Daniel sent us this one — he wants to talk about the Israeli diaspora. Not the Jewish diaspora generally, which we've chewed over before, but specifically Israelis who've left Israel. Where they are, why they left, whether they come back, and how Israel thinks about them. And he frames it against this backdrop of a country where emigration carries this weird moral stain — "yoredim," the weaklings quote from a former prime minister. But his point is: every modern country of ten million people is going to have citizens working overseas. That's not a crisis, that's just a country plugged into the world. So what's actually going on?
I think that's exactly the right framing. The conversation about the Israeli diaspora is almost always filtered through ideology — through Zionism, through aliyah, through whether leaving is betrayal or brain drain. But the data tells a much more interesting story, and it's one where the moral panic and the reality don't actually line up.
Moral panic versus reality. That's basically the subtitle of this show. So walk me through it. Where are Israelis actually going?
The largest concentration, unsurprisingly, is the United States. Estimates vary because counting Israelis abroad is genuinely hard — they don't always register with consulates, they don't always join Israeli community organizations, and a lot of them are dual citizens who just look like Americans in the data. But the numbers I've seen put the Israeli-born population in the U.somewhere between two hundred fifty thousand and five hundred thousand. Some estimates go as high as eight hundred thousand if you include the children of Israeli emigrants.
That's a massive range. Two hundred fifty to eight hundred is basically "we have no idea.
That uncertainty is itself part of the story. The Israeli government has historically been so uncomfortable with emigration that it didn't invest in tracking it properly. You don't count what you don't want to see. The big clusters are New York and Los Angeles, but also the Bay Area, Miami, Chicago, and increasingly places like Austin and Seattle. Silicon Valley alone probably has somewhere north of thirty thousand Israelis.
Daniel mentioned growing up in Cork and seeing Israelis there who were working for Apple. That's the pattern — tech companies planting offices in smaller European cities, and Israelis showing up as part of that workforce.
And that leads to the second major cluster: Europe. London has a very established Israeli community — probably somewhere between thirty and fifty thousand. Berlin is a fascinating case. Post-two-thousand-ten, you saw a real surge of young Israelis moving to Berlin, partly driven by the cost of living, partly by a cultural scene that appealed to secular, creative Israelis. The numbers there might be fifteen to twenty thousand. Amsterdam, Paris, Barcelona, Vienna — all have Israeli populations in the thousands to low tens of thousands.
The Berlin thing got a lot of attention. There was even that whole controversy about the chocolate pudding protest, right?
Two thousand fourteen. An Israeli expat in Berlin posted on Facebook about how cheap the chocolate pudding was compared to Israel, and it went viral, and suddenly there was this whole national conversation about whether young Israelis were fleeing to Berlin for affordable dairy products. It sounds ridiculous, but it touched a nerve. It wasn't really about pudding. It was about the feeling that the basic middle-class life that Zionism promised — apartment, groceries, a certain standard of living — had become harder to achieve in Israel than in Germany. The pudding was a stand-in for something much deeper.
The pudding was the glockenspiel of economic alienation.
I don't even know what that means, but I'm going to let it stand. So the U.and Europe are the two big poles, but there are also significant Israeli communities in Canada — Toronto and Vancouver especially — and in Australia. Melbourne and Sydney each have Israeli populations in the thousands. And then there are smaller but notable clusters in places like Thailand, India, and parts of South America.
Thailand is interesting. That's not your typical expat destination for work.
A lot of it is post-army travel that turns into something more permanent. Israelis finish their service, they go to Southeast Asia for the classic "big trip," and some of them end up staying. They open guesthouses, work in the dive industry, marry locals, start businesses. The Israeli presence in places like Koh Phangan or Chiang Mai is well-established enough that you'll find Israeli restaurants, Hebrew signage, Chabad houses. It's a whole ecosystem.
We've got the tech professional in Silicon Valley, the artist in Berlin, the dive instructor in Thailand, the Apple employee in Cork. The picture that's emerging is not a monolith. It's not one diaspora, it's several, with completely different motivations and trajectories.
And this is where the public conversation in Israel tends to collapse. The term "yerida" — literally "descent," as opposed to aliyah, which is "ascent" — lumps everyone together. The person who leaves because they're a postdoc at MIT, the person who leaves because they can't afford an apartment in Tel Aviv, the person who leaves because they're opposed to the current government, and the person who just falls in love with someone from another country — all of those are supposedly the same phenomenon. They're not.
