Conan O’Brien Needs A Friend Team Coco

I’ve been a listener for a few years now, and I haven’t felt the full effect of this podcast until today. I’m even more a fan now than I ever was.

My girlfriend and I had an argument in which I’m pretty sure she’s being unreasonable (which could be a bias stance to take, but that’s not the point), and I was so mad. Like, punching an object (not my girlfriend but say no to domestic abuse). Like, scream-in-your-car-alone, angry.

I swear I am not lying when I say listening to Christian worship music did not help one bit with my anger.

But oh boy when I turned on this podcast… within minutes, my face turned in a grin and I couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. After a few more minutes, I was laughing and at such a relaxed state. Literally, all anger dissipated from me as I listen to Conan and the Chill Chums talking to their fans.

Thank you Team Coco for all that you do and please never stop doing this podcast! Even if you have to call back guests 5 more times!

P.S. Conan’s voice isn’t weird; its what I aspire to.

(Some details were inspired by Conan’s NYT article)
Funeral plan:

After spending a lifetime dying, we can only do it once, and why not make the best of it?

I want a lavishly organised funeral, catching so much attention that it could be live-streamed on national television and that I could sell advertisement with placements on my coffin, by wearing six different designer shirts while laying dead flat, with billboards that are completely out of place, and verbal mentioning by the emcee, who by the way will be one with speech impairment (we have to cut the budget somewhere). That sponsorship money could then afford me an extravaganza.

I want it to happen before I am dead, but I won’t tell anyone about it. 200 people would be there, then as some of my distant acquaintances (as all of those whom I perceived to be close friends said they were busy) say nice things about me, 2 men would cry — my financial adviser, and another guy with some sort of disease in his lacrimal gland. After 3 hours of lackadaisical speech marathon, I will abseil down the roof, smashing onto the ground, face first onto some scattered rocks, and shout “TADA”. Nobody will hear me on the first try because I forgot to pay for a microphone.

I will snake climb my way up to the stage, and then give a speech about myself. Halfway through, I would notice that the script was unfinished and most of the papers were empty. So I will start asking trivia questions about myself, to which I don’t even know the answer. At this point the audience starts to file out in disgust, the first to do so would be my sister.

I let out a long sigh after the last person steps out of the funeral hall. As I did most of my life, I would invite much annoyance and hatred and perhaps utter disgust just before I go. My death, therefore, would be associated with ubiquitous delight.

“Eh are we done here?”, a grumpy old man shouts.

“Yep sorry, just a moment”. I would murmur as I am trying to stand up. It’s the fifth step. I would collapse to the ground.

The end.

Practically every episode I will burst out laughing. Lol