This is your News You do not Need podcast.

Let me tell you about a breaking news story you absolutely do not need, but now your brain will insist on keeping forever.

Somewhere in Indiana, where the weather is doing its best impression of a refrigerated meat locker at about 35 degrees, a DoorDash driver was caught on a doorbell camera delivering dinner like a normal human… and then lovingly misting the food with pepper spray. Not a garnish, not a drizzle of aioli. Pepper. Spray.

The customer, who apparently lives on the edge and eats whatever shows up on the porch, later got sick and reviewed the security footage, probably expecting to see a raccoon, a porch pirate, or at worst, their own terrible posture. Instead, they see their delivery driver calmly set down the bag, pause, pull out a can, and spritz the order like it’s a houseplant that just confessed it doesn’t like ranch.

Police track down the driver, who explains, with the confidence of a child holding a broken lamp, that she was not spraying the food. No, she says, she was heroically defending the property from… a spider. A spider. On a freezing Indiana night. In conditions where meteorologists and biologists join hands and agree, “Yeah, the spiders tapped out weeks ago.”

Authorities, consulting both science and common sense, point out that spiders are not known for sunbathing on exposed surfaces when it’s practically penguin weather. Also, the video, that pesky modern invention, appears to show exactly zero spiders. Just one meal and one very determined spritz.

So now this driver is arrested, the customer is traumatized, and somewhere there is an actual spider who would like to speak to the manager about being dragged into this.

The best part is imagining the thought process. She’s walking up the steps: “Okay, drop bag, ring doorbell, annihilate imaginary arachnid with law-enforcement-grade eye melt. Normal shift.” At no point, apparently, did she think, “Huh, maybe the tiny beast does not require chemical warfare.”

And because this is how the world works now, this bizarre little slice of life has gone from “strange thing on my porch” to national news segment. Human civilization: thousands of years of progress so we can all gather around our screens and discuss the alleged motives behind seasoning takeout with mace.

Somewhere, important information is struggling to reach your brain. But there is no room anymore, because that space is now permanently occupied by the mental image of a frostbitten, nonexistent spider being used as an alibi in a criminal pepper-spraying-of-dinner investigation.

You did not need to know any of this. Yet here we are. You’re welcome.

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So, in the vast carnival of human achievement, today’s standout headline is not about peace, progress, or curing anything. No, it’s about a bandage. A very, very fancy bandage.

Hermès, the luxury brand known for selling handbags that cost more than a used car, briefly offered what was essentially a designer Band-Aid: a tiny adhesive strip priced around two hundred dollars, marketed as a “Band-Aid accessory.” Yes, that’s right. Somewhere in Paris, someone looked at a box of regular plasters and thought, “Cute, but what if it had a logo and crushed the will to the middle class?”

The product quietly appeared on the company’s website, just long enough for the internet to collectively spit out its coffee and say, “I’m sorry, a what?” Screenshots spread everywhere, commentary poured in, and within hours the item disappeared from the official store, like a shy, overvalued medical supply fleeing the scene of a financial crime.

People online immediately started doing the math no one ever asked for. If a normal box of bandages costs a few dollars, that means this one Hermès strip is worth… the entire first-aid aisle. Forget “slap a Band-Aid on it,” we’ve now entered “file an insurance claim before you open the packaging.” This is the first time in history you might genuinely worry, not about getting hurt, but about scratching your bandage.

The funniest part is the language around it. It wasn’t marketed as “a ridiculous sticker you put on a wound to impress nobody,” but as a cool, conceptual accessory. Because nothing says “lifestyle statement” like advertising your paper cut as having generational wealth. Imagine explaining this to your grandparents. They survived wars, rationing, and actual infections, and now you’re here like, “Grandma, I took out a small loan so my blister could feel pretty.”

I also like to imagine the scenarios. You’re at a party, someone asks, “Hey, what happened to your finger?” And you have to say, “Oh this? I nicked myself making avocado toast so I dressed the wound in French luxury. It’s not a cut, it’s a collaboration.”

