These are a few of my favorite things: The Bugle

I mean, the Sound of Music is literally one of my favorite things, but – and I say this without sarcasm – I will probably dedicate an entire post to that masterpiece of a musical, and will not regale you with childhood stories about dressing up as Julie Andrews (yet). This post is about one of my other favorite things: the Bugle podcast.

Question: do you adore John Oliver, correspondent and imminent summer fill-in for Jon Stewart at the Daily Show? Since “yes” is the only acceptable answer, it is likely that you’ve already stalked the hell out of John and discovered his podcast, the Bugle. He co-hosts with some other guy, but the important thing is obviously John Oliver. His accent. His wit. His hilarity. The complete package, if you ask me. But don’t ask me. Download the last 10 or so episodes of the Bugle and hear for yourself. To be quite frank, it had to grow on me, which is why I suggest listening to at least 2 episodes of the podcast before a) deciding that John Oliver is the missing piece of your empty heart, or b) learning that you are completely devoid of human emotion.

I made the requisite google image search of the Bugle and it did not disappoint:

Fun little fact about John Oliver: he met his wife at what is arguably the most romantic event in modern history, the 2008 Republican National Convention. Granted, he was on assignment for the Daily Show, and mocked the ever-loving shit out of a flailing party, but his biggest win? Meeting the love of his life in a sea of political and moral inertia. Four for you, John Oliver. You go, John Oliver! (And none for John McCain, bye.)

On the Bush era cluster that was the US pre-Obama, John eloquently said (and this is really all you need as reference to his profane, yet spot-on comedy),

It was like falling in love with a girl who was just throwing up all over herself — softly holding her hair back and whispering to her that everything was going to be alright. To me, that’s what the last eight years were like, here in America: projectile vomiting all over yourself as the rest of the world rubbed your back, saying, ‘Sssshhh, that’s it. Let it all out.’

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