DISGRACELAND - Jose Canseco: SWAT Teams, Smuggled Drugs, and 'Roid Rage

Episode Date: June 11, 2024

Jose Canseco was a big league slugger who gave the people what they wanted. Not just massive home runs and a whole lot of stolen bases. He provided entertainment. And his audience, not just baseball fans but the world, ate it up. The private encounter with Madonna in her apartment that nearly cost him a spot on the roster. The obsession with performance enhancing drugs that made him the self-proclaimed godfather of steroids. But entertaining quickly spun out of control. Car crashes. SWAT teams. Smuggled drugs. Before too long, Jose Canseco found himself blacklisted, behind bars, and the focal point of a congressional hearing.To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com.To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at disgracelandpod.com/membership.Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTERFollow Jake and DISGRACELAND:InstagramYouTubeX (formerly Twitter) Facebook Fan GroupTikTok To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Jose Kinseko are insane. He was detained for trying to smuggle drugs across the border from Mexico into the United States. He was the target of a police SWAT team when a gun was found in his car. He was sued for his part in a nightclub brawl while dressed as a vampire.

He was busy being seduced by Madonna in her apartment when he was supposed to be taking batting practice before a game. And he was the self-proclaimed godfather of steroids, using, abusing, and introducing other players to the juice over the entirety of his 17-year Major League baseball career. And he did it all unapologetically, while simultaneously being a part of some of the greatest moments in sports history. Unlike that loop I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't a great sports moment. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Stranger Is as Stranger Does, MK1.

I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to a clip from She Drives Me Crazy by Fine Young Cannibals. And why would I play you that specific slice of the raw and the cooked cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on April 21st, 1989. And that was the day that Jose Konseco found himself surrounded by police cars, a SWAT van, and a hovering helicopter. On this episode, drug smuggling, SWAT teams, nightclub brawls, police helicopters, unapologetically juiced in Jose Konseko. I'm Jake Brennan. and this is disgrace land. 1989, San Francisco.

Jose Konseco slammed on the brakes. As he did, the 9-millimeter automatic hidden inside the bag on the passenger seat slid out and hit the floor of the car. He didn't have time to worry about that right now, or about the fact that he just parked in a handicapped spot. All he could think about was getting this fucking cast off his hand. He stepped out of his candy apple red jaguar,

and slammed the door shut. Minutes later, he was inside the Sports Medicine Center at the University of California, sitting on an exam room table, tapping on that stupid cast and waiting for the doctor. He was anxious. Just like he was in the batter's box, every time he was about to send a baseball into orbit,

farther than anyone else in the majors could have ever dreamed. He was so anxious, in fact, that his body was beginning to shake. But wait, that wasn't him shaking. That was the walls of the exam room. There was a rumble coming from outside. Through the window, he watched a helicopter pass by low. There was a light knock on the door and the doctor walked in. Finally.

Hey, Doc, how much longer till this plaster comes off and it's back to the field and back to the wait room? A few more weeks? Great. We good here? Jose Konseko didn't have time for this. He made his way to the exit still nervously tapping on the cast. That's when he noticed the sound of the helicopter getting louder. It wasn't just passing by. It was hovering in place, right outside the building. Jose wanted no part in the circus it was about to happen.

It didn't matter what it was. He had no business being anywhere near some bad shit news story. Everyone would just want a piece of them. try to rope him in like they always did. He moved fast, out of the hospital, hustling now back toward his souped-up jag, remembering shit that the gun was still on the floor. Gotta pick that up and put it back, but do it quick, because it was time for Jose Konseco to do what he did best.

Blow off some steam and push the convertible to its limit. Miami, two months earlier. The highway patrolman flipped on his lights and siren and sunk his foot into the gas pedal. The Porsche wasn't just speeding, it was flying. Clock doing 120. Now the cop was in hot pursuit, doing everything he could to keep up. His patrol car gripped the road tight. Up ahead inside the Porsche, Jose Kinseko gripped the wheel.

He couldn't believe the fuel was working. This shit was supposed to be for airplanes only. Hell, he could have hit 200 miles per hour if you wanted. The top was down, and the wind blew back his hair. Bigger, better, faster. Mr. 40-40 here, that's 40 bases stolen and 40 home runs in a single season. Fast on the road, fast as anyone in the bigs, power to spare, MVP after just three years. He was the best player in Major League Baseball.