Meanwhile, the product vanishes from the website, which only makes it worse. Now it’s not just an absurd object; it’s an absurd, limited-edition object. Somewhere, a collector is gently placing an unused Hermès bandage in a climate-controlled case next to rare coins and vintage wine, whispering, “This will appreciate faster than my 401(k).”

And this is a news story. Real journalists, with real degrees, had to type the sentence: “Hermès’ $200 Band-Aid accessory vanishes from the website,” then look at it and think, “Yes, this is the world now.” Governments are debating policy, scientists are arguing about quantum physics, and we’re over here tracking the lifecycle of a luxury sticker for minor abrasions.

Will this change your life in any way? Absolutely not. Will it make your day 3 percent weirder and maybe 10 percent funnier? Hopefully. And the next time you reach for a normal bandage, you can feel oddly proud. Sure, it doesn’t have a logo, but at least you didn’t have to choose between treating a paper cut and making your car payment.

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You know that feeling when you realize the human species has invented space travel, mapped the genome, and yet… today’s big headline is: “Oklahoma dog earns Guinness World Record for longest tongue”?

Somewhere in Oklahoma, there is now a perfectly ordinary-looking rescue dog who just happens to have a red carpet of slobber hanging out of his mouth like a necktie that missed the memo about business casual. This dog’s tongue is so long, it needs its own parking permit. The official measurement people actually flew in, with clipboards and very serious faces, to measure something that, if we’re honest, most of us yell at our own dogs to put away at dinnertime.

They didn’t just eyeball it, either. Oh no. There was a full scientific procedure: dog stands still, tongue fully extended, humans crouched at a respectful distance trying not to get hit by the splash zone, measuring from snout to tip like it’s the world’s saddest, damp tape measure. Somewhere out there is a Guinness adjudicator whose job performance review includes the sentence: “Handled excessive drool with professionalism.”

Now, the owner says the dog is a sweetheart, totally unaware of his newfound fame, just living his best life, accidentally mopping every floor he walks across. Imagine trying to explain this to your insurance company: “No, I didn’t spill water. The dog turned his head too fast.” You’re not slipping on ice, you’re slipping on Labrador linguine.

And you know this started as a throwaway comment. Somebody looked at that dog and said, “That can’t be normal.” Then somebody else replied, “We should measure it.” Next thing you know, there’s paperwork, international verification, and this dog has a credential more impressive than most people’s LinkedIn profiles. There are adults out there with student loans, and this animal just has to exist and drool to become a global record holder.

Is there any practical use for the world’s longest canine tongue? None. Absolutely none. Unless you count the ability to remove food from the bottom of a saucepan without getting your paws dirty. It does, however, guarantee that if you sit on that couch, you will be kissed. On the face. From across the room. You aren’t being affectionate with the dog; you are entering the splash radius.

Meanwhile, in the background, there are serious stories: elections, storms, economics, geopolitics. But tucked neatly at the end of a newscast, right after “Stay safe out there,” comes, “Also, meet this dog whose mouth simply… keeps going.” And we all lean in, because deep down, we absolutely want to know. We don’t need to know. But we want to.

That’s the magic of it. This dog has no idea he has broken a world record. He’s just wondering why strangers keep showing up, pointing cameras at his face, and saying, “Okay, buddy, one more time, tongue out!” Meanwhile he’s thinking, “I’m just trying to eat peanut butter, why are you like this?”

So yes, while the planet spins through space at 30 kilometers a second, civilization has paused, collectively, to say: “Behold. The tongue.” You can go to bed tonight comforted by the knowledge that somewhere in Oklahoma, a dog is dragging what is essentially a red carpet of saliva through life, and a panel of international adults has officially agreed that it is, measurably, gloriously, unnecessarily long.

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So I woke up today, checked the news, and immediately learned something that absolutely nobody needs to know: two teenagers in Wisconsin have now become the first Care Bears to be arrested in the line of non-duty.

