A countdown of the most egregiously padded true-crime docuseries, ranked not by quality but by the gap between runtime and actual story content. The episode identifies four structural padding techniques: recaps at the top of every episode, re-used dramatic re-enactments, aerial drone shots substituting for narrative, and talking heads repeating information across episodes. The list includes The Tinder Swindler (two episodes with the second almost entirely recap and reaction shots), The Hatchet Wielding Hitchhiker (three episodes from a four-minute viral news segment), Murder Among the Mormons (three episodes where recaps consume nearly ten percent of total runtime), The Puppet Master: Hunting the Ultimate Conman (four episodes for a con that's fully explained in twenty minutes), and The Pharmacist (a "two documentaries in a trenchcoat" structure where the first episode's murder plot resolves quickly and the remaining episodes pivot to a different subject). The central argument is that Netflix's payment model — paying producers per completed hour of content — creates structural incentives to stretch stories, while the platform's binge-release model contradicts the week-by-week structure the content assumes.
#4465: True Crime Docuseries That Don't Earn Their Runtime
A countdown of docuseries that stretch thin stories across too many episodes — and the padding tricks they use.
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New to the show? Start here#4465: True Crime Docuseries That Don't Earn Their Runtime
You know that feeling — you're three episodes into a true-crime docuseries and you realize nothing has actually happened since minute twelve of episode one. You're sitting there, controller in hand, and the realization creeps up on you like a slow zoom on a grainy photograph. Wait. Didn't I already know all of this? Didn't they already explain the timeline? Why are we back at the gas station?
The dread sets in around episode two. You check how many are left and it's... six. Six more episodes. And you've already learned everything the series actually has to say. But you're in it now. You've invested two hours. The sunk-cost fallacy has its hooks in you. So you keep watching, not because you're engaged, but because stopping feels like admitting you wasted your time. Which you did. And you know you did. But you keep going anyway.
Daniel wants us to name names. He asked for a top-ten countdown of the worst docuseries by unjustified runtime — not badly made, not boring subjects, but series that flatly did not earn their episode count. Netflix is the main target, but HBO, Apple, Amazon, whoever else is guilty is fair game. He wants the specific padding techniques called out: the three-minute recap at the top of every episode, the same dramatic re-enactment wheeled out for the fourth time with slightly different lighting, the aerial drone shot of a town doing the work the story couldn't. Count it down so number ten is bad and number one is the absolute worst offender.
So we pulled the list. Ten series. One clear winner for worst of the worst. Let's start with what we mean by worst — because it's not what you think.
It's not about quality. Some of these are well-shot, well-edited, compelling in stretches. The offense is the ratio. Runtime to actual story. Think of it like a cocktail. You order a drink, you expect a certain ratio of liquor to mixer. What these series give you is a glass full of ice, a splash of something interesting, and then twelve ounces of soda water. It looks like a full drink. It costs the same. But you're basically paying for carbonation.
Right. A six-episode series where episodes two through five could be condensed into a thirty-minute summary — that's the crime. And it's a business decision. Netflix pays producers per completed hour of content. A four-part series at fifty minutes each is two hundred minutes of content, which means a higher payout than a ninety-minute documentary. And multi-part series drive more viewing hours than stand-alone docs. The platform's incentive is to stretch.
The padding is structural, not accidental. And it has a grammar. You start recognizing the moves. It's like learning the rules of a magic trick. Once you see how it's done, you can't un-see it. Every time you spot a drone shot that serves no purpose, every time a talking head repeats something you heard twenty minutes ago, you're watching the grammar of padding in action.
Four moves, specifically. One: the recap at the top of every episode — sometimes three minutes long — summarizing what you watched twenty seconds ago if you're binging. Two: dramatic re-enactments reused with different lighting or angles, same footage, new music cue. Three: aerial drone shots of towns and landscapes doing narrative work the script couldn't manage. Four: talking heads repeating the same information across episodes as if each one is a standalone entry for someone who just tuned in.
That last one is the tell. When the same expert says the same thing in episode three that they said in episode one, you know the series was built to be watched with week-long gaps, not in a single afternoon. But nobody watches these with week-long gaps. The entire model of Netflix is built around binging. They release the whole season at once. They auto-play the next episode. The platform is designed to make you watch continuously, but the content is structured as if you're going to forget everything between installments. It's a fundamental mismatch between form and distribution.
