TRAPPO's Mail Bag #22!
It's time for a brand-new episode of TRAPPO's Mail Bag, the show that talks about you on purpose! In this exciting installment, we're discussing feedback from the 2022 TRAPPO Music Awards, we're haunted by the ghost of morbidly obese baseball legend Babe Ruth, we read responses to responses from a previous Batman-related episode, we talk about candy for a few minutes, somebody's pissed off at Bruce Springsteen, people complain about our shoegaze episode, and more! It's a lot of fun. Maybe. Either way, you can listen below, or find TRAPPO on Apple, Google, Pocket Casts, RadioPublic, Spotify, Scumify for Bumcasters and Amazon, so choose your own adventure and learn why Toblerone is an elitist confection...
Join the conversation! Just leave a comment below and tell us what's on your mind. Whatever you've got going on up in your grey matter. We don't care. As long as you're not being a complete piece of garbage, we'll probably read your comments in a future episode of the show. You could also send us an email. Did you know that? We have an email address. An official email address. It's trapposhow@gmail.com, and we'd love for you to click on that link and send us an email. Do you have something to share? Share it with us via email. We know you won't, but the door is always open. That's about all for this week, dear listener. Thanks for stopping by, and we'll see you back here next time.
Probably.
So are you guys gonna talk about Batman some more? Michael Keaton was in The Flash. Talk about that fucker.
ReplyDeleteDid you know the Baby Ruth candy bar was named after Babe Ruth?
ReplyDeleteThose fuckers tried to capitalize on my good name with their delicious candy bar, and I ate so many of those damn things I developed diabetes and both of my fucking feet fell off in the middle of a game against the Cincinnati Racists in 1932. I blasted a home run right out of that ballpark like the absolute madman that I am, and I started waddling around the bases as per usual, because I was fat like a fucking diseased penguin, and my goddamn feet just snapped off like candy canes as I was rounding third. Luckily my blood had the consistency of molasses at the time, so I didn’t bleed to death, instead I crawled my fat ass over home plate and won the game for the Yankees, again. My fellow players carried me all the way to the nearest hospital on their shoulders, which was faster than any automobile could travel at the time, especially with a dense Anchor like the great bambino in the trunk. The doctors couldn’t reattach my fucked feet, so they just whittled some new shits for me out of petrified wood, and they worked well enough, even if they gave me splinters. I tried to sue those candy making pricks, but I lost interest after I got distracted by Joan Crawford’s rocking chairs (if you know what I mean) and got a terminal case of petrified wood in my woolen trousers.
DeleteI’m in Hell. Boo!
I’m reasonably confident that most of what you’ve said isn’t true.
DeleteLeave Bruce “””the boss””” Springsteen alone. You don’t know his struggles. You don’t understand his pain. Try being more aware of the suffering of others and maybe you’ll get why this obscenely wealthy man needs you to sell one of your worthless kids to see him in concert. It’s magical.
ReplyDelete