Police in Wauwatosa responded to reports of trespassers inside an abandoned Radisson hotel. Already, this sounds like the start of a low-budget horror movie: empty rooms, echoing corridors, mysterious footsteps, and then… a squad car pulls up and finds Cheer Bear and Grumpy Bear committing the least on-brand crime imaginable.

According to police bodycam video, officers search this deserted hotel, fling open a door, and suddenly there are teens in full Care Bear onesies, frozen like extremely guilty plush toys. One officer, who clearly did not train for this moment at the academy, asks, “What are you guys, Care Bears?” The teens, having decided we’re all in too deep to lie now, basically go, “Yeah.” The officer replies, with the weary resignation of a man who has written too many reports, “Well, you are trespassing. Yeah. It’s going to feel weird.”

Imagine being handcuffed in a pastel onesie with a giant smiling tummy symbol, escorted out of an abandoned Radisson like you’ve just been evicted from a very sad children’s cartoon convention. These two were part of a group of seven teens, ages sixteen to nineteen, who scattered through the empty corridors when police arrived. Officers had to clear dozens of vacant rooms, which I assume is much less dramatic when the suspects are basically walking stuffed animals.

Somewhere there is a booking log that will forever read: “Suspects: two Care Bears, charge: trespassing, location: former business hotel off the highway.” That paperwork is going to sit in a folder next to actual crimes, and someday a lawyer will have to say the words “My client, the Care Bear, pleads not guilty” with a straight face.

And the story raises big questions, philosophically speaking. If you are dressed as a Care Bear, are you morally obligated to only commit crimes of excessive kindness? Like, you can trespass, but only if you leave motivational notes and fresh towels. Also, how do you give a stern parental lecture to a teenager whose entire outfit is designed to communicate “I believe in friendship and rainbows”?

I like to imagine the hotel itself, abandoned, hauntingly quiet, suddenly waking up after years of silence to: doors banging, cops shouting, and two cartoon bears being led out in handcuffs. That building has seen business conferences, wedding receptions, maybe a couple of questionable DJs, and now this is the last entry in its memory: “Closed for renovations, reopened briefly as a youth crime scene featuring licensed characters.”

And yet, for all this, your life is unchanged. Your rent is the same, your coffee is still too expensive, and global events remain chaotic. You did not need to know that today, somewhere in America, the long arm of the law reached out and gently but firmly grabbed a pair of Care Bears by the fuzzy wrists.

But now you do. And that useless little fact is going to live rent-free in your brain forever, right next to your childhood nostalgia and the theme song that is absolutely going to start playing in your head the next time you pass a Radisson.

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I woke up today thinking, “Surely there is nothing new I need to know about molten rock,” and Kilauea volcano in Hawaii immediately took that as a personal challenge. So here I am, a full-grown adult, reporting to you about the tragic, fiery demise of a webcam.

At Hawaii Volcanoes National Park, Kilauea has been in one of those long-running lava moods scientists politely call an “ongoing eruption.” Yesterday’s installment, charmingly labeled Episode 38, went from “mildly dramatic” to “Michael Bay reboot” in a matter of hours. After just a day of low‑level rumbling, multiple vents opened in the summit crater, throwing lava fountains into the air like a very angry fondue fountain. One of those vents on the south side suddenly cranked things up and blasted a lava fountain more than a thousand feet high, leaning ominously toward a nearby U.S. Geological Survey webcam like it had a personal vendetta.

Now, this camera was mounted in a closed area of the national park, safely away from tourists, doing what webcams do best: quietly streaming nature so the rest of us can ignore our responsibilities while watching orange goo. The video shows the fountain growing, the plume of hot pumice and volcanic gas expanding, and then the view just gets swallowed by a glowing, ash‑filled cloud. For a few seconds, you basically get the POV shot of what it’s like to be head‑butted by a volcano. Then: nothing. Kilauea didn’t just photobomb the webcam; it deleted it from existence.

Scientists say the episode ended abruptly after about twelve hours of continuous lava fountaining, presumably because even a volcano has to look in the mirror and say, “Did I just melt government property?” The park was already closed in that area because of eruptive hazards, which is geology‑speak for “this is why we don’t let you get close enough to take selfies.”

