The show lives (again)! The same can't always be said of its subjects. On the bright side, in the world of medicine the dead are often the lucky ones.

As if the human body needed any help killing itself in inventively painful and disgusting ways, we bring you so-called healthcare providers ready to aid in your pain and passing. From indifference to incompetence to straight-up animus, these Doc Daneekas of half-assed healing have Hippocrates (like many of their patients) rolling in his grave.

Maybe the title is misleading.

None of these mechanical malefactors has a neural net processor or one of those weird time-travelling plasma balls. This isn’t the AI apocalypse. Think less Terminator and more escalator. These are the plain old dumb machines that have quietly fueled our economy and made our lives more convenient for decades.

Until we let our guard down.

Call ‘em dumb. Call ‘em simple. That doesn’t make their murderous machinations any less deadly, because if you’re gonna by dumb, you gotta be tough, and when they grab you with their metal claws you can’t break free, because, in the words of Manhattan Assistant District Attorney Jack McCoy, “They’re made of metal. And robots are strong.”

It's payback time . . . 

An abused wife's simple act of vengeance traumatizes an entire generation of young men; ghettoized Jews make sport of killing Nazi; and a 10th century Ukrainian Queen’s not-so-simple revenge scheme skims an entire generation right out of the gene pool.

It lives!

After some technical difficulties (i.e. the Chernobyl-level collapse of multiple recording fail-safes) and the miraculous return of Dr. Fontes from death’s door (i.e. his medical conditions are as fraudulent as his medical degree), we’re back and as underprepared as ever!

On today’s menu:

Brains! They’re not just for zombies and rugby teams stranded in the Andes. But diner beware: here there be dragons. Or prions. Whichever one characterizes neurodegenerative diseases. And when the spongiform encephalopathy comes stalking, not even a resource-starved-public-school ignorance of biology can save you.

Sweet cherry pie. Turns out you’d be better off licking a toad. Because the warts you get from the latter only exist in the tales of old wives, while the warts you get from the former can give you cancer on your uvula. Or even you old wives’ tail.

Delicious cheeseburgers. Then more delicious cheeseburgers. Then some kind of fathomless, unknowable, Cthulhu-Mythos-buffet quantity of cheeseburgers. Plus bacon. Delicious? Yes. Deadly? It couldn’t hurt to add a cigarette and a margarita but yes, probably. Still, there are worse ways to go, and at the rate cows are burping methane into the atmosphere, the whole planet’s cooked in about a decade anyway. Unless . . . unless someone--some hero--can eat them all first. One cheeseburger at a time.

Not all heroes wear capes. But you might want to wear a bib.

A roller coaster that does too much rolling and not enough coasting. Or maybe the other way around.

Then, golf: the silent killer. 18 holes of terror. Blood on the fairway. The green runs red. Back 9 butchery. The--hang on . . . golf? Really? Ok, you’ll just have to trust us on this one.

And finally, at long last, the podcast goes in the cage. Cage goes in the water. Podcast goes in the water. Shark’s in the water.

Farewell and adieu to you, fair Spanish ladies, farewell and adieu, you ladies of Spain. For we've received orders for to sail back to Boston, and so nevermore shall we see you again.

Bonus content: I should stress this is yet to be confirmed, but all indications are that Fontes died about halfway through recording the episode. At some point, when I’m not so busy, I’ll contact the authorities about doing some sort of welfare check. Until then, it’s best to assume his small, sad apartment is filling with the stench of a corpse in the early stages of decomposition, and as soon as everyone has taken time to grieve or whatever we’ll start auditioning for a replacement. Anyone with experience getting high and laughing at their own jokes should send headshots and a $20 application fee to the address on the website.

P.S. On the off chance I’m wrong about the afterlife, it would be best for all parties if potential usurpers not be bothered by the prospect of vengeful hauntings, dark bedrooms suddenly filling with wheezing, disembodied stoner laughs, suspicious ectoplasm stains on and about your computer and other internet devices, coming home from work and finding your recently watched Netflix list clogged with Bill Engvall stand-up specials and documentaries about vegan molecular gastronomy, ghosts watching you sleep, spectral alfalfa farts, or any other inappropriate contact from beyond the grave.

Revenge!

Okay, to be fair, none of the parents killed here is in any way responsible for the children who died last week. But the next best thing to payback is paying it forward:

Three tales of killer kids. One that may or may not involve demonic possession. One that almost certainly doesn’t involve a 300-year-old werewolf. And one the result of nothing more supernatural than everyday addiction. To Xbox. So, you know, good job, millennials.

Easter egg: One of us intends to use the word “parricide” (which is the killing of one’s parents) but instead uses the word “paraphilia” (which is a clinical preoccupation with sexual perversions). It goes unnoticed, but is potentially quite telling. The most Freudian of slips.

This week, for reasons known only to Fontes and whatever demons drive his darker impulses, we delve into stories of children killed by the very people who were meant to protect them.

Anyone sensitive to issues of child abuse or Mike screaming insults at social workers who aren’t there to defend themselves should probably skip this one.

Just Desserts--sweet satisfaction or mere empty calories? We set out in search of delicious tales of bastards getting their comeuppance. We found instead three stories of compounding human tragedy:

• The frontman of a band with a name too filthy to print leads a life too filthy to last, because he who lives by the s-word (and the f-word and the c-word and whole alphabets of vulgarity) probably doesn’t die of old age surrounded by loved ones.

• After centuries as victims of devastating violence and disease, the few free Native tribes still fighting to save their way of life have their last stand culturally appropriated by a blowhard of such grandiose delusion he was the only one who thought this battle was about him.   

• Finally, some sallow English swains scuff their stockings skating on the Thames--and prove there is no real justice in the world.

Plus, the guys overshare!

Ew!

EEEEEWWWWWWW!!!

Why would anyone want to hear about this? What's wrong with you sickos?

Well, for the strong of spirit and stomach we have:

Mind-control fungus, enjoying leaches for health and beauty, worms that may or may not be boning in your colon, and a fruitless search for symbiosis of the scrotum. 

Plus scabies, crabs, ticks, chiggers, and the legend of a fish that swims up your pee hole.

The title says it all. 

The best episode so far.