What happens to a dream deferred? A dream filled with tight outfits, latex boots, and furs? A dream saturated with showmanship, physicality, and wholesome recreation for both him and her? A dream of Bob: "Bob the Professional Wrestler". Does a dream deferred dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore—one that you caught last weekend from that hot Belgian? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or smell like Katya after a long show—like a sweaty, pickled beet? Maybe it just sags and squelches like a heavy load. Or does it, like the pure podcast magic that is Trixie and Bob in the same room for an hour, simply explode?