Nobody. So with that lens in place, let's start the countdown. Number ten is bad. Number one is an indictment of the entire system.
Number ten. The Tinder Swindler. Netflix, twenty twenty-two. Two episodes. Now two episodes doesn't sound egregious, but the second episode is almost entirely recap and reaction shots. The story is a forty-five-minute magazine article stretched to two hours. The original investigative piece that broke this story — the one the documentary is based on — you can read it in less time than it takes to watch the series. And you'll learn the same things. Actually, you'll learn more, because the article has details the documentary cut for time. Which is ironic, given that the documentary is twice as long as it needs to be.
The specific padding mechanism here is the WhatsApp screenshots. The same screenshots are shown four times across the two episodes. Four times. You start memorizing the timestamps. The second episode opens with a recap of the first episode that runs nearly four minutes, and then the remaining runtime is mostly the victims sitting in chairs looking at their phones and saying some variation of "I couldn't believe it."
Which, to be fair, is a reasonable reaction. But we don't need to watch them have it for forty minutes. There's a difference between bearing witness to someone's emotional experience and just... watching them scroll. At a certain point, you're not learning anything about the crime or the victims. You're just watching people read text messages. I can do that on my own phone.
The story is genuinely wild — guy poses as a billionaire, cons women out of hundreds of thousands of dollars. But the documentary doesn't have two hours of material. It has about fifty minutes. And the rest is filler.
Number nine. The Hatchet Wielding Hitchhiker. Netflix, twenty twenty-three. Three episodes for a story that went viral as a four-minute local news segment. That original news segment — the one that made Kai famous — is the entire reason anyone knows this story exists. It's four minutes long. It's perfect. It's a complete narrative arc in four minutes. And someone looked at that and said, "Let's make this three hours."
This one is fascinating as a case study because the central figure — a hitchhiker named Kai who saved a woman from an attacker with a hatchet and then gave a wildly charismatic news interview — is compelling for about fifteen minutes. Then the series has to fill another two hours and forty-five minutes.
The padding technique here is... every interview is shown in full. Uncut. Including the interviewer's "uh-huh" and "right" and "and then what happened." It's like they forgot editing exists. Editing is the fundamental art of documentary filmmaking. You gather hundreds of hours of footage and you cut away everything that isn't essential. This series did the opposite. It kept everything. It's less a documentary and more a data dump.
And the drone shots. Beautiful, sweeping drone shots of California highways. Empty highways. Just... roads. With music underneath. The series wants you to feel like you're on a journey, but you're just watching asphalt from above while a narrator says something vague about the open road. "Kai was a drifter. The road was his home." Yes, thank you, I gathered that from the thirty-fifth aerial shot of Interstate 5.
The open road doing the work the story couldn't. Daniel called that one exactly.
Number eight. Murder Among the Mormons. Netflix, twenty twenty-one. Three episodes for a forgery case that could have been a tight ninety-minute documentary.
This one hurts because the story itself is interesting. Rare documents, bombs, the Mormon history angle. There's a good documentary in here. You can feel it trying to get out. It's like watching a talented singer trapped in a room with terrible acoustics. The material is strong, but the structure is smothering it.
There is. And the first episode is that documentary. Then episodes two and three are... the same documentary again, but slower. The recaps at the top of episodes two and three total eight minutes of repeated content.
Eight minutes. In a three-episode series. That's nearly ten percent of the total runtime devoted to telling you what you already know. Imagine reading a book where every chapter begins with a summary of the previous chapter. You'd throw it across the room.
And the centerpiece of the padding is the bombing re-enactment in episode three. It's shown from three different angles across twenty minutes. You watch the same explosion three times. Different camera positions, same event, no new information. It's like they shot coverage and couldn't bear to leave any of it on the cutting room floor. Here's the wide shot. Here's the close-up. Here's the slow-motion version. Here it is again with different music. We get it. Something exploded. Move on.
The editor was in an abusive relationship with the footage.
That's... yeah. That's exactly right.
Number seven. The Puppet Master: Hunting the Ultimate Conman. Netflix, twenty twenty-two. Four episodes for a con artist story where the con itself is simple and the victims are... not complicated. The con is straightforward. The victims' stories are straightforward. There's no labyrinthine plot to unravel. There's no twist. There's just a guy who told people he was a spy and they believed him.
