Yes, I am proposing a full spinoff about the Kettlemans.
And it should be called Heavens to Betsy.
Think about the possibilities.
Betsy Kettleman is one of television’s great comic creations: wildly ambitious, absolutely convinced of her own brilliance, and completely incapable of recognizing how bad her plans actually are. She’s a schemer who lacks two critical tools for scheming: patience and intelligence. Her plots are always just a little too loud, a little too obvious, and a little too reckless.
And yet she barrels ahead anyway.
Craig Kettleman, meanwhile, is the perfect comedic counterweight. He’s a timid, slightly bewildered man who knows the plan is terrible. You can see it in his face every time Betsy explains the next brilliant idea.
Craig: “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
Betsy: “Craig.”
Craig: “…okay.”
And off they go into another catastrophe.
What makes the Kettlemans funny isn’t just that they commit crimes—it’s that they commit crimes in the most amateurish way imaginable. Remember early on in Breaking Bad, when Jesse and Walt stole a barrel of methylamine from a warehouse? I'm talking about that level of incompetence or worse. They’re not criminal masterminds. They’re not hardened operators. They’re the kind of people who would attempt a sophisticated fraud scheme after reading half an article about it online.
Every episode practically writes itself:
- Betsy hatches a bold new plan to “get what they deserve.”
- Craig raises mild objections.
- Betsy steamrolls those objections.
- The plan spirals out of control in increasingly ridiculous ways.
- Craig suffers the consequences.
And, crucially, there is a running gag.
In every episode of Heavens to Betsy, the Kettlemans have a lawyer.
Not the same lawyer.
A new lawyer.
Betsy insists on hiring “top legal talent” to support whatever the current scheme is. The lawyer—who is invariably competent, cautious, and increasingly alarmed—spends the episode trying to explain why what the Kettlemans are doing is illegal, inadvisable, or both.
Betsy interprets this as negativity.
Or worse, a lack of vision.
By the final act, as things are collapsing, the lawyer is urgently advising them to stop, to cooperate, or at the very least to not say another word.
Betsy responds by firing them.
On the spot.
“We need a lawyer who works with us, not against us.”
The lawyer exits, stunned.
Craig, watching this unfold, realizes—correctly—that the lawyer was the only thing standing between them and total disaster.
It is, of course, too late.
For example, imagine an episode where Betsy decides the Kettlemans should start a “consulting service” helping small businesses reduce their tax bills. Her plan is to charge huge fees for advice she mostly invents on the spot.
Craig points out that neither of them knows anything about tax law.
Betsy reassures him that “tax law is just numbers.”
Within a week they’ve accidentally advised a client to commit three different felonies and attracted the attention of both the IRS and the state licensing board. Craig spends the episode trying to quietly undo the damage while Betsy insists the problem is simply that they “need better branding.”
Or imagine another episode where Betsy decides the family should get into real estate. She’s convinced the key to success is buying distressed properties cheaply.
Unfortunately, the property she finds is cheap because it’s currently being used by an extremely unfriendly criminal organization.
Craig realizes this almost immediately.
Betsy insists they have “every legal right” to renovate it.
Things escalate.
Rapidly.
And then there are the moments where the Kettlemans brush up against the larger world of Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul—without having the faintest idea what they’re dealing with.
In one episode, Betsy becomes convinced that they need to “scale up” and start working with more serious, high-level operators. Through a series of wildly misguided assumptions, she identifies Lydia Rodarte-Quayle as a “corporate logistics expert.”
Which, to be fair, is not wrong.
It’s just…incomplete.
Betsy aggressively pursues a meeting—emails, voicemails, an unsolicited “proposal packet” with color-coded tabs and completely nonsensical projections. Craig, meanwhile, is quietly unraveling.
The meeting, when it finally happens, is excruciating. Betsy pitches something like “regionally optimized embezzlement services for mid-sized municipalities,” while Lydia stares at her with a mixture of confusion and alarm.
By the end, Lydia is taking steps to ensure she never hears from these people again, while Betsy insists this counts as a “successful first contact.”
It does not.
Or worse: Betsy decides they need “muscle.” Not because they actually need it—but because, in her mind, serious businesses have muscle. Through a chain of terrible decisions, she ends up attempting to establish a relationship with associates of Jack Welker.
Craig immediately understands that this is not a situation they should be anywhere near.
Betsy interprets their hostility as a negotiation tactic.
She responds by trying to out-negotiate them.
There has to be a scene where Betsy is confidently explaining payment structures and “long-term partnership opportunities,” while everyone else in the room is trying to figure out who these people are and why they are still talking. Craig, sitting next to her, looks like a man actively reconsidering every life choice he has ever made.
The resolution, of course, is not success.
It’s survival.
They walk away convinced they’ve taken a bold step into the big leagues.
They have not.
And then there’s the episode that really defines Heavens to Betsy.
In the aftermath of the Wayfarer 515 plane collision, Betsy becomes convinced that what victims’ families need is “financial guidance.”
Specifically, theirs.
She creates a “support and recovery service” to help families manage settlements and “maximize outcomes.” In practice, it consists of vague advice, homemade pamphlets, and a fee structure that is both confusing and aggressively expensive.
Craig immediately senses this is a terrible idea—not just legally, but morally.
Betsy reframes it as compassion.
“Craig, we are helping people.”
They begin reaching out with unsolicited mailers, awkward phone calls, and deeply inappropriate in-person visits that somehow manage to be both overly cheerful and wildly tone-deaf.
Every interaction goes badly.
Craig tries to scale things back. Betsy insists the problem is “messaging.”
Naturally.
What makes it work is that the Kettlemans never quite grasp why people are reacting so negatively. Betsy thinks it’s a branding issue. Craig understands, dimly, that they’ve crossed a line—but doesn’t have the backbone to stop it.
The inevitable result isn’t profit.
It’s consequences.
And a hasty retreat.
Followed by Betsy insisting that “the concept was sound.”
What would make Heavens to Betsy work is that the Kettlemans would never become competent. In a franchise full of masterminds, professionals, and terrifyingly disciplined operators, they would remain exactly what they are:
People who wander into crime the way someone wanders into a glass door.
Again.
And again.
And again.
And the audience would know, from the moment Betsy unveils the plan, that this is going to end horribly.
The only suspense would be how.
In a universe famous for brilliant criminal strategists, Heavens to Betsy would give us something even better:
The world’s least competent crime duo.
Which is exactly why their show would be amazing. And it's exactly why Joe would give it a ten!
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