H3 | Soundbites

The control room of the H3 Podcast was a mess of cables, empty energy drink cans, and the faint, permanent smell of leftover pizza. But for Ian, the silent, stoic soundbite guy, it was a cathedral. And his congregation was a bank of glowing buttons labeled with cryptic names: “Chestnuts,” “Vape Naysh,” “Suey,” and the sacred, rarely-used “Silence.”

“You know what, Hila?” Ethan said, leaning into his microphone. “This guy… this guy is a real smooth brain .”

BWOOP. Ian hit the button.

The room froze. It was a low blow, and it was true enough to sting. h3 soundbites

The soundbites were more than jokes. They were a language. When Ethan began a long-winded, rambling apology for something trivial, Ian would press “I’m sorry… I’m SO sorry,” a clip of a tearful YouTuber, and the whole room would laugh, letting Ethan off the hook. When a guest said something surprisingly profound, the ethereal choir of “Ayyy… he’s a legend” would echo through the speakers.

Ian’s finger hovered over the “Smooth Brain” button—a high-pitched, whiny clip of Ethan’s own voice from 2021. He waited. Timing was everything.

But tonight, a dark horse was in the studio. A former friend, a fallen co-host who had come on to “clear the air.” The air grew thick and cold. The guest started gaslighting, deflecting, rewriting history. Ethan’s smile faded. The crew went silent. The soundbite board, usually a source of chaos and joy, felt like a weapon cache. The control room of the H3 Podcast was

The guest sneered, “Let’s be honest, Ethan. Your whole career is just reacting to other people’s content.”

A single, loud, wet FART noise—the legendary “Sonic the Hedgehog” fart from a malfunctioning toy years ago—blasted through the studio speakers. It was so absurd, so perfectly inappropriate, that it didn’t just break the tension. It nuked it.

The guest’s face went slack. Hila snorted. The entire crew burst into hysterical, gasping laughter. Even Ethan, mid-insult, lost his train of thought and just pointed at the ceiling, tears streaming down his face. “This guy… this guy is a real smooth brain

Tonight’s episode was a minefield. Ethan Klein was already pacing behind the desk, rubbing his hands together with a manic glint in his eye. He had just read a tweet from a YouTuber he’d never met, and it had awakened something primal.

A distorted, squeaky voice cut through the studio: “Little scrawny boy… little scrawny boy…”

Ian pressed it.

“Thank you, Ian,” Ethan said, pointing at the glass booth. “That’s exactly how I feel.”

Hila, knitting a tiny sweater for one of their dogs, didn’t look up. “Just ignore him, Ethan.”