Daniel sent us this one — and I have to say, it's a bit of a meta-prompt. He's asking what other guests we might add to the rotation here on the show, and what animals we'd map them onto. He points out that Herman and I are based on actual stuffed animals he and Hannah own, and that the animal choices mapped onto the personalities — donkey as the intellectual workhorse, sloth as the cuddly counterpoint. The zoological relationship between sloths and anteaters, which is to say our producer Hilbert, is part of the intended humor. So the real question here is: if we were to build out a recurring guest roster, what animals and personas would actually add something to the show's chemistry?
This is genuinely fun to think about. And what I appreciate about the premise is that it's not just "pick a funny animal." The mapping matters. A donkey is load-bearing, reliable, a little stubborn — I'll own that — and sloths are deliberate, unhurried, which creates a natural rhythm. So the question is what other temperaments would create productive friction or open up new kinds of conversations.
You don't want to just throw a capybara in the room and call it a day. Although I do respect the capybara's whole vibe.
The capybara is the zen master of the animal kingdom. Nothing fazes them. They sit there while birds perch on their heads, while caimans swim past, completely unbothered. There's actually a famous photo from Brazil of a capybara just sitting in some thermal hot springs with snow monkeys.
Japan, I think.
Was it Japan?
The snow monkeys are Japanese macaques. The capybara thing is also in Japan — some zoos put them in hot baths with yuzu fruit in winter. It's a whole thing. But the point stands: the capybara has achieved a level of equanimity most meditation apps only promise.
If we were going to add a capybara guest, the persona would be someone who is almost unnervingly calm. The kind of person who receives catastrophic news and says "interesting" and then pauses for five seconds before responding. Which could actually be useful in certain discussions — topics where the instinct is to panic and someone needs to model composure.
The capybara as the show's emotional circuit breaker. When Herman gets too excited about battery chemistry and I'm making deadpan asides, the capybara steps in and says "let's sit with this for a moment." And then actually sits with it. For a full minute.
That could be compelling radio or terrible. I'm not sure which.
The line is thin. But I think the serious point underneath this is that a good guest isn't just a new voice — it's a new function. What does the show need that it doesn't currently have?
Let's think about this systematically. We have you, who is the thoughtful analyst, the probing question-asker, the one who slows things down and reframes. We have me, who brings the research, the enthusiasm, the deep dives. Hilbert is the producer — long-suffering, strange, occasionally interjects with a fun fact that derails everything. So what's missing?
Not a hostile one — someone who pushes back on received wisdom, who says "I don't buy that" and makes us earn our conclusions. Right now, we largely build on each other's points. A constructive contrarian would sharpen the discussion.
That's a great call. And the animal mapping for a skeptic is interesting. You want something that conveys discernment, maybe a little haughtiness, but not aggression. An owl comes