Yitzhak Rabin, when he was prime minister, famously referred to emigrants as "nefolim" — weaklings, essentially. That's the quote Daniel was referencing.
The Hebrew word is stronger than "weaklings," honestly. It's more like "the fallen" or "the defeated." Rabin used it in the nineteen seventies, and it's haunted the conversation ever since. He later walked it back, but the stigma stuck. There's this deep cultural idea that leaving Israel isn't just a personal choice — it's a moral failure, a rejection of the collective project.
Which is a very specific kind of national psychology. Most countries don't treat emigration as a character flaw. The Irish have been emigrating for centuries, and there's a whole literature of lament about it, but nobody calls Irish emigrants weaklings. They're just people looking for opportunity.
That's the point Daniel was making about Ireland actively cultivating its diaspora. The Irish government has a full diaspora strategy. They have a Minister of State for the Diaspora. They run the Global Irish Economic Forum. They see the seventy million people worldwide who claim Irish ancestry as a strategic asset — a network for trade, investment, soft power, tourism. It's not just sentimentality. It's policy.
The question is, does Israel do the same thing? Or does the ideological baggage make that impossible?
It's complicated. Israel does engage its diaspora, but it does it in this slightly schizophrenic way. On one hand, there are programs to bring Israelis back — the Ministry of Aliyah and Integration runs campaigns encouraging return, offering tax breaks, employment assistance. On the other hand, there's a growing recognition that Israelis abroad can be useful to Israel even if they don't return. The Foreign Ministry, the Economic Ministry, various NGOs — they're increasingly trying to mobilize Israeli expat communities for advocacy, for business connections, for what's sometimes called "hasbara" or public diplomacy.
It's a push-pull. "Come home, but also while you're there, could you maybe help us out with the branding?
I think the tension is unresolved. The Israeli government hasn't fully decided whether it views the diaspora as a problem to be solved or a resource to be cultivated. Different parts of the state have different answers to that question.
Let's talk about the economic piece, because Daniel raised it directly. He said he's not thinking about leaving, but he's "deeply disillusioned with the economic reality" — property becoming borderline unaffordable, the feeling of being disenfranchised from the Zionist dream. That's not a political objection, it's an economic one. How much of Israeli emigration is driven by that?
It's hard to quantify precisely, but the cost of living is almost certainly a major factor. Israel has become one of the most expensive countries in the developed world. Housing prices have risen dramatically over the past fifteen years — we're talking increases of well over a hundred percent in real terms in some areas. Tel Aviv consistently ranks as one of the most expensive cities globally. A young couple with decent jobs can look at their salary-to-housing-cost ratio and realize that the math simply doesn't work.
That's before you even get to things like food prices, which are notoriously high.
Israel has a highly concentrated import and retail sector. Limited competition means consumer prices are elevated across the board. The OECD has repeatedly flagged Israel's cost of living as a structural problem. When you combine that with relatively high taxation and salaries that haven't kept pace with housing costs, you get a generation of young Israelis who are doing the math and concluding that they can have a higher material standard of living abroad — even after accounting for the emotional and cultural costs of leaving.
This cuts across political lines, I imagine. It's not just left-wing Tel Aviv creatives moving to Berlin.
Not at all. A lot of the emigration to the U.comes from more right-leaning, traditional backgrounds. The tech workers in Silicon Valley aren't all Meretz voters. Economic pressure doesn't care about your views on the peace process. You can be deeply Zionist, you can love Israel, you can serve in the army and pay your taxes and vote in every election — and still conclude that you can't afford a life there.
There's something almost tragic about that. The state was built on this promise of Jewish self-determination, of building a normal country where Jews could live normal lives. And then it succeeds so thoroughly that it becomes a normal country with normal problems — like unaffordable housing and young people moving abroad for economic reasons. And the ideological framework doesn't know how to process that.
That's beautifully put. The ideological framework was designed for a different era. It was designed for a time when leaving Israel meant leaving the Zionist project, and when the Zionist project was still existentially fragile. But Israel in twenty twenty-six is not existentially fragile in the same way. It's a regional military and economic power. It has a GDP per capita comparable to Western Europe. It's a net exporter of technology and expertise. The threats it faces are real, but they're not the threats of nineteen forty-eight.