Jose Kinseko was invincible. His oversized muscles rippled, especially when he gripped the wheel of his chariot like a Greek god as he was currently doing. muscles he got from using, mind you, legal steroids. Well, legal in his mind. Legal in the sense that Major League Baseball didn't give you more than a slap on the wrist that they found you tested positive for them. Kinseko ignored all that, just like he ignored the jeers of the crowds and opposing stadiums. Even the racist ones had attacked his Cuban heritage.

He flexed at them when they alleged he was using juice. The Washington Post, for one, claimed in an unsubstantiated piece that it was the juice that made him great. That was bullshit. Steroids didn't make Jose Canseco great. Jose Canseco made Jose Canseco great. What did he care about their opinion of the sanctity of the game or whatever that was anyways? He was sick of opinions, sick of questions, sick of the lack of privacy, of living like what he called a quote-unquote zoo animal. He wanted to lose the target on his back.

But after the best year of his career in 1989, that target wasn't going anywhere. He tried to ignore it as he gave the people what they really wanted. And what did the people want? Not morals. Not getting steroids out of baseball. What they wanted was drama. Just like the drama out here on this Miami Highway.

Those blue lights would never catch him. He was going so fast he barely knew he was. was even being chased. But Jose Konseco couldn't run forever. Back in the university parking lot in San Francisco, he made a bee line for his car, not the Porsche, but the Candy Apple Red Jaguar. The one parked in the handicapped spot

with a loaded gun on the floor. And then, Jose Konseko froze. It wasn't just a helicopter hovering overhead. There was a swap van parked nearby. The place was swarming, with cops, all of them closing in on him, on his car. There was no outrunning this one. He let them read him his rights and slapped the cuffs on him.

Turns out some college kids have been checking out his less-than-conspicuous whip and spied the gun on the floor inside. They called 911 and now this, a huge problem. Not just the fact that the piece was loaded. It was unregistered and found on university property. Jose said he carried the gun for protection. It was the same excuse he'd given when a member of his entourage was once Nab for bringing a piece onto a plane. But the cops didn't give a shit about that.

They didn't care about Jose Canseco's busted wrist either or about what he was going through that warranted his carrying a gun, or about what it was like dealing with fame every day of your life. None of that matter now. Jose Canseco wasn't just a target. He was the antagonist to the entire sports world. This wasn't about morals. It was about whether or not he was doing. dangerous or a threat. It was, at least in his mind, all about the authorities making an

example out of him. And it was, as he would say years later, all about entertainment, about giving the people what they wanted. And in that department, Jose Konseco never disappointed. 1992, Southwest Dade County. Jose Konseco was pissed. He was yelling at his estranged wife, Esther, inside a shell station convenience store. He snatched the purse from her hands and pulled out a pager. The attendant, behind the counter, just wanted both of them to leave. He didn't necessarily see a famous person doing famous person things. He saw an oversized dude with a mullet in a supermodel who were making him more than a little uncomfortable.

The couple continued to argue. This shit was bad for business. The attendant wondered if he should interfere. What was the protocol for trying to mellow out of fear? famous ball player who looked like a pro wrestler. Four bucks an hour wasn't worth an inevitable right hook to the face. So he stood by and watched nervously as Jose Konseco scrolled through the pager, asking Esther who the hell she had been talking to and what were all these numbers?

It was nothing, she told him. He was overreacting, blowing it all out of proportion like another rocket sent into the stands at the Oakland Coliseum. Kinseko seethed. He shoved the purse back into her hands. hand, but there was no way she was getting the pager back. Fine. Esther just wanted to get out. She turned and headed straight for her white BMW. Jose watched from inside the shell station as she turned the engine over, and then she tore

