale‑garlic‑apple smoothies used to blast the pipes for me, and I love kimchi and sauerkraut, but the fiber fight is confusing when carnivore folks say you don’t need it; that old ‘pound of undigested meat’ myth isn’t real, and John Wayne’s notorious Genghis Khan movie is infamous mostly because they filmed near nuclear tests and a bunch of people later got cancer.

Back then nobody tracked fiber or asbestos risks like we do now; I’ve even heard baby powder could be tainted by mines near asbestos, and lately everyone’s spooked about LED lights frying mitochondria while the news feeds nonstop doom.

Talc itself isn’t the villain so much as contamination, and yeah, I used baby powder for pool back in the day, but now I’m more worried we’re hooked on outrage; algorithms learn what upsets you and keep you marinating in it.

I wouldn’t be shocked if phones read our faces and eyes to keep us scrolling; the Epstein universe is so dark and dense that I can barely track it, but Prince Andrew losing titles and maybe facing jail is surreal—even with protection, that charge carries a target.

Paris prosecutors reopening Epstein‑linked cases adds to the pile, and the Royals stripping him of status, estates, and access makes you wonder what they’ve seen behind closed doors.

Jean‑Luc Brunel died in custody and they’ve reportedly reopened that probe; even the officer once accused of falsifying Epstein watch logs had those charges dropped, and the odd ‘fall‑forward’ suicide‑attempt note still hangs over it.

Eighteen days before Epstein died, he was found unresponsive with marks on his neck and later said a hulking ex‑cop cellmate threatened him, yet it was framed as a suicide attempt and the cameras conveniently didn’t help; others claim he left a note or even asked to be killed for money, which only deepens the fog.

Some of this reads like the hidden work of people protected by obscene resources; out in the real world, one punch on a sidewalk can end a life, road rage escalates to gun threats, and yelling at the wrong stranger—or someone’s mother—can make you disappear.

Epstein reportedly ordered hundreds of gallons of sulfuric acid after indictment—maybe for desalination, maybe not—and if you’re in Florida, the ocean’s no safe dump when bull sharks rip hooked fish in half at the pier; that state’s a monster mash of sharks, alligators, and now pythons carpeting the Everglades thanks to escapes and pet releases.

I took my kids snorkeling in Turks and Caicos and those ‘baby’ sharks looked six feet to me; dolphins are tanks, iguanas will rush you, and there’s a snake island off Brazil so jammed that every step lands on another serpent.

Burmese pythons are native to Southeast Asia but exploded in Florida to the tens or hundreds of thousands, iguanas there literally fall from trees when cold snaps hit, and gators can freeze with their snouts poking through ice; meanwhile humans only recently started eating like kings—our ancestors lived on one meal, dried meat, and no refrigeration.

Winter crushes vitamin D and mood—I had to megadose for a while and now I skip caffeine because it wrecks my sleep and flattens dreams; it’s great for tunnel‑vision tasks but can choke off creativity.

I’ve heard crack’s rush described with unnerving poetry and Adderall is everywhere, but counterfeit pills laced with fentanyl kill kids who think they’re cramming; stimulants also dull a comic’s feel for a room, so I write essays to mine ideas and then carve out the funny.

Same—I bullet‑point and let my brain wander, because forced writing rarely lands; bombing hurts but it’s the engine that makes me tighten the set.

Failure is a gift in stand‑up like it is in fighting—it shows every corner you cut; I’ve seen headliners ride a decade‑old act into the ground, watched train‑wreck openers torture crowds before a pro, and laughed at how a ‘comedy class’ or club turf war can be more scam than school.

I got blacklisted once for teaching a ‘class’ that was basically an open mic, and couples booking their partners as openers is a heart‑breaker when they’re not ready; doing your literal first minute at an arena is insane, but Kill Tony makes that chaos electric.

Open mics are a beautiful madhouse—I’ve met plastic‑bag‑lined rain walkers and watched enough Long Island clips to need a breather; some folks bomb for years and never notice, and plenty of killers with a perfect fifteen melt when you stretch them to an hour that needs pacing, structure, and new ideas.

I got shoved back into headlining after months off, recording sets and dissecting them, then COVID hit right as I became a dad and every choice felt like a risk to my family until I finally said, we might just have to live with it.

I did a spaced-out weekend in Houston, got spooked about infecting someone, and locked my studio down with daily tests and a nurse; the health department still made us add masks and signs after someone tattled, while my folks waited for vaccines and I somehow never caught it despite hugging my kids.

When I finally got it, it floored me for days, my wife got it after, our kid stayed fine, and the sleep loss from a newborn made everything hit harder, so I travel early and nap to be sharp at shows.

I land, drop my bag, and head straight to the gym to sweat the plane off, and training at altitude once turned me into a different animal when I came down, which is why pros chase that edge even before they ever touch things like EPO.

Sprint days fixed scary numb fingertips and lousy circulation; I hit the track at dawn for a few all-out 300s, twenty minutes later I’m floating through the day.

Explosive work like sprints is huge for staying capable as you age.

Jelly Roll dropped about 300 pounds the hard way with walking, clean food, and testosterone, no Ozempic, and now he runs hills, hops on the treadmill, and crushes the sauna; it took years and it shows.

I wonder how that much weight loss tweaks a voice and a public persona, though his songwriting and tone are what carry him.