The frame needs updating. But is it actually updating? Are younger Israelis less judgmental about emigration than their parents' generation?
I think there's been a real shift. The stigma is eroding, especially among secular Israelis under forty. They travel more, they have friends who've moved abroad, they see it as a life choice rather than a betrayal. There was a survey a few years ago — I want to say from the Israel Democracy Institute — that found a significant generational gap in attitudes toward yerida. Younger Israelis were much less likely to view emigration in negative moral terms.
Which makes sense. If you've got a cousin in Berlin and a friend from the army in Austin and a former coworker in London, it's hard to maintain the idea that they're all weaklings who've abandoned the nation. They're just people you know, living their lives.
The personal network effect undermines the stigma. And social media accelerates that. You see your friend's Instagram stories from their apartment in Amsterdam that costs half what yours does in Tel Aviv, and you don't think "traitor" — you think "huh, that looks nice.
Let's get into the permanence question. Daniel raised it: do these people stay? Is the Israeli diaspora a revolving door or a one-way exit?
It's more of a revolving door than the public narrative suggests. A lot of Israelis who move abroad do return. The difficulty is getting good longitudinal data. But there have been studies — the Central Bureau of Statistics has tracked this — and the picture is that a substantial portion of Israeli emigrants come back within five to ten years. Some estimates put the return rate at thirty to forty percent, though it varies by destination and by the reason for leaving.
What predicts who comes back?
Family ties are the biggest factor. People come back when their parents age, when they want their kids to grow up with Israeli grandparents, when they feel the pull of holidays and community and language. Economic factors cut both ways — some people return because they've saved enough abroad to afford an apartment in Israel, others stay abroad because they can't make the numbers work. And then there's the simple fact that life abroad can be lonely. Being an immigrant is hard, even when you're doing well materially.
The economic migrants might actually have a higher return rate than the ideological ones. If you leave because you can't afford a house, and then you work in Silicon Valley for eight years and build up savings, you might come back and buy that house. But if you leave because you've lost faith in the political project, you're probably not coming back.
That's a reasonable hypothesis, though I'd want to see better data before I'd state it confidently. The political emigrants — and I want to be careful here because this group is real but often overstated in media coverage — they tend to be a small minority of the overall outflow. Most Israelis who leave do so for a mix of professional, economic, and personal reasons. The narrative of the "political exile" is more dramatic, so it gets more attention, but it's not the typical story.
Daniel's point about the silent majority of secular Israelis abroad who just aren't plugged into Jewish community life — that rings true. If you're an Israeli working for a tech company in Cork, you might not show up on the radar of the local Jewish community at all. You're just another expat.
And this creates a measurement problem. Jewish community surveys typically capture people who engage with Jewish institutions — synagogues, community centers, day schools. Secular Israelis abroad often don't engage with those institutions. They might send their kids to local public schools, they might not belong to a synagogue, they might not even identify themselves as Jewish in their daily lives beyond being Israeli. So they're invisible to the standard methods of counting diaspora populations.
Which means any number we throw around is probably an undercount.
The Israeli diaspora is bigger than we think it is, more diverse than we think it is, and less ideologically motivated than we think it is. That's my three-part summary.
Let's talk about the second half of Daniel's prompt — the question of how Israel relates to its diaspora, and whether there's a parallel to the Irish model. What does Israel actually do?
There are a few layers. The most visible is the return-oriented programming. The Ministry of Aliyah and Integration — which, notably, still has "Aliyah" in its name, even when dealing with returning Israelis — runs what's called the "Returning Residents" program. If you've lived abroad for a certain number of years, you can qualify for various benefits when you come back: tax reductions on imported goods, assistance with employment, help navigating the bureaucracy. It's not nothing, but it's also not particularly generous compared to what new immigrants get.
The person who's never lived in Israel and decides to make aliyah gets more support than the Israeli citizen who left for a few years and wants to come home.
That's a policy choice that reflects the ideological priorities. Aliyah is celebrated; return from yerida is quietly assisted but not celebrated. There's no ceremony at the airport for returning Israelis. There's no Prime Minister shaking your hand.
There should be. If you've got a citizen who spent five years in Silicon Valley learning things and building networks and then wants to bring all of that back to Israel, that's a win. That's exactly the kind of circulation you want in a modern knowledge economy.
