After a six-year hiatus, the queens of true crime comedy prove they haven't lost their edge—or their ability to make cannibalism strangely compelling

The Six-Year Wait Ends With Moth Omens

When Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark walked onto the Paramount Theatre stage in Denver for their second night back after a six-year touring break, they were greeted by deafening screams—and a tiny moth. By the second appearance of the insect ("good luck," Georgia insists, though she admits she made that up), it became clear this wasn't going to be your typical podcast recording. This was a homecoming.

The rust showed immediately. They forgot to introduce themselves and the show. They nearly skipped explaining what "My Favorite Murder" even is. But that's precisely what makes this episode work: two friends finding their rhythm again, complete with forgotten cue cards, nervous nose running ("NNR," Karen diagnoses), and the kind of authentic chaos that scripted entertainment can't replicate.

Polly Pry: The Journalist Who Saved a Cannibal

Karen's main story centers on Leonel Ross Anthony O'Bryan—better known by her pen name, Polly Pry—a turn-of-the-century investigative journalist who makes modern muckrakers look timid. Born in 1857, Nell transformed herself from a Kentucky coal miner's daughter into one of the most fearless reporters in American journalism.

The hook? She successfully campaigned to free Alfred Packer, Colorado's infamous cannibal who was the sole survivor of a six-man prospecting expedition in 1874. While most reporters sensationalized Packer as a monster, Nell saw a man potentially railroaded by a justice system that valued spectacle over evidence.

"She focuses on whether or not Packer was actually fairly tried, not so much about the cannibalism. She's able to brush cannibalism aside for just a little while."

Karen's research shines here. She doesn't just recount Polly's greatest hits—she contextualizes them within the constraints and contradictions of progressive-era journalism. Nell exposed abuse at Native American boarding schools (getting the perpetrator fired), investigated asylum conditions, covered the Mexican Revolution, and even scored an interview with Pancho Villa that allegedly made him turn red with anger before she charmed him back.

The Contradictions That Make History Messy

What elevates this episode beyond typical true crime fare is Karen's willingness to sit with uncomfortable truths. Nell wrote scathing attacks on labor unions and Irish immigrants while simultaneously championing women's suffrage, prison reform, and Native American rights. Karen doesn't excuse these contradictions—she presents them as evidence of how even progressive icons are products of their prejudices.

The storytelling gets wonderfully specific: Nell starting her own publication at 44 ("basically a Substack"), the attempted assassination where bullets got stuck in her wooden door, her quiet marriage to a man who turned out to have another wife. These aren't Wikipedia-summary details—they're narrative choices that reveal character.

Georgia's Stanley Hotel Ghost Story

Georgia's contribution covers more familiar territory: the haunted Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, inspiration for Stephen King's The Shining. It's entertaining but less revelatory than Karen's piece—the piano-playing ghost of Flora Stanley, unexplained children's laughter, the standard haunted hotel fare.

What works is Georgia's delivery, which treats the material with just enough skepticism to avoid full credulity while respecting why these stories persist. When she describes a supposed ghost photo ("it kind of looks like those dog butler statues you get at Home Goods"), she captures the episode's essential tension: taking stories seriously without taking yourself too seriously.

The Hometown That Justifies the Format

The episode's surprise highlight comes during the hometown segment when Christina, a homicide prosecutor from Colorado Springs, delivers a perfectly structured account of her first murder trial. Her story—complete with a defendant who googled "how to get away with murder" and a DNA expert who happened to be married to famous investigator Paul Holes—demonstrates why this audience participation format works when it works.

Christina understands narrative economy. She provides context, builds tension, delivers the conviction, and ends with a Paul Holes fan-girl moment that humanizes the legal process. It's the kind of authentic storytelling that podcast production teams spend weeks trying to engineer.

Why This Still Matters

Eight years into My Favorite Murder's run, the podcast industrial complex has spawned countless imitators. But this episode demonstrates what made Karen and Georgia phenomenon: they're genuinely curious about history, particularly women's history that gets footnoted or forgotten. Polly Pry deserves the deep dive she gets here.

The comedy works because it's never at the expense of victims or trivializing violence. When they joke about "five guys" burgers or debate whether Alfred Packer became a vegetarian ("just kidding"), the humor serves as pressure release, not disrespect.

The Verdict

Is this essential listening? If you're already a Murderino, absolutely—it's confirmation that the six-year break hasn't dulled their chemistry or Karen's research chops. For newcomers, it's a solid entry point that showcases both what the show does well (historical deep dives with feminist analysis) and its signature style (profane, digressive, unapologetically chaotic).

The 87-minute runtime feels earned rather than padded. Yes, there's banter about vintage dresses and baseball games, but it never drags. These are people you want to hang out with, even when they're forgetting their lines.

For anyone interested in how women navigated and shaped journalism in the early 1900s, Karen's Polly Pry research alone justifies the listen. That it comes wrapped in moth sightings, air guitar, and a homicide prosecutor's surprise appearance just makes the medicine go down easier.