Voices can lighten up when the neck and chest lean out, though that opera stereotype is messy, and I still won’t do a set in a tank top; speaking of vibes, Kid Rock filmed RFK Jr. training in jeans, plunging cold, and playing morning pickleball in a palace that looks like the White House.

Since we’re live, Trump just reacted to Obama’s alien talk, which is a wild lane for a former president to wander into.

If you say a claim is classified, you’re hinting it’s real, and that’s the kind of thing that made me sit down with Bob Lazar, who told me about seeing a seamless craft sized for tiny pilots, powered by a strange element that warped space, flown silently and impossibly fast, and how he went public after threats and surveillance; records later backed up that he worked at Los Alamos.

The reveal game makes me suspicious—2017 put UAPs in the mainstream, pilots had weird thermal-free targets, and now there are rumors of giant hangars in Korea while we wonder how people would react if governments finally said, yes, this is not ours, all while deepfakes contaminate the next election.

On a different fight, Colbert’s show blamed the FCC’s equal-time rules for pulling a Talarico interview, though talk shows usually get an interview exception, and Talarico’s origin story as a teacher losing a kid to budget cuts is compelling despite opponents slinging a private ‘mediocre’ quote at him.

I did school counseling in Philly where free therapy via interns actually helped, then my social work master’s turned into ideology drills—performative outrage, activism-as-therapy, and racial scripts that fall apart with real kids; they even tried to boot me over my podcast ties until COVID moved everything online.

There’s a bit for you on how far campuses drifted, and while therapy can help, it’s not hard science; a lot of progress is just being a steady human with decent tools.

Modalities range from structured CBT to dreamy Jungian stuff, it’s pricey, insurance wants a diagnosis, psychiatrists push meds fast, and I’m not sold on hard determinism—people can choose differently.

Will matters, which is why stories like Jelly Roll’s land, and the academic push to rebrand pedophiles as ‘minor-attracted persons’ is where that soft-glove talk loses the room.

Be humane, yes, but there are bright red lines on predators; that’s where the just-be-kind argument breaks.

On odd mind-benders, toxoplasmosis from cats can wire behavior and shows up a lot in risk-takers; pregnant women should avoid litter boxes, and honestly cats track box funk onto your counters while dogs at least do their business outdoors.

A stray cat gifted me a brutal viral eye infection that glued my lids and scared me blind, and right after that we were swapping horror stories about shingles, MRSA, and staph from mats and pools.

Antibiotics can nuke your gut while chasing staph—Gordon Ryan, the grappling GOAT, may retire at 30 after years of infections and meds wrecked his digestion.

I once misread eczema as ringworm on the worst spot imaginable, got it fixed, then learned gluten lights me up; my mom was early on that, and there’s a case that crop chemicals—not just gluten—might be a bigger culprit than we thought.

Do you think gluten feels different in Europe, maybe because there’s less glyphosate around it?

People say they can eat it there, and my test showed a moderate wheat allergy, which friends mocked, but sunlight oddly lets me tolerate more while doctors shrug.

Vitamin D shapes immunity, so that tracks, and it’s wild how advice flipped from avoiding sun to getting sun.

Same with food guidance; flipping the pyramid toward real food—meat, fish, and vegetables—actually matches the evidence.

The backlash makes no sense to me; cutting sketchy additives that Europe bans seems obvious, especially for schools and anyone with allergies.

It’s tribal—because RFK Jr. is linked to the current crew, some folks would rather deny the point than admit preservatives and dyes are a problem that deserve labels or bans like other countries do.

If you have kids, that should matter more than team colors; let them bank a win on this one.

Too many treat science like creed, but incentives twist it—funding, careers, and pharma ties drive groupthink, and some of those players ran with Epstein.

You need real stats chops to read studies; data can be framed to say almost anything, which is why those glossy graphs mislead people.

Drug companies run many trials, bury the nulls, and downplay harm.

I read that antidepressant approvals often followed piles of trials until something barely worked, which still wasn’t strong.

A lawyer told us journals often peer-review company summaries, not raw data, which is insane.

That ‘one glass of wine is healthy’ line was industry spin, and people used it to justify daily drinks.

If you want resveratrol, supplements deliver far more than wine without wrecking your liver.

Also, a small drink can genuinely calm anxious minds; I wouldn’t rip that coping tool from someone living on the edge.

Fair, just don’t sell it as health—more like the lesser evil.

Remember when sugary cereal tested higher than ground beef on those rankings, and the old pyramid told us to load up on bread?

Meanwhile, folks in France pound baguettes and stay lean, while visitors hit our food and feel awful fast.

Some land here, eat a hot dog, and end up sick over a trash can.

Before we wrap, the full Les Wexner deposition video dropped, and there’s a clip of someone whispering a threat to keep answers under five words, which sure looks like coaching that shouldn’t happen.

It sounds like a dark joke, but whispering that is nuts, and if coaching is barred, that’s a serious line to cross.

Weirdly came off almost playful, which just makes it stranger.

His answers are rough too; he claims he never knew Epstein was siphoning money even after years of reports.

If this ends with no real accountability, trust in institutions dies; if Prince Andrew is the token case and it’s cushy, people will check out.

He won’t hit a hardcore unit anyway, more like protective custody.

He barely spent time inside and is out now.

I didn’t think we’d even see an arrest; losing titles and getting bounced from the estate signaled it might finally get real.

They must have seen some grim material.

All right, let’s land it—this hang was a blast, Helly club vibes, and it’s been awesome watching your act keep leveling up; seriously funny work.