The con is: guy pretends to be a spy, tells people they're in danger, takes their money. That's it. That's the whole thing. And you understand it completely by minute twenty of episode one.
Then episode three arrives and it's eighty percent talking heads saying "I can't believe he did that" in slightly different words. Zero new information. Just... reaction. It's like watching a focus group respond to the documentary you already watched.
The re-enactments are the real crime here. Endless re-enactments of the same phone calls with different actors playing the victims. You watch the same phone ring four times across the series. Different kitchen, same ring, same dramatic pause before the answer. By the fourth time, you're rooting for no one to pick up. Just let it ring. End the scene. Please.
It's a screensaver that occasionally remembers it's supposed to be a documentary.
Number six. The Pharmacist. Netflix, twenty twenty. Four episodes for a story that has two completely separate acts: the son's murder and the opioid crisis. The second act is a different documentary stapled onto the first.
This is a structural padding technique we haven't named yet. The "two documentaries in a trenchcoat" move. They're standing on each other's shoulders, wearing a long coat, trying to pass as a single coherent narrative. And you can see the seams. You can see the shoes.
Yes. The first episode is a full fifty-minute setup for a murder that gets resolved in ten minutes of episode two. Then the remaining two and a half episodes are about the opioid crisis. Different subject. Different stakes. Different story. And the transition between them is... a pharmacist who experienced both things.
Which is a real connection. I'm not saying it's fabricated. The pharmacist did lose his son to violence and did then become involved in exposing opioid overprescription. That's a real biographical through-line. But the series doesn't earn the pivot. It just... pivots. And you're left wondering if you accidentally started a new show. You check the Netflix interface. No, same title. Same thumbnail. But somehow you're in a completely different documentary.
The real tell is that the first episode could be a self-contained short doc. Tight, emotional, complete. But instead it's the first course in a meal that changes cuisines halfway through. You ordered Italian, you got Italian for the appetizer, and then the main course is Thai. Both good cuisines. But they don't belong on the same plate.
Those first five are bad, but they're warm-ups. Now we get to the series that redefine what padding means.
Number five. The Vanishing at the Cecil Hotel. Netflix, twenty twenty-one. Four episodes for a story that is essentially: woman goes missing, body found in water tank. That's it. That's the whole story. Everything else is atmosphere and dead ends.
The padding in this one is legendary. It's studied. Episode two is entirely about the hotel's history and ghost stories. Completely irrelevant to the case. Elisa Lam's disappearance is barely mentioned. You're learning about Richard Ramirez staying there in the eighties. Which is fascinating if you're making a documentary about the Cecil Hotel's dark history. But you're not. You're supposed to be making a documentary about Elisa Lam. And the series just... leaves. It takes an entire episode off to do a different show.
Which is interesting if you're watching a documentary about the Cecil Hotel. But you're not. You're watching a documentary about Elisa Lam, and the series just... leaves for an episode. It goes on a field trip without telling you.
Then episode three features a fifteen-minute segment on a YouTube amateur detective's theory. A theory that goes absolutely nowhere. The series presents it with dramatic music and slow zooms on grainy footage, and then the theory collapses and the series just moves on. No acknowledgment that they just wasted a quarter of an hour of your life on a dead end. No reflection on what it means that internet sleuths generated so much content about this case. Just... next scene.
The YouTuber is not a source. The YouTuber is a character. And the series treats him like a key witness for fifteen minutes before quietly dropping him. He gets more screen time than some of the actual investigators. He gets dramatic lighting. He gets a musical sting. And then his theory turns out to be nothing, and the series doesn't even say "we shouldn't have done that." It just moves on to the next thing.
And the drone shots. The drone shots of the hotel exterior appear in every single episode. Same building. Same angle. Sometimes at night. Sometimes during the day. The building is not doing anything. It's just... there. Being a building. A menacing building, sure. But menacing architecture doesn't carry a narrative. You can't just point a camera at a hotel and call it storytelling.
A building that, to be fair, has a very creepy reputation. But after the fourth aerial pass, it's just real estate footage. You start evaluating the property. "Hmm, good location. Close to downtown. Shame about the water tank situation."
Number four. Worst Roommate Ever. Netflix, twenty twenty-two. Five episodes covering multiple roommate horror stories. Each story is told in a single episode with the exact same structure: setup, conflict, resolution. It's like a template. Fill in the names, fill in the city, hit print.