ass out of the shell parking lot. Jose Konseko and his wife Esther have been trying to fix things for over a year now, and it's not like he was completely free from blame. Though he had to say, that whole thing with Madonna the year prior went down when he and Esther were technically separated. He was young, 26, but he knew what he was getting into. That the material girl wanted more than his autograph, that she wanted to have a Cuban baby with a virile Cuban guy, or at least that was the rumor. Regardless, Kinseko accepted her invitation to hang out at her Manhattan apartment, and he brought his agent with him. he figured nothing would happen, which is mostly true. Madonna took him into her bedroom alone, drew the shades,

and then she put her new documentary, Truth or Dare, on the television. Specifically, the scene where she simulates masturbation on stage while singing like a virgin. Kinseko sat there on the bed, his pulse quickening, his palms sweaty. He turned to look at Madonna sitting next to him. Well, she asked, what do you think? What did Jose Canseco think? He thought of a lot of things. Most importantly, however, he thought it was time to leave, which it actually was.

He had a game in town at 705 that night and it was now rush hour. He barely made it to the stadium in time, missed batting practice completely and was nearly wiped from the roster. The humiliation brought down on him by his manager Tony Larusa that night was bad. But it wasn't as bad as a few months later when the athletics were back in town to play in the Bronx. The Yankees fans were brutal. Where's Madonna? They yelled at him from the outfield stands. Where's Esther?

Where's your piece, Jose? But the worst was that fucking blow-up doll they tossed onto the field. Fitted with a blonde wig and wearing a t-shirt that read, I love Jose. He could hear the entire stadium laughing at him. He saw red. Just like he was seeing red now. Standing inside a 24-hour shell station looking at his estranged wife's pager in his

hand, one with phone numbers he did not recognize. Seconds later, he was in his red Porsche chasing after that white BMW, a heat-seeking missile intent on inflicting retribution. He moved fast, like he always did, and he came up on Esther's car quickly, too quickly. He slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. The Porsche went into a skid, and Jose spun the wheel to avoid what was about to happen, but what was about to happen was already in motion. and the Porsche slammed into the side of the BMW, pushing it off the road.

And the car is split in opposite directions. Tires squealed, metal shrieked. Both vehicles came to an ear-spilling halt. Adrenaline was pumping through Jose's veins. The same adrenaline that coursed through his body every time he ripped a fastball out of the ballpark. Blue lights were already flickering as he crawled out of his smashed-up convertible and staggered toward the wrecked beamer. He reared back and spat across the window just as a cop caught up to him and carted him off to a jail cell. By 1992, Jose Konseco wasn't just a one-season phenomenon anymore.

He was making a living feasting on every pitcher the big leagues had to offer. He was the best hitter of the majors had seen for years, and he sustained his success through his dedication to the craft. Dedication that saw him make multiple all-star game appearances and earned most valuable player votes every season that he was healthy. He even won a World Series that took place during an earthquake. And Jose Kinseko was an earthquake. He shook the very league to its foundations.

For six seasons in Oakland, he set the majors on fire. But then, just as quickly as he rocketed to the top, things began to unravel. It didn't start quietly. There was that helicopter-assisted swat arrest in San Francisco. the car-ramming marital spat that left him in cuffs, a litany of speeding tickets, multiple instances of near fights with fans. He was even traded in the middle of a game.

Swear to God, look it up. He was literally told he was being traded while standing in the on-deck circle before his second at bat during a game against the Baltimore Orioles. But these were only the things the public could see. Bubbling under the surface was a horrible truth that would not only Blacklist Kinseko from the game that he loved. but would change the very fabric of Major League Baseball forever. Steroids.

Jose Konseko claimed he'd taken them his entire career, initially just to pack on a few extra pounds and build his body up for the long grind of the season. He remembered how terrifying that first injection was, wondering how they would change him, whether they might kill him. But they didn't. In fact, he claimed they didn't do much of anything at all.

Did steroids make someone great? No, but they sure did help. They gave you a little extra edge if you were already performing at a high level. They helped with recovery time from injuries, which became more and more important for an injury-prone Jose Kinseko. And they never been explicitly taboo by big league standards. That's what Jose said anyway. He was the self-proclaimed godfather of steroids.

