Oh My God… Yes! A Series of Extremely Relatable Circumstances arrives on Adult Swim on March 9, 2025, with episodes dropping on Max the very next day. At first glance, its 11-minute instalments recall the rapid-fire sketches of classic theatrical shorts, yet the series’ Afro-futurist vision and surreal twists immediately set it apart. This adult animated comedy follows Sunny, Tulip, and Ladi—three Black women navigating a not-so-distant South Central Los Angeles where self-driving cars, smart appliances, and pre-programmed Antichrists are everyday hazards.
Adele “Supreme” Williams, already lauded for her writing on My Dad the Bounty Hunter, steers the show’s narrative with razor-sharp wit and heart, while industry veteran Dominique Braud brings decades of Simpsons expertise to its production. Together, they spotlight voices long sidelined in animation, placing Black female creators not behind token roles but at the helm. Beneath the absurdist gags—demon babies, misplaced uteruses, viral video prophecies—lies a keen social commentary on technology’s grip and the emotional labor of modern womanhood.
In straddling genres—from dystopian sci-fi to slice-of-life comedy—the series embodies the shifting dynamics of global storytelling on streaming platforms. It signals a move away from familiar formats, demanding that audiences keep pace with its breakneck humor while reconsidering who gets to shape animated worlds.
Futuristic South Central & Production Alchemy
In a world where self-driving cars argue with their passengers and your fridge knows your grocery habits better than you do, Oh My God… Yes! stakes its claim on a not-so-distant South Central Los Angeles. The series condenses its sprawling vision into tight, 11-minute bursts that nod to the rapid-fire gags of vintage theatrical shorts yet build a cumulative narrative momentum across episodes. Familiar landmarks—graffiti-tagged bungalows, reimagined corner stores—anchor viewers in a community contending with hyper-advanced tech and supernatural upheavals.
From demon-baby births to rogue smart-car joyrides, each plot trigger springs from everyday anxieties about surveillance, bodily autonomy, and digital dependencies. The premise hinges on “extremely relatable circumstances” twisted through a sci-fi lens: dating-app meltdowns are amplified by glitchy prophecies, while reproductive choices collide with literal test-tube Antichrists. This blend of the mundane and the impossible feels timely, capturing how personal agency is reshaped by algorithms and corporate pop-ups.
Behind the chaos, Adele “Supreme” Williams—the mind behind My Dad the Bounty Hunter—writes with a keen eye for cultural irony. Paired with Dominique Braud, whose three decades on The Simpsons inform a knack for sustained comedic world-building, the duo crafts a tone that feels both anarchic and precise. Cree Summer’s voice direction ensures characters pop with distinct rhythms, while the sound design and beat-driven score punctuate each punchline like a drum roll. In this alchemy of vision and craft, Adult Swim’s appetite for subversive animation finds fresh fuel.
Voices That Shape a New Era of Representation
Sunny Green emerges as a study in contradictions: a social-media magnate whose influencer bravado masks deep uncertainty. Xosha Roquemore’s raspy warmth imbues Sunny with both comedic timing and emotional weight—particularly in scenes where her surrogate’s demon offspring upends her curated image. That clash between personal brand and raw humanity echoes broader conversations about agency, especially for women of color navigating public and private selves.
Tulip offers a counterpoint: childlike enthusiasm laced with sudden volatility. In the “FIEH” episode, her impulse to discipline a venomous, rapping spider underscores how trauma and affection can coexist in chaotic balance. DomiNque Perry lends Tulip a voice that flutters between high-pitched sincerity and exasperated yelps, reflecting the show’s willingness to let vulnerability stand alongside absurdity.
Then there’s Ladi, whose no-nonsense attitude and tech prowess drive many of the series’ body-horror set pieces—like the uterus-misplacement subplot. Xosha Roquemore and Roquemore’s peers have paved the way; here, Ladi’s blend of calculated grit and impulsive loyalty feels both fresh and familiar. Her resolve to shrink herself into a surrogate’s body to prevent apocalypse reads as a metaphor for the lengths marginalized voices must go to be heard.