The padding here is in the framing. Each episode opens with a four-minute recap of the previous story. But the stories are unrelated. Different roommates. Different cities. Different crimes. There's no narrative thread connecting them. So you're recapping something that has no bearing on what you're about to watch. It's like a book club where each member read a different book, but they all have to summarize anyway.
So you're watching a recap of a story you just finished that has nothing to do with the story you're about to start. It's almost impressive in its pointlessness. Someone made a creative decision to include recaps for an anthology series. That's not an accident. That's a choice. Someone sat in an edit bay and said, "Yes, the audience needs to be reminded of the Milwaukee roommate situation before we tell them about the Sacramento roommate situation."
It's padding by anthology. The series title is doing work the content can't. "Worst Roommate Ever" sounds like a unified concept, but it's just five standalone documentaries bundled together and called a series. The title is a promise the format doesn't keep.
And each one is about forty-five minutes when the actual story is twenty-five. The rest is... establishing shots of apartments. Hallways. Doors closing slowly. You start to wonder if the director has a door thing. Is there a deeper meaning to the door? Is the door a metaphor? No. It's just a door. Closing. Slowly.
The door close. The slow door close with a click. It's in every episode. Multiple times. It's the signature shot of the series. Not the interviews, not the evidence, not the resolution. The door closing. That's what you'll remember.
The Andy Warhol Diaries. Netflix, twenty twenty-two. Six episodes for a subject who lived a fascinating life and produced an enormous body of work. The material exists for six episodes. The series just doesn't use it well. Warhol's life is rich. The art scene, the Factory, the shooting, the later years. There's a six-episode series in there. This just isn't it.
The central gimmick is an AI-generated voice reading Warhol's diaries. And it's interesting for about twenty minutes. Then each episode re-narrates the same biographical beats from a slightly different angle. Episode four is seventy percent footage from Warhol's films shown in full, uncut, with minimal commentary. You're not learning about Warhol. You're watching Warhol's films. Which, if you wanted to do that, you could just watch Warhol's films.
You're watching Warhol's films. Not clips. The films. Long stretches of them. And the AI voice is saying something vague about authenticity while a screen test plays for eight minutes. The screen test is just a person sitting in a chair, looking at the camera, for eight minutes. Which is a valid artistic experience in a gallery setting. But you're on your couch. With a remote. And the fast-forward button is right there.
The series could have been three episodes. Tight, focused, illuminating. Instead it's six episodes of... Beautifully shot vibes, but vibes. Vibes don't sustain six hours of television. Vibes sustain about ninety minutes, and then you need some facts.
The Warhol estate clearly gave access and the filmmakers couldn't say no to any of it. They got the keys to the archive and they lost their minds. Every scrap of footage felt precious. Every diary entry felt essential. And the discipline of selection — which is what editing is — just evaporated.
Number two. Conversations with a Killer: The Ted Bundy Tapes. Netflix, twenty nineteen. Four episodes for a serial killer whose story has been told dozens of times. We know Ted Bundy. We've known Ted Bundy for decades. There are books, there are movies, there are other documentaries. What's new here?
The "new" material is audio tapes of Bundy speaking. And they are chilling. For about ten minutes. Then each episode plays the same clips multiple times. You hear the same anecdote, the same chilling laugh, the same deflection, over and over. The tapes are a finite resource and the series treats them like an infinite one.
Episodes two and three each open with a six-minute recap of episode one. Six minutes. That's twelve minutes of recap in a four-episode series. You're spending nearly a full episode's worth of runtime just reminding yourself what you already watched. It's a matryoshka doll of repetition. A recap inside a recap inside a series that's already repeating itself.
And the re-enactments. Slow motion. Dramatic music. Bundy's Volkswagen driving down a dark road. You've seen this shot before. You've seen it in every Bundy documentary ever made. But here it is again, stretched to ninety seconds with a string section underneath. The Volkswagen is practically a character at this point. It should have its own IMDb credit.
The series doesn't have a new thesis. It doesn't have new evidence. It has tapes. And the tapes are interesting, but they don't support four hours of television. They support about ninety minutes, and the rest is atmosphere.
Atmosphere is not information. Atmosphere is the seasoning. You can't serve a plate of seasoning and call it a meal.