Guys in the clubhouse dubbed him the chemist. The code name Kinseko milkshake became accepted, shorthand for juice. Rumors of him injecting teammates in backrooms and bathroom stalls ran wild throughout the majors. He later claimed the managers knew, the staff knew, and the players, of course, knew. Jose Konseko said it was no secret at all. And while Jose Konseko was enjoying a potentially steroid-assisted renaissance in the summer of 1998, years after his divorce from Esther was final, his old Oakland A's teammate, Mark McGuire,

was racing yet another alleged steroid user Sammy Sosa toward the single-season home run record. During their time in Oakland, Jose Kinseko and Mark McGuire were dubbed the Bash Brothers due to their superhero physique's in trademark celebration. The whole thing was also, as Jose claimed, fueled by steroids for the better half of a decade. Now Mark McGuire was firmly in the spotlight

while Jose clung to the shadows. and McGuire and Sosa's race had revitalized the sport. People who didn't even watch baseball were paying attention. But Kinseko, McGuire, and Sosa weren't the only thin-wasted, barrel-chested, tree trunks for arms players swinging bats either. The sustained run of explosive offense in the second half of the 1990s was not random. Jose Konseco knew the truth. He knew it was entertainment, manufactured entertainment. created a trend numbers up

while Jose Konseco's career was trending in the opposite direction. His body was breaking down and soon that old familiar target once again appeared on his back. As Mark McGuire was being touted as baseball shiny golden icon, Jose Konseko was becoming a pariah.

And once again, he was made an example. If the game had become dirty, they said, it was Jose Konseca who infected it. And things were about to get a whole lot worse, blacklisted, behind bars, and soon the focal point of a congressional hearing. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. Inside the Opium Garden nightclub, the music vibrated off the walls. Strobe lights in every direction. The place was packed capacity, crawling with scantily clad ghouls and goblins.

All Hallows Eve in Miami had more skin than your standard. monster mash and two tourists were taking it all in. A long day rubbing shoulders with doctors and research fellows at a cancer research convention was to be balanced out by a sampling of the Miami nightlife. And the Miami nightlife meant that maybe you got lucky. Maybe. A few cocktails had the pair feeling good. Real good.

Costumed freaks made their way across the dance floor. Some hung off bar stools. Others slipped into dark corners of the club for a little privacy. The entire scene was one big intoxicating delight for the eyes. That's when one of the tourist eyes fell on her. The intricate feathered skirt of her Native American costume fell softly around her waist, and she moved right toward him. Was this really happening?

Nope, she turned and walked past. Hold up. The tourist reached out and grabbed at her feathers. And maybe that would initiate some small talk. But it didn't initiate small talk. It initiated something else. From the darkness behind the woman appeared two hulking men. Two men who were well over six feet tall, dressed as vampires,

now lumbering toward the torus. All the tourists could see were massive arms protruding from sleeveless vests. At the end of those arms were hands bearing long black fingernails, and jagged teeth, eyes. like an apex predator. What the fuck do you think you're doing, buddy? Before the tourists could even think, fists began to fly.

The muscled vampires moved with precision and purpose, practically superhuman in execution. First, an open palm punched to the chest with all the force of a locomotive, then a shove backward, which provided a steady dose of whiplash, and then a blow across the face. The pain was immediate and excruciating,

more painful than having every drive, drop of blood sucked from your body by a vampire. But these two guys weren't actually vampires. They were Jose Konseko and his twin brother, Ozzy. And like everything else in Jose Konseco's life, the whole thing in the Opium Garden nightclub happened way too fast. Look, his date, the one wearing the Native American get up, she got hit on, and Jose took it personally.

He rushed in as he always did, and the next thing he knew, he was in handcuffs. haters were going to say it was royd rage. He just knew it. Either way, the tourists who took the brunt of the beating would end up needing 17 stitches in his shot. The guy pressed charges. Even after Jose was released from jail later that evening, and even after he went to trial and lost,

he maintained that the guy tried to reach up his date's skirt and got what was coming to him. He also claimed that his brother did all the pummeling. Jose knew that no matter what actually happened that night, the bloodsuckers would try to milk him to him. dry in court. Just like the fans who heckled him endlessly, the tabloids had jumped on every story involving him.