Surrounding the trio is a stellar supporting cast: Gary Anthony Williams’s buoyant eccentricity, Tristen J. Winger’s sharp wit, and Keith David’s gravitas as a self-described gaylien prophet. Voice director Cree Summer’s multi-role contributions knit these performances together, ensuring each character—no matter how surreal—remains grounded in genuine emotional stakes. Together, they build a friendship tested by cosmic absurdities and systemic pressures, reminding us that solidarity can survive even the most bizarre of futures.
Visual Anarchy Meets Purposeful Design
At first glance, the animation of Oh My God… Yes! assaults the senses with neon hair hues and exaggerated proportions—yet beneath the riot of color lies a deliberate fusion of Don Bluth’s fluid linework and Afrofuturist motifs. Characters wear streetwear that blends traditional South Central aesthetics with cybernetic accents, and background walls overflow with graffiti that hints at hidden jokes and social critiques. Those visual Easter eggs reward repeat viewings, whether it’s a corner store sign referencing gentrification or a throwaway robot billboard spoofing data mining.
The series leans on classic 2D squash-and-stretch to sell its more outlandish gags, then suddenly shifts to crisp digital effects for sci-fi set pieces. These rapid transitions mirror the fractured attention economy the show mocks—one moment you’re tracking Ladi’s yanked-out uterus zooming through an apartment, the next you’re jolted by a prophetic glitch in a viral video. Cartoon violence becomes almost visceral, framing body horror as a punchline without softening its shock value.
Anthropomorphic rats man street carts, self-driving cars swerve like tantrum-throwing toddlers, and demon hybrids emblazoned with corporate logos stalk city blocks. Yet the directors temper sensory overload with strategic framing: sweeping establishing shots remind us we’re in a community under siege by technology’s excess, while tight close-ups emphasize the trio’s emotional stakes. In balancing aesthetic chaos and narrative clarity, the show invites viewers to question whether our world’s technological frenzy is absurd—or all too familiar.
Spirited Pacing and Satirical Precision
Oh My God… Yes! propels viewers through its world with breakneck dialogue that never outstays its welcome. In just 11 minutes, each episode instantiates a compact, almost musical structure: a single, punch-driven premise unfolds, peaks with an outrageous set-piece, then pivots toward a moment of genuine feeling. This economy of storytelling reflects broader shifts in streaming habits—short-form content that still delivers emotional resonance.
Humor arrives in layered forms. Absurdist scenarios—like a demon baby wreaking havoc or a “closure cookie” transforming grief into monstrosity—sit alongside cartoonish slapstick, yet both register as commentary. Dark comedy coexists with social critique: a dating-app meltdown lampoons our swiping addictions, while a rogue push-broom boyfriend becomes an ironic symbol of disposable romance in the gig economy. Even satanist cults emerge as vehicles to examine how extremist beliefs can flourish in algorithm-driven echo chambers.
Several episodes crystallize this balance. The pilot’s uterus-misplacement plot merges body-horror gore with a critique of reproductive politics. In the “FIEH” chapter, a venomous, rapping spider doubles as a metaphor for false idols and cultural appropriation, mocking celebrity worship. These stories often pause for moments of sincerity—brief interludes where friendships and personal stakes anchor the chaos.
Dialogue crackles with cultural allusions: a glitchy video prophecy named after a reimagined rap icon, “Tupic,” speaks to how social media mythologizes artists. Profanity and frank sexual humor never feel gratuitous; instead, they fortify character voices and underline truths about modern intimacy. By weaving rapid-fire jokes with deeper observations, the series stakes its claim as a blueprint for satirical animation in the streaming era.
A Satirical Mirror on Power, Identity, and Tech
Oh My God… Yes! turns everyday gadgets into vectors of social critique. A smart fridge that catalogs your grocery choices becomes a stand-in for surveillance capitalism—one more data set in the profit-driven machine. Meanwhile, self-driving cars with tantrum-like behavior and video-based algorithmic prophecies lampoon our blind faith in automation. These tech tropes underscore a larger anxiety: who truly controls our lives when algorithms dictate even the smallest decisions?