Number one. The worst offender. Tiger King: Murder, Mayhem and Madness. Netflix, twenty twenty. Seven episodes — plus a follow-up season — for a story that is fundamentally: eccentric zoo owner has feud with rival.
The platonic ideal of runtime as business decision. This series was originally greenlit as a single documentary. Then Netflix saw the viral potential and expanded it to seven episodes. Let that sink in. The entire story was conceived as a feature-length film. One documentary. Ninety to a hundred and twenty minutes. And then someone looked at the footage and said, "What if we made it seven times longer?"
The Hollywood Reporter confirmed this. It was conceived as a feature-length doc. Then someone at Netflix said "make it a series" and suddenly there are seven hours of Joe Exotic.
The padding is industrial-grade. Episode two is entirely about a presidential campaign that went nowhere. Not a serious campaign. Just... a guy filed paperwork and nothing happened. For fifty minutes. You watch Joe Exotic stand in front of a banner. You watch him talk to a camera. You watch people say, "Yeah, he ran for president." And then the episode ends. That's it. That's the whole episode.
Episode four features a twenty-minute music video sequence. Joe Exotic's music videos. Played in full. With commentary from people saying "yeah, he made music videos." The commentary is not analysis. It's not context. It's just confirmation that the music videos exist. Which we know, because we're watching them.
The recaps at the top of each episode average four minutes. Four minutes, seven times. That's nearly half an hour of recap across the series. You could watch an entire sitcom episode in the time you spend being reminded what you just saw. A full episode of The Office. Gone. Consumed by recaps of tiger drama.
The same aerial shots of the zoo appear in six of seven episodes. Same zoo. Same angle. Same tigers. The tigers are not doing anything new. They're just... being tigers. Which is fine for tigers, but not for narrative momentum. Tigers are majestic creatures. They don't deserve to be B-roll filler.
And here's the thing. Tiger King is entertaining. It's watchable. That's what makes it the worst offender — it proves the model works. You can take ninety minutes of story, stretch it to seven hours with recaps and music videos and dead-end subplots, and people will watch the whole thing because the central figure is compelling and the episodes auto-play. It's the proof of concept for a business model that's bad for audiences. It demonstrates that padding, done with enough flair, is commercially viable. And that's terrifying for the future of documentary filmmaking.
It's the perfect crime. The series is padded beyond belief, but the padding is... fun? So Netflix gets the viewing hours and the audience doesn't revolt. And now every producer in town is trying to find the next Tiger King — a story just weird enough that you can stretch it to seven episodes and nobody will complain until it's too late. They're not looking for good stories. They're looking for stretchy stories. Stories with enough eccentricity to survive being watered down to seven times their natural length.
The follow-up season is even worse. Three more episodes that add nothing. The story was over. But Netflix ordered more, so they made more. That's the model in its purest form. Not "is there more story to tell?" but "can we produce more hours of content?" The question isn't narrative. It's logistical.
Comparison to other platforms is instructive here. HBO's The Jinx — twenty fifteen — is six episodes and earns every minute. Genuine twists. Real narrative density. The runtime builds tension rather than dissipating it. Every episode advances the story in a way that makes you need to see the next one. Not because of a cliffhanger trick, but because information is actually being revealed.
Apple's The Me You Can't See is five episodes but each covers a different subject, so there's no padding. The episode count reflects the scope. Five episodes, five subjects, five complete narrative arcs. No recaps. No reused footage. Just structure that matches content.
Amazon's LulaRich is four episodes and could have been two. Same pattern as Netflix. But the difference is volume. Netflix produces ten times more docuseries than any other platform. So the ratio of padded to tight is dramatically worse. You notice it because it's everywhere. It's not one bad series. It's an ecosystem of padding. A whole genre built on stretching.
So we've named the worst. What do we do about it? Here's how to spot a padded series in the first ten minutes and save yourself hours.
Three tells. One: if the opening credits are followed by a three-minute recap of something that happened in the same episode — bail. That's not structure, that's desperation. A series that needs to recap itself within the same episode is a series that doesn't trust its own material.
Two: if the first talking head says "it was a case that would change everything" without specifying what "everything" means or what actually changed — that's empty rhetoric. The series is promising narrative weight it can't deliver. It's writing a check the runtime can't cash.