To be clear, no people were harmed. The only casualty was a piece of equipment whose entire job description was “stand still and take it.” Somewhere in a lab, a volcanologist is filling out an insurance form that reads “Cause of loss: direct hit by 1,000‑foot lava fountain,” and an actuary is quietly quitting.

The best part is that this was all being livestreamed. Imagine tuning in for a relaxing background volcano feed, like a lava fireplace channel, and suddenly you’re watching the literal last moments of the camera. It’s the only nature stream where the subject turns around and films you back by destroying the lens.

So yes, in the vast landscape of things you absolutely did not need to know today, here’s your winner: a volcano in Hawaii fired a precision lava beam at a government webcam and won. Somewhere, deep inside Kilauea, the Earth just unlocked a new achievement: “Camera not found.”

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So, here’s a sentence you never expected to care about: somewhere in the world, in the last 24 hours, people have been passionately arguing about… how to weigh a giant block of cheese.

Not eat it. Weigh it.

Picture a small European town that has decided the best way to get on the map is to create the world’s largest cheese sculpture. Not a respectable wheel, not something that fits in a fridge. No. This thing needs its own weather forecast. It’s part tourist attraction, part engineering hazard, part lactose-based cry for attention.

They unveil it in the town square, and it’s magnificent: a towering statue of the mayor carved entirely out of hard cheese, complete with a smug little grin and, for some reason, abs. The crowd is cheering. Kids are pointing. Lactose-intolerant people are backing away slowly, clutching their emergency tablets.

Then someone asks the question that ruins everything:

“So… how much does it weigh?”

Silence. The mayor blinks. The cheesemaker shrugs. The tourism director starts to sweat. Because you can’t claim “world’s biggest” without a number, and “a lot” is not Guinness‑book compatible.

The first idea is simple: roll it onto a giant industrial scale. Great. Except the cheese is now too big to fit through the barn door they built it in. No one measured the door. They measured the fame, but not the door.

Plan B: drive a forklift under it, lift it, and weigh the forklift. Very clever. Except the forklift sinks a little into the grass, and now you have a debate over whether you’re weighing cheese or lightly compressed soil. Somewhere, a physicist feels a disturbance in the force.

Plan C is where it gets truly bizarre. Someone suggests using water displacement, like a giant cheesy Archimedes experiment. Theoretically: dunk the cheese, measure how much water spills out, and boom, science. Practically: you now have a town committee discussing whether it’s safe to lower a multi-ton dairy monument into the local swimming pool.

That’s when the pool manager asks the only reasonable question in this whole saga: “What happens to the pool filters?” The answer is: they die. They absolutely die. Nobody wants to be the one to explain to the health inspector why the municipal pool has turned into French onion soup.

So they scrap that idea and land on the kind of solution humanity always finds at the intersection of stubbornness and poor planning: they guess. But not casually. They form a cheese‑weight task force. There are spreadsheets. There is a projector. There is a person whose official job, for a full afternoon, is “Head of Density Assumptions.”

They measure smaller blocks made from the same batch, calculate average density, multiply by volume, adjust for “decorative crumbling,” and debate whether the sculpted mayor’s nostrils count as negative space. This is all happening while tourists are taking selfies with a dairy colossus that might technically be an unlicensed structural load.

After hours of effort, they proudly announce the final number with great ceremony, as if they’ve just solved climate change instead of estimating the mass of a giant edible politician. The mayor gives a speech about tradition and community. The cheesemaker cries a little. The town claps. A reporter writes it up. You, an unsuspecting human just trying to live your life, now know this story.

Will this information ever help you? No.

Will you remember the actual number? Absolutely not.

But lodged forever in the back of your mind is the fact that somewhere, a committee once seriously considered dunking a gigantic statue of a man made of cheese into a public pool, in the name of accuracy.

And that, unfortunately, is now something you know.

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Let me fetch more details about the art installation since that seems like the most bizarre and entertaining story.