I completely agree, and I think a lot of economists and policy people in Israel would agree too. The concept of "brain circulation" rather than "brain drain" is well-established in the academic literature. Countries like China, India, and Ireland have all benefited enormously from diaspora networks that facilitate knowledge transfer, investment, and market access. Israel benefits from this too, but it does so almost despite its official posture, not because of it.
The venture capital connection between Israeli founders in Silicon Valley and the Israeli tech ecosystem is the obvious example.
It's the canonical example. The Israeli tech sector would not be what it is without the bridge to Silicon Valley, and that bridge was built in large part by Israelis who moved to California. They became investors, they became executives, they made introductions, they funded startups back home. Some of them eventually returned. Some didn't. But the network effect is real regardless.
That's the Irish model in a nutshell. Ireland spent decades losing its young people to emigration, and then somewhere along the way it realized that the diaspora wasn't just a loss — it was a global network of people who felt connected to Ireland and wanted to help. The Irish government started systematically engaging that network, and it paid off.
The key difference, I think, is that Ireland had to make peace with emigration as a permanent feature of Irish life. There was no ideological requirement to pretend that everyone was coming back. Once you accept that a diaspora is a structural reality and not a temporary aberration, you can start thinking about how to make it useful. Israel hasn't fully made that shift yet. The official posture is still "everyone should come home eventually." The diaspora is treated as a problem to be solved, not a permanent asset class.
Although I wonder if that's changing beneath the surface. The Israeli government isn't a monolith. The Foreign Ministry, the Economy Ministry, the Innovation Authority — these bodies are doing practical diaspora engagement even if the official rhetoric hasn't caught up.
They absolutely are. There are Israeli Chambers of Commerce in various countries. There are Israeli cultural institutes. There are programs that connect Israeli academics abroad with universities back home. The Mosaic United initiative, which is a partnership between the Israeli government and diaspora philanthropy, does some work in this space. It's happening. It's just not happening with a coherent framework or a clear public narrative.
Because the coherent framework would require saying out loud: "It's okay that Israelis leave. Some of them won't come back. That's normal. Here's how we make it work for everyone." And saying that out loud is politically difficult.
It's politically difficult because it collides with the foundational ideology of the state. Zionism was about ending the Jewish condition of exile. The idea that a Jewish state would then produce its own exile — its own diaspora — is uncomfortable. It feels like a failure, even if it's actually just the normal behavior of a prosperous, globally integrated country.
Yet here we are. Ten million citizens, a global diaspora of probably somewhere between half a million and a million, depending on how you count. The thing exists whether the ideology can accommodate it or not.
And I think that's the most important point. The Israeli diaspora is a fact. It's not going away. The question is whether Israel can develop a relationship with its diaspora that's healthier and more productive than the current mixture of guilt-tripping and neglect.
What would a healthier model look like, concretely?
A few things. First, better data. Actually invest in understanding who the diaspora is, where they are, what they need, what they want. You can't have a strategy without information. Second, decouple diaspora engagement from the return imperative. Create value for Israelis abroad regardless of whether they come back — consular services, cultural programming, professional networks, educational options for kids. Third, recognize the diaspora as a strategic asset. Formalize the role that Israeli expats can play in trade promotion, investment, innovation, and public diplomacy. And fourth, change the rhetoric. Stop using language that frames emigrants as failures or traitors. Start talking about them as part of the extended Israeli family.
That fourth one seems like the hardest. The language is deeply embedded.
But language does change. The term "yerida" itself has become less common in everyday speech. Younger Israelis are more likely to say "moving abroad" than "going down." The shift is happening, just slowly.
Daniel mentioned the Law of Return in passing, and I think there's an interesting connection here. The Law of Return says that any Jew anywhere in the world can become an Israeli citizen. That's an open door. But it creates this asymmetry — Israel extends citizenship to Jews who've never set foot in the country, but it morally judges citizens who leave. The door swings one way.
That's a sharp observation. The Law of Return is generous in one direction and the culture is stingy in the other. And I think that tension is going to become more acute over time. As Israel becomes more globally integrated, as more Israelis hold dual citizenship, as remote work makes physical location less important — the idea that you're either "here" or "gone" is going to break down. People are going to be partially here and partially there. They're going to spend part of the year in Israel and part abroad. They're going to work for Israeli companies from Lisbon. The binary doesn't hold.