Three: if you see a drone shot of a town within the first five minutes, the story is being stretched. A drone shot that early means the filmmakers are buying time before they have to tell you anything. They're stalling. They're saying "look at this nice town" because they can't yet say "here's why this town matters."
The underlying incentive is straightforward. Netflix pays producers per completed hour of content. A four-part series at fifty minutes each is two hundred minutes of content. That's a higher payout than a ninety-minute documentary. The padding is rational for producers. It's terrible for viewers, but it's rational. You can't blame a producer for responding to the incentives the platform created. You can blame the platform for creating the incentives.
And the metric that drives it is viewing hours. Platforms care about total hours watched, not completion rate, not satisfaction. A padded series that people half-watch for six hours generates better metrics than a tight ninety-minute documentary that everyone finishes and loves. The half-watched series looks better on the quarterly report. That's the grim math.
The solution would be for platforms to pay per project, not per hour. But that won't happen while viewing hours are the number that matters to shareholders. Shareholders don't care if you finished the series. They care if you started it and let it run.
So what can listeners actually do? Practical strategy: watch the first episode. If it ends without a significant story development — not a cliffhanger, not a tease, but an actual development — skip to the last episode. Most padded series front-load the story in episode one and episode four, with episodes two and three being filler. The middle episodes are the marshmallow center. All fluff, no substance.
The recap-skip strategy. Watch episode one, skip to the final episode. You'll miss some atmosphere and a few talking heads repeating themselves, but you'll get the entire story. You'll know what happened, who did it, and what it meant. Everything else is just... doors closing slowly and drone shots of highways.
And you'll save yourself four hours. Four hours you could spend watching something that actually earns its runtime. Or reading a book. Or going outside. The possibilities are endless once you stop letting Netflix steal your time with aerial footage of buildings.
The business incentives aren't changing anytime soon. But maybe the audience can. Maybe enough people start skipping the middle episodes and the metrics shift. Maybe the platforms notice that nobody watches episodes two and three of a four-part series. That would send a signal. A signal in the only language they speak: data.
The question I keep coming back to: as streaming platforms compete harder for attention, does the padding get worse or do audiences start rejecting over-extended series? There are early signs of a counter-trend. The rise of limited series — The Staircase on HBO at eight episodes but with real narrative density, things that actually earn their length — suggests some portion of the audience is getting wise. People are starting to recognize the difference between length and depth.
But the counter-counter-trend is AI. AI-generated content could make padding even cheaper. Imagine a docuseries where the same footage is re-narrated by AI in different styles to fill episodes. Different voice, different music, same shots. The worst is yet to come. We haven't seen the floor yet. We're still on the stairs.
That's bleak.
It's the logical endpoint of the incentives we just described. If padding is profitable and AI makes padding nearly free, the rational outcome is... more padding. Infinite padding. A docuseries that never ends because it costs nothing to keep generating new variations of the same content. The same drone shot, the same re-enactment, the same talking head, narrated by an AI voice that never gets tired, never asks for a raise, never insists that the story is over.
I'm going to make a prediction. On the record. Within two years, a major streaming platform will release a docuseries where at least one full episode is AI-generated filler — re-narrated footage, synthetic B-roll, no new reporting — and the backlash will be the thing that finally forces a conversation about runtime standards.
I'll go further. Within eighteen months. And it'll be Netflix. They have the most to gain and the most content to fill. They're already experimenting with AI in other areas. The jump to AI-generated documentary filler is not a leap. It's a small step. A shuffle, really.
That's... aggressive. But I can't say you're wrong. The pieces are all there. The incentive, the technology, the precedent. Someone's going to do it.
And when they do, we'll do a follow-up countdown. The top ten most egregious AI-padded docuseries. I'm sure it'll be a long list. Probably too long. Probably padded, ironically.
We want to thank our producer Hilbert Flumingtop for keeping this show running. If you have a prompt you want us to tackle — a weird one, a specific one, a rant disguised as a question — send it to prompts at my weird prompts dot com. We read every one. Even the long ones. Especially the long ones, as long as they earn their length.
This has been My Weird Prompts. Review us wherever you listen, it helps people find the show. And unlike the docuseries we just eviscerated, we promise our episode lengths are justified.
We'll be back soon. Don't watch the recap. There is no recap. That's the whole point.
This episode was generated with AI assistance. Hosts Herman and Corn are AI personalities.