And just like the league and the teams that brushed him off because they thought he carried too much baggage. Jose Konseko knew he was an easy target, and that was nothing new. What he didn't know was that he had played his final Major League baseball game just a month prior to that Halloween in 2001. From the judge's perspective, Jose Konseko was out of control, and he needed. to be reeled in. The event at the Miami nightclub earned Jose court-mandated anger management courses, as well as

community service, and he skipped out on both. The next year, he failed to make the Montreal Expo's opening day roster, and then another blow when he violated his probation by testing positive for steroids. A test he claimed was a blatant setup by Major League Baseball. He was intentionally busted because the powers it be didn't want him back in the game. at least in his mind that's what happened. And that probation violation was just another part of a downward spiral that bottomed out in 2003 with a stint in Broward County Jail. His defense said the failed drug test was a medical issue, that he was addicted to steroids.

Addicted. There was no sympathy for the so-called godfather of steroids. Jose Kinseco received a two-month sentence. This was in 2003. And if 2003 was the floor, then 2004 was the sub-basement. Jose Konseco attended an open tryout for the L.A. Dodgers and was offered nothing. He knew he could still play and contribute to a big league ball club, but now he couldn't even get on a roster, boxed out by the league that made him.

Or maybe he was simply a 36-year-old with a body that was constantly breaking down. Regardless, he was pissed. Why? because he was only doing what 85% of the league was also doing. Everyone was on steroids. It helped with recovery time. It made the game more exciting. And that's what the league wanted, right?

Better TV ratings, better ticket sales, better entertainment. Steroids helped make all that happen. And as the Los Angeles reporter swarmed Jose Konseko after his Dodgers trial, asking questions about his ability to pass a drug test, about how many players might be fellow users, He had only one response. Read the book. The book, juiced, wild times, rampant roids, smash hits, and how baseball got big,

was released to great interest in 2005. The autobiography followed Jose Kinseko's rise from just another kid in Cuba to a certified megastar in professional sports, and it covered a wide swath of his personal life. It lives up to the hype of a celebrity penda country. out with the scales heavily tipped, of course, toward Jose himself. Most importantly, the book revealed the truth about steroids. First, all about how they could actually improve the game if used correctly. And second, all about the players Jose said were taking them.

Names. This book wasn't just a vehicle to share a vision of super athletes belting dingers and creating a breakneck pace of offense. It was a means for Jose Konseko to get even with the league that he'd given 17 years of his life to and that he now felt was giving him nothing. He called out star players, including Mark McGuire, Raphael Palmero, Jason Giambi, Sammy Sosa, and Yvonne Rodriguez. He claimed the MLB was dirty and had been for a long time. People bought the book and now they were asking questions. What if Jose Canseco was actually

telling the truth? A month later, he found himself center stage at a congressional hearing broadcast live by C-SPAN. He sat apart from his former colleagues, McGuire, Palmero Sosa, Kurt Schilling. They all denounced steroids and claimed there is no place in the game for them. The first three denied Kinseco's accusations that they were culpable, which meant that Jose Konseko was lying. But months later, Rafael Palmero tested positive for performance-enhancing drugs.

He said it was a B-12 supplement, but was nevertheless suspended. 2005 would be his final season. Four years later, in 2009, the MLB revealed a list of players who had tested positive for steroids in 2003, and Sammy Sosa was on that list. In 2010, Mark McGuire admitted using steroids

during his playing days. In years after he was dragged through the mud in front of the entire world, it seemed Jose Kinseca was getting some vindication. But before that could happen, there was still the specter of the juice. It haunted him. He couldn't escape it. It was a constant source of questioning during his playing days,

and it was a scandal just after. Jose Konseco became synonymous with the stuff, and it soon became clear just how much the drug had consumed his life. 2008, San Diego. Jose Konseko tapped the steering wheel of his BMW. you. His eyes twitched. He was as high strong as he'd ever been in the batters box, ready to turn on a 95-mile-per-hour heater and go yard. But this anticipation had nothing to do with hitting a baseball. The anxiety that was starting to set in was a direct result of the agents combing through the other cars around him. Their trained dog searching for the slightest stench of something illegal.