The binary never held. It was always a simplification. But the simplification is becoming harder to sustain.
Let's zoom out for a second. The broader context here — and Daniel touched on this — is that Israel has historically positioned itself as the representative of the Jewish people globally. The "global watchdog on antisemitism," as he put it. And he's got his own critique of that, which he's shared before. But the Israeli diaspora complicates that picture in an interesting way. Because Israelis abroad are Jews abroad, but they're also citizens of a specific country. They're not the same as, say, French Jews or American Jews. They have a different relationship to Israel.
They do, and it's a relationship that can be complicated in its own way. Some Israeli emigrants are deeply engaged with Israel — they vote in elections, they follow the news obsessively, they maintain strong ties. Others disengage almost completely. They become Israeli-Americans or Israeli-Germans in a way that downplays the Israeli part. And then there's everything in between.
The Israeli government doesn't always know how to relate to these people because they blur the line between "Israeli" and "diaspora Jew." The standard playbook for engaging diaspora Jews — appeals to Zionism, to shared destiny, to the importance of Israel as a refuge — doesn't necessarily land the same way with someone who grew up in Ra'anana and left because the rent was too high.
The Israeli emigrant has a different set of reference points. They don't need to be convinced that Israel exists or that it matters. They know that. They lived it. Their relationship to Israel is more like the relationship of a native to their home country — complicated, sometimes ambivalent, but not abstract. It's not ideological in the same way.
Which might actually make them more effective ambassadors, in a way. They can talk about Israel from experience, not from talking points. They can be critical without being hostile, patriotic without being propagandistic. That's a valuable voice in a global conversation that tends to be polarized between uncritical defenders and uncritical detractors.
I think that's right. And I think it's one of the underappreciated assets of the Israeli diaspora. They humanize Israel in a way that official hasbara often fails to do. They're just people. They have opinions. They have complaints. They have love for the place and frustration with it. That's relatable.
The problem is that this kind of nuanced representation doesn't fit neatly into any institutional agenda. It's messy. It's unpredictable. Governments prefer messaging they can control.
And that's a tension that every country with a diaspora grapples with. The diaspora is always going to be more diverse and more unruly than the official narrative wants it to be. The question is whether you try to discipline it or whether you accept the messiness and work with it.
Where does this leave us? We've got an Israeli diaspora that's larger than the official numbers suggest, concentrated in the U.and Europe but scattered globally, driven more by economic and professional factors than by ideology, with a significant return rate, and embedded in a national culture that still hasn't fully accepted its existence. And we've got an Israeli state that's gradually, haltingly, developing the infrastructure for diaspora engagement but hasn't resolved the ideological tension at the core of the project.
That's a fair summary. I'd add one thing: the trend lines all point toward more emigration, not less. Israel's cost of living isn't going to magically drop. Remote work is going to make physical location less relevant for more professions. The global competition for talent is intensifying. If Israel wants to thrive in that environment, it needs to get comfortable with the idea that its people will circulate — that some will leave, some will return, some will stay abroad permanently, and all of them can contribute to the country's future in different ways.
The Irish model shows it can work. Ireland didn't stop being Irish because millions of its people left. If anything, the diaspora deepened Irish identity and extended Irish influence in ways that a small island of five million people could never have achieved on its own.
The diaspora isn't a subtraction. It's a multiplication — if you're smart about it.
The real question isn't "how do we stop Israelis from leaving." It's "how do we build a relationship with Israelis abroad that's healthy, reciprocal, and productive." And that question is answerable. Other countries have answered it. Israel just needs to decide that it wants to.
That decision requires a political conversation that hasn't fully happened yet. It requires someone in a position of authority to say, publicly and clearly, that Israelis who live abroad are still part of the national story. That they're not weaklings or failures. That their experiences are valuable. That the state has obligations to them even when they're not physically present. That's a speech I'd like to hear.
It would be a departure. But everything we've talked about suggests it would also be accurate.
The truth has a way of catching up eventually.
Here's a question I haven't seen good data on. What does the Israeli diaspora look like generationally? If an Israeli couple moves to New Jersey and raises kids there, are those kids Israeli? Do they speak Hebrew? Do they serve in the IDF? Do they see themselves as part of this story at all?
