You know how some people have a love language? Words of affirmation, acts of service, quality time? Yeah, my husband’s love language is podcasts. Specifically, Tim Dillon and Joe Rogan—which means that at any given moment, our house could either sound like a conspiracy convention or a stand-up show gone rogue.
It started off innocently enough. A podcast here, a YouTube clip there. But before I knew it, the man was sneaking AirPods in during dinner, chuckling to himself while washing dishes, and—this is the real kicker—listening to Tim Dillon while putting the baby to sleep. (Our poor child is going to have the sharpest sense of humor and a lot of unfiltered opinions.)
Morning coffee? Joe Rogan’s latest episode. Evening downtime? Another deep-dive into whatever insanity Tim Dillon is ranting about that day. And road trips? Oh, forget about listening to music. My car has been hijacked into a rolling podcast studio where I’m now an involuntary audience member to in-depth discussions on aliens, cancel culture, and how everyone is lying to us. (I just wanted to hum along to some Bollywood classics, man.)
To be fair, I can’t entirely blame him. Podcasts are his escape—his way to unwind after a long day, a stress-buster that doesn’t require a screen. And honestly? It’s kind of endearing. He doesn’t just listen passively; he commits. He pauses episodes to passionately explain “the best part” to me (whether I asked or not). He laughs out loud like he’s in the audience. He debates imaginary critics in his head.
And occasionally, I catch myself enjoying an episode or two. (Don’t tell him I said that.)
So, while I may never fully understand this deep, undying love for long-form discussions about everything under the sun, I’ve made peace with it. My husband and his podcasts are a package deal. And hey, at least Tim Dillon keeps things entertaining—because if I have to live in a house where podcasts reign supreme, they better be funny.
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