Your humble host begins this episode kvetching about various First World problems, which include: a damaged washer/dryer, a bed frame imbroglio, and assorted other supply chain/technician fiascoes. Yes, it's an elite episode of Obscure today as we visit with our own Clyde Griffiths sitting there in a Bridgeburg jail cell without benefit of a washer/dryer or tufted bed frame. Terrible.

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Let's contemplate for a moment, shall we, the lack of social structure in poor Clyde Griffith's life. No immediate family to protect him in Lycurgus (though he has, of course, blood relative), no social structure other than the one into which he was wormed his way and to which he dare not speak his secret. The good gal in his life is dead by his hand. Sondra is 17 and worthless. And so, without such a village as most of are lucky enough to have, is it any wonder that this poor worthless lad ended up in terrible straits? It is not!

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From the Jill Schwartz Memorial Library here in the wilds of Connecticut... after a 4 year Savannah sojourn, your host has returned to the woods. A new home in a new forested town with new, disease-bearing ticks. Does it feel good to be back in the wilds? It does. As for Clyde, the woods proved to be a disaster. Arrested, imprisoned, and now fighting for his life. The DA Mason needs the case to be decided in his favor. But shall it be? SHALL IT BE?!?

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Two horse patooties on this week's episode of Obscure. In the case of your host, the patootiness stems from taking extra trips when I'd rather be home. This episode, I briefly describe a short trip to New Hampshire from which I've just returned that I need not have agreed to go to, despite the fact that I had cromulent time. The second horse's patootie, of course, is our own Clyde, now incarcerated and finding himself the subject of horror and scorn. Between the two of us, I suspect my own trip to the New Hampshire Film Festival left me in a better position than Clyde finds himself.

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Twice-over murderer Clyde Griffiths finds himself at the mercy of Johnny Law. Now he's in the hoosegow, awaiting his fate. Meanwhile, his fancy pals over at the campsite have are tres, tres bummed. Their own Clyde, arrested for murder? How could it be? And poor Sondra Finchley now left flummoxed and alone; "I don't believe a word of it," says she. Sorry, chicky, but belief doesn't come into play here. It's about the fact, ma'am, and nothing but.

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As indisputable proof arises that Clyde is, indeed, the instrument of death in the case of one Roberta Alden, Orville B. Mason isn't having more of young Master Griffiths' bunkum. Things continue to deteriorate for our young hero, whose defense is now crumbling as assuredly as Clyde once assuredly strode through the streets of Lycurgus, New York. Well, his time in Lycurgus is now done. The only question now is where our young hero now meets his end.

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Mallomars, a terrific confection, is the subject of some discussion early in this episode which reminds your host that Mike and Tom Eat Snacks is back, a podcast featuring Michael Ian Black and Tom Cavanagh picking, eating, and rating snacks. Why promote another podcast during this podcast? Because your host is whore. Other whorish behavior in this episode: Clyde Griffiths has confirmed his identity to a sheriff's deputy and it looks as though the whole sordid tale will at last be revealed.

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Your host complains of insomnia, discusses his genetic mutations, and makes this episode all about HIM instead of the terrible plight of Clyde Griffiths, who remains on the run from Johnny Law. All the good and wealthy young people of Lycurgus a-camping out there in far-flung Adirondack Mountain lakes may not be enough to protect the murderer in their midst... or will they???

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First off, your host doesn't party. Didn't party in 1999 and doesn't party now, so the title was, we're sorry to report, a lie. Even so, some late 20th century memories are returning to this 21st century babe, which involve living back in NYC after a multiple-decade absence. One can feel mighty alone, even when surrounded by people. You know who's aware of that more than even your host? Mr. Clyde Griffiths, now on the run and unable to confess his fears to anyone, not even dear Sondra Finchley .

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Both Clyde and your host have a few bucks in our pockets. Your host, because he is a VERY FAMOUS CNN political contributor (not, strictly speaking, true) and because Clyde's gal pal Sondra Finchley slipped him eighty smackaroos, which is something like ten million dollars in today's money. (Again, not true). Are Clyde's final days of freedom upon him, or will he escape Johnny Law's long arm and retire in the gentle bosom of young Sondra Finchley?

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