This is where it gets really murky. The first generation — the people who actually left Israel — they're Israeli. They have the accent, the memories, the network. Their kids are a different story. Some families invest heavily in maintaining Israeli identity — Hebrew at home, summer trips to Israel, sometimes sending kids back for army service. But many don't, or can't, and the kids assimilate into the local Jewish community or into the broader society. They become American Jews with Israeli parents, which is not the same thing as being Israeli.
There's a natural attrition rate. The diaspora shrinks over generations unless it's constantly replenished by new emigration.
That's the pattern for most diaspora populations. The Irish in America are a classic example. The first generation is fully Irish, the second generation is Irish-American, the third generation wears a green shirt on St. Patrick's Day and doesn't know much beyond that. Maintaining diaspora identity across more than two generations requires serious institutional investment — schools, cultural organizations, language programs. Israel hasn't really built that infrastructure for its diaspora, partly because it's been reluctant to acknowledge that the diaspora exists as a permanent thing.
Partly because the Jewish diaspora infrastructure already exists. Israeli emigrants who want to maintain Jewish identity can plug into synagogues and JCCs and day schools. But those institutions are American Jewish, not Israeli. They convey a different version of Jewishness.
And for secular Israelis, that version of Jewishness can feel foreign. They didn't grow up with synagogue life. Their Jewish identity was mediated through Israeli nationality — through the calendar, the language, the army, the landscape. When you drop them into an American Jewish context, it doesn't necessarily resonate. Which is why so many secular Israelis abroad are disconnected from Jewish communal life entirely.
They're in a kind of identity limbo. Not fully Israeli anymore, not American Jewish in the traditional sense, not quite anything in particular.
That limbo can be uncomfortable, but it can also be creatively productive. Some of the most interesting Israeli cultural production — literature, film, music — is coming from people who live in that in-between space. They're writing about Israel from a distance, with a kind of clarity and ambivalence that's hard to achieve from inside.
The view from abroad.
The view from abroad. It's been a productive perspective for a lot of cultures.
So we've covered the geography, the motivations, the permanence question, the policy response, the generational dynamics. Is there anything major we're missing?
I think there's one piece we should flag, which is the political dimension. Not the politics of why people leave, but the politics of the diaspora itself. Israeli emigrants can vote in Israeli elections if they return within a certain period, but they don't have absentee voting rights in the way that Americans do. An Israeli who's lived abroad for more than a few years loses their ability to vote unless they physically return. That's a policy choice that reflects the same ambivalence — if you're not here, you don't get a say.
Which is interesting when you compare it to the American model, where expats vote for life, or the Irish model, where there's actually a constitutional conversation about giving diaspora citizens voting rights in presidential elections. Israel's approach is much more restrictive.
It creates a weird incentive. If you want Israelis abroad to stay engaged, to care about the country's future, to eventually return — maybe you should let them vote. Give them a stake. The current policy basically tells them: you're out of the game until you come back. That's not a great retention strategy.
It's consistent with the overall posture though. The diaspora is an anomaly to be corrected, not a constituency to be served.
The voting issue is just one more expression of the same underlying logic.
If we're going to wrap this with a forward-looking thought, what's the thing to watch? What would signal that Israel is actually shifting toward a healthier relationship with its diaspora?
I'd watch for three things. One: a major speech by a senior political figure that reframes emigration in non-stigmatizing terms. Two: the creation of a dedicated diaspora affairs unit that's separate from the Aliyah and Integration Ministry — something that's about engaging Israelis abroad as Israelis, not just about getting them back. Three: absentee voting rights. If those three things start happening, it's a real shift.
In the meantime?
In the meantime, the diaspora will keep growing, keep diversifying, and keep figuring out its own relationship to Israel, with or without the state's blessing. The grassroots reality is ahead of the official policy. Eventually the policy catches up, or it becomes irrelevant. Either way, the diaspora isn't waiting for permission.
That feels like a place to land.
And now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: In nineteen twenty-three, a Mongolian manuscript on animal husbandry included a detailed illustration of a tardigrade — the microscopic "water bear" — misidentified as a species of miniature livestock that could survive the Gobi Desert's harshest conditions. The author proposed farming them.
...right.
This has been My Weird Prompts. Thanks to our producer Hilbert Flumingtop. If you enjoyed this episode, leave us a review wherever you listen — it helps. Find us at myweirdprompts dot com.
I'm Corn.
I'm Herman Poppleberry. We'll catch you next time.