Just a few years removed from his latest legal entanglement, Jose Canseco couldn't afford another boss. He leaned his foot on the gas as the car in front of him rolled on, grimacing in pain as he did so. His knee was killing him. He couldn't wait to get past the inspection booth, over the border, back into the States. He also couldn't wait to get the contents of those vials he had tucked safely away in his car into his body, thus delivering some much-needed sweet relief. The gel he'd been using did absolutely nothing for him. He had enough experience with chemicals to know that this new shit would mellow out the pain,

and not just in his knee either, because Jose Konseca was bruised and battered in more ways than one. By this point, in 2008, taxes and divorce proceedings had carved out such a large chunk of his finances that he'd had to foreclose on his house earlier in the year. In March of that same year, his assault on the MLB continued with a second book calling out even more superstars. Alex Rodriguez, Maglio Ordonius, Roger Clemens. All that got him was further alienation from the men he'd once shared the field with. In May, he challenged a former NFL player, the 5-foot-9 Vai Sikahama, to a fight, and Vai came in hot with a left hook that put Kinseko on his ass.

And as soon as Konseco got back up, Vy went at him again, his two fists like a flesh tornado, and Konseca was knocked out in the first round. And in October, A&E released a documentary detailing Jose Canseco's struggles to get off steroids at which he showed remorse for the way he'd exposed fellow players. Revenge didn't wind up happening the way Jose Canseco imagined it would. The only revenge that was successfully carried out was by the juice. Twenty years of steroid use had ravaged Jose Canseco's body, a body that wasn't producing testosterone anymore.

pile that problem on top of the mountain a shit he was dealing with and in all amounted to just a deeper and deeper depression. He needed proper chemical intervention, whether he knew it or not. That kind of thing was illegal without a prescription, and a prescription from a proper doctor would take forever. Besides, who the hell was going to give Jose Konseca a script for steroids? He didn't have time to wait. He had to get right, so he had to go international.

And the laws in Mexico are, let's just say, a little more relaxed when it comes to drugs, specifically fertility drugs. And that's what Jose Kinseko was looking for. Human Corionic gonadotropin. Did I say that correctly? I'm not even sure. It's typically used to help produce progesterone during pregnancy. But it also helps increase testosterone, which is what Jose needed.

It was available at a pharmacy just over the border in Tijuana. Within a few hours, Jose hit the pharmacy, and he was on his way back north with six vials of sweet salvation in his whip. And at the inspection booth, he threw his car into park and handed over his license. The Border Patrol officer's smile widened. He looked at the picture, and then back at the giant man in the BMW. Jose Konseko. The officer told Jose to step out of the vehicle. And then the U.S. Border Patrol went to.

work. For Jose, this was a devastating swing and miss. After finding the vials of HCG, a Schedule 3 drug banned by the World Anti-Doping Agency, and without proper prescription, no less, the officers placed Jose in detainment. He sat there for nearly 10 hours, negotiating his next steps, and was only released when he signed a waiver allowing ICE agents to search his LA home. It was hard to It was hard not to feel like a target. It was hard not to be bitter and angry that he was being persecuted for transporting what his lawyer would later call an incredibly harmless drug that was intended only for personal use. Jose Kinseko was out of options.

He pleaded guilty. Another court appearance, another probation, another headline. The Hall of Fame career that Jose Kinseko had once approached on the diamond was matched by a Hall of Shame career off of it. In the years since the bust, he continued his celebrity boxing career, tried his hand at MMA, appeared on Celebrity Apprentice, played his way on various minor league baseball rosters, petitioned for jobs in the big leagues on Twitter, and was banned by a Mexican league for refusing to take a drug test.

He made public displays of apology to his former bash brother Mark McGuire, wrote columns for Vice Magazine, and eventually opened a car wash in Las Vegas. where he still signs autographs on Wednesdays. Jose Konseco doesn't know how to be anyone but Jose Konseko. He can't slow down, always taking a lead that's way too big, always running early,

always daring people to pick them off, to throw them out. And if they get them once, well, that's why you play nine, isn't it? They get a shot at redemption before you leave the game, a total disgrace. I'm Jake Brennis, Disgraceland. was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show.

We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to disgracelandpod.com slash membership. Members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad free. Plus, you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month, weekly, unsubricely. scripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelampod.com slash membership for details. Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook at disgracelandpod, and on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at disgraceland pod.

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