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You know, I came across this absolutely wild story that I just had to share because it perfectly captures the kind of news that makes you wonder what's happening in the world. So picture this: there's a guy named Gary, and Gary is a cat. Not just any cat, mind you, but apparently the subject of a legal battle that would make any daytime court show producer weep with joy.

Back in December of last year, a woman named Yang decided she'd had enough and sued someone named DeNardo over Gary. The amount? Twenty thousand dollars. Now you're probably thinking, what on earth could a cat possibly be worth that requires a lawsuit, and that's exactly what I thought too. Well, turns out Yang originally bought Gary, so when the court ruled in her favor on November fifth, Gary got a new address and probably a very confused expression on his furry little face.

I mean, imagine being a cat and not knowing that your entire custody situation was being litigated in court. Gary was just out there living his best nine-lived life, completely unaware that lawyers were probably billing hours arguing about who gets to feed him, who gets to pet him, and whose house he gets to knock things off of. The whole situation is so absurd that you have to appreciate it. This is the kind of story that reminds us that in a world with real problems, some people are genuinely spending their time and money battling over a pet. And honestly, that's kind of beautiful in its own ridiculous way.

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So picture this: It's the day after Thanksgiving, people are still digesting turkey, and somewhere in America, a cranberry sauce crisis is unfolding that absolutely nobody asked for. Ocean Spray, the company that's been putting those cylindrical cans of jiggly cranberry sauce on dinner tables since basically forever, is now investigating reports that some of their cans contain nothing but water. Just water. Pure, disappointing water where the crimson sauce should be.

The videos started circulating over the weekend, and naturally they went viral because the internet loves nothing more than food disappointment. Someone opened up a can of Ocean Spray cranberry sauce, and instead of that satisfying plop of gelatinous red goodness, out came what can only be described as liquid regret. The person filming it was clearly baffled, saying in the background, "This is not possible," which is a fair assessment when your holiday side dish has betrayed you so thoroughly.

Now here's where it gets deliciously bizarre. Multiple videos started popping up showing the same thing, and immediately the internet detectives came out of the woodwork suggesting that maybe, just maybe, these are hoaxes. Or staged. Or possibly created by artificial intelligence to mess with people's minds. Because apparently we live in a timeline where someone might fake a water-filled cranberry sauce video just to get internet clout.

Ocean Spray responded with admirable professionalism, essentially saying, "Yeah, we're aware that a few cans are basically just expensive water, and we're looking into it." They even offered to reach out to the people who shared the videos and make things right, which is corporate speak for "Please stop telling people our product is a scam."

The kicker? Millions of families successfully enjoyed their cranberry sauce this holiday season, but apparently one or two families got the aquatic edition instead. It's the kind of news story that makes you grateful for your boring, uneventful holiday while simultaneously making you paranoid about opening any canned goods ever again.

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So there's this thing that happened in North Carolina, and I have to tell you, it's the kind of story that makes you question the entire natural order of things. A woman was just driving along, minding her own business, when suddenly a cat carcass came crashing through her windshield. But here's the kicker – it wasn't dropped by some freak accident or a random vehicle. A bald eagle did it. An actual bald eagle, America's national bird, apparently decided to use this woman's car as a landing pad for its fresh kill.

When she called 911, I can only imagine the dispatcher on the other end had to pause for a moment. I mean, how many times do you get a call that starts with "a bald eagle just dropped a cat through my windshield"? The woman somehow walked away without any injuries, which honestly might be the most unbelievable part of this entire story. She got hit by a dead cat falling from the sky at highway speeds, and she's fine. That's either incredible luck or the universe owes her a lottery ticket.

Now, the really bizarre thing about this is that bald eagles are absolutely massive and powerful birds. They have better eyesight than humans, they're apex predators, and they're supposed to be majestic symbols of freedom. But instead, this one became a delivery service for roadkill. I bet if you told that eagle what it accomplished, it would have no idea it just became part of one of the weirdest news stories of the week. Meanwhile, this North Carolina driver probably has the most insane insurance claim story of her entire life. Good luck explaining that one to your insurance company without sounding completely unhinged.

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