When you can't write a song, just sing what you're actually seeing or holding the moment that you open your mouth. That way you can belt out a total piece of trash, just like you were meant to. Turn up the volume! Listen to us talk about stuff and play audio clips! See?
Plus Tommy met Mike Tyson. What? Yup. And it's a pretty crazy story. Turns out the former champ is a big fan of streaming content. 
Do Cargo shorts make that bulge even BIGGER? The mommy's debate and invite you to weigh in with your d**k knowledge. Give us your best shot, little jeans.
And OMG Maria is FIRED UP. Was it service? Yes. Was it Starbucks? No. Is a race/ethnicity mentioned? You bet!
Pull em up!

249-Your Mom's House with Christina Pazsitzky and Tom Segura

Hammer Down

Lyrics 

Met you in a room of bright ideas,
Notes and coffee, nervous smiles.
You laughed like summer in a storm,
I fell a mile in just a while.
You were all precision, quiet fire,
Pages turning, future set—
And for a second in your eyes
I almost could forget.


You said, “I’m leaving soon—another shore.”
A truth that weighed like iron in the floor.


So we were close, but out of reach,
Goodbye before hello could even speak.
You took the sky; I kept the street—
A thousand miles and midnights in between.
You were real, but not to hold,
A gentle flame in winter cold.
I let you go, still years unfold—
I miss the girl I never got to know.


Clever lines and paper planes,
You mapped a world beyond the map.
I wore my heart in second place,
Afraid to ask, afraid to ask.
You touched my sleeve—“write me sometime,”
A promise folded, thin and light.
Airports bloom and seasons die;
You live in every quiet night.


Your train pulled out; the window framed your face—
I stood there learning how to lose with grace.




If time was kind, we’d meet again—
Same course, same laugh, same sudden rain.
But tickets print in black and white;
We loved in almosts, not in time.


So we were close, but out of reach…
(I kept the street; you kept the beach.)
You were real, but not to hold—
A gentle flame in winter cold.
I let you go, but truth remains:
You’re in the spaces no one names.


Miles and midnights… still between.

Gentleman

Theory Of A Deadman