On October 13, 2025, HBO premiered The Chair Company, a new comedy series starring Tim Robinson as the beleaguered project manager Ron Trosper. For longtime fans of Robinson—whose career has spanned from Saturday Night Live to the cult hit I Think You Should Leave—this debut marks not just a step up to a bigger platform, but an evolution in his signature blend of surreal, cringe-inducing humor. Co-created with Zach Kanin and directed by Andrew DeYoung, the series launches with the episode titled “Life Goes By Too F**king Fast, It Really Does,” immediately setting the stage for a show that thrives on the awkward, the paranoid, and the deeply uncomfortable.
At the heart of the story is William Ronald “Ron” Trosper, a middle-aged project manager recently tasked with overseeing a mall development project in his Ohio hometown of Canton. The show wastes no time introducing Ron’s anxious, self-conscious persona—a character archetype that has become Robinson’s calling card. During a celebratory dinner with his wife Barb (Lake Bell), athletic son Seth (Will Price), and daughter Natalie (Sophia Lillis), who is on the verge of getting married, Ron gets caught up in a heated debate with a waitress over what exactly qualifies as a “mall.” It’s a seemingly trivial moment, but the exchange perfectly encapsulates the show’s commitment to mining humor from the small indignities and obsessions that define everyday life.
The tension only ratchets up from there. At work, Ron faces a coworker who is clearly resentful about being passed over for the promotion Ron just landed. This colleague, in a bizarre attempt to lighten the mood, wears a bubble wand around his neck and blows bubbles throughout the office—an absurd yet oddly poignant detail that speaks to the show’s embrace of the weird. But the true catalyst for Ron’s downward spiral comes during a high-stakes company presentation. Introduced with awkward gusto by his boss, Jeff Levjam (Lou Diamond Phillips), Ron delivers a triumphant speech, only to have his chair collapse beneath him in front of the entire company. The humiliation is compounded by an accidental, fleeting glimpse up a coworker’s skirt—a moment that will haunt him for the rest of the episode.
Robinson’s portrayal of embarrassment is nothing short of masterful. He tries to brush off the incident by joking, “I ate one too many Cheeze-Its,” but the shame lingers, coloring every interaction that follows. According to Reuters and The A.V. Club, this scene is a prime example of Robinson’s knack for stretching a single moment of mortification into a slow-burn exploration of paranoia and self-doubt. The next day, Ron’s colleagues are quick to joke about the incident, with Ron awkwardly suggesting that elderly coworker Doris might have died if she’d sat in the broken chair. The office dynamic is a minefield of discomfort, punctuated by surreal details like the ongoing bubble-blowing and a custodian’s passionate defense of his “inside wheelbarrow” versus “outside wheelbarrow.”
But Ron can’t let the chair incident go. He becomes obsessed with tracing the origins of the faulty chair, discovering it was manufactured by a company called Tecca. His investigation takes on the tone of a conspiracy thriller, complete with jittery, surveillance-style cinematography that heightens his paranoia. Ron tries to contact Tecca by phone and email, only to be stonewalled at every turn. A representative tells him, in confidence, that if he could prove the chair caused an injury, the legal department would get involved. Ron even attempts to manipulate office dynamics—trying, and failing, to orchestrate a scenario where Doris sits in a Tecca chair and gets hurt, hoping for legal leverage. Each failed attempt only deepens his sense of impotence and frustration.
The show’s commitment to absurdity is on full display when Ron visits the address listed for Tecca. Instead of answers, he finds an empty building containing nothing but a copier, a giant inflatable red ball, and, inexplicably, a magazine of graphic pornography. The scene is both hilarious and deeply unsettling, a testament to the show’s ability to balance comedy with genuine tension. The soundtrack, featuring 1970s tracks by Jim Croce and George Benson, adds a nostalgic, almost melancholic undercurrent to the proceedings.
Ron’s personal life is no less fraught. At home, he creates a slideshow for Natalie’s wedding, set to Jim Croce’s “I Have A Name.” The moment is unexpectedly touching, offering a brief respite from the relentless awkwardness that defines his days. Yet even here, the specter of humiliation looms large, as Ron sifts through work photos and stumbles upon the address for Tecca—a reminder that his obsession is never far from his mind.
The episode reaches its climax when Ron, leaving work late, is confronted in a parking lot by a stranger who warns him to stop investigating the chair incident. In a scene that manages to be both tense and ridiculous, Ron chases the man, grabbing him by the shirt, only for the stranger to slip away by shedding his shirt and fleeing into the night. The unresolved confrontation leaves Ron—and the audience—dangling between comedy and genuine suspense.
What sets The Chair Company apart from Robinson’s previous work is its willingness to linger, to explore the lasting impact of humiliation and paranoia over time. The serial format allows for richer character development and more intricate narrative threads, weaving together elements of cringe comedy, psychological thriller, and family drama. The series doesn’t just rely on big, embarrassing set pieces; it thrives in the granular, oddball moments that make office life both hilarious and excruciatingly real. Whether it’s the custodian’s wheelbarrow obsession or Ron’s desperate attempts to regain control, every detail feels meticulously crafted to maximize discomfort—and, surprisingly, empathy.
As the season progresses, viewers can expect more deep dives into Ron’s psyche, more office absurdity, and perhaps a few answers to the mysteries that haunt both Ron and his creators. For fans of surreal, cringe-driven humor, The Chair Company is a rare treat—a show that rewards patience, attention to detail, and a high tolerance for secondhand embarrassment. If future episodes build on the foundation laid by this premiere, Robinson’s latest venture may well redefine what serialized comedy can achieve on television.
With its innovative blend of absurdity, pathos, and slow-burn suspense, The Chair Company delivers a debut that is as rewarding as it is unsettling. In the landscape of television comedy, it’s lightning in a bottle—awkward, ambitious, and impossible to look away from.