Beneath the neon chaos, the series foregrounds Black womanhood in ways rarely seen on adult animation. Episodes about surrogacy gone haywire and a test-tube Antichrist force conversations about reproductive rights and bodily autonomy. By placing three women at the center—both on-screen and in the writer’s room—the show actively rebuts the industry’s history of sidelining marginalized voices. Each character’s arc, from Sunny’s influencer façade to Ladi’s tech‐savvy heroics, threads personal agency into a collective narrative of self-determination.
Class tensions pulse through the satire. Robots programmed to “eat the rich” enact a cartoonish revolution, while a literal President Vending Machine skewers political commodification. South Central’s socio-economic divides are rendered with both affectionate detail and unflinching critique: a community grappling with gentrification finds itself besieged by appliance uprisings.
Yet for all its uproarious spectacle, the show never loses sight of emotional truth. Friendship emerges as a radical act of resistance, chosen family a bulwark against existential dread. Grief, self-acceptance, and resilience surface in moments of calm between the absurdist set pieces—reminders that beneath every surreal twist lies a very human core.
Techno-Mythology and Afro-Futurist Reframing
From its opening frames, Oh My God… Yes! stakes a claim in Afro-futurism by marrying ancestral prophecy with neon-lit gadgetry. Rather than rehash distant planets, it plants techno-mythology in South Central LA, riffing on how pop-culture icons become modern deities—witness the glitchy Tupic video that spawns an AI-driven Antichrist. This choice feels both playful and pointed, reminding us that deification now comes via viral clip, not sacred text.
Appliances take on character roles: a smart fridge that judges your snack choices, self-driving cars that stage tantrums, humanoid robots protesting “eat the rich.” They’re jokes on paper, but they map onto real anxieties about data harvesting and algorithmic bias. When a refrigerator knows you better than your best friend, the punchline cuts sharper than any demon-baby gag.
These inventions weave directly into character arcs. Ladi’s submicroscopic mission—shrinking herself to stop a rogue fetus—blends homage to body-horror classics with her tech expertise. The absurd science serves more than sight gags; it underscores how marginalized voices often must transform themselves—sometimes literally—to be heard.
By balancing speculative satire with escapist thrills, the series holds a mirror to our gadget-obsessed moment. Surveillance capitalism and AI’s blind spots feel frighteningly plausible when framed as cartoon chaos. And yet, in the same breath, we laugh at a demon baby being punted through a window. That juxtaposition—terrifying future and riotous humor—signals a new direction for adult animation on streaming platforms, one where social critique and sci-fi spectacle can share the spotlight.
Full Credits
Directors: Greg Franklin, Bryan Newton, Samuel Chou
Writers: Adele Williams, Taylor Ortega, Kimberly Nicole Walker, Branson Reese
Producers: Adele Williams, James III, Cody DeMatteis, Vera Hourani
Executive Producers: Adele Williams, Dominique Braud, Brendan Burch, Wendy Willis
Cast: Adele Williams, DomiNque Perry, Xosha Roquemore, Cree Summer, Bill Lobley, Gary Anthony Williams, Tristen J. Winger, DeRay Davis, Arif Zahir, Dee Bradley Baker, Keith David, Chris Parnell, Debra Wilson, Jay Jurden
The Review
Oh My God... Yes! Season 1
Oh My God… Yes! erupts with inventive satire and unfiltered commentary, using its brisk 11-minute format to tackle technology, identity, and power through the eyes of three resourceful Black women. Its blend of Afro-futurist flair, sharp social observations, and emotional honesty marks a significant step for adult animation on streaming. While its visual frenzy can feel overwhelming at times, the show’s voice, ambition, and cultural relevance make it essential viewing.
PROS
- Brilliant fusion of Afro-futurist aesthetics and sharp social satire
- Fast-paced 11-minute episodes that pack emotional depth
- Centering Black women as creators and protagonists
- Inventive tech-driven plots with real-world resonance
- Stellar voice performances and dynamic ensemble chemistry
CONS
- Visual overload can be disorienting for some viewers
- Rapid cuts sometimes sacrifice narrative clarity
- Occasional gags feel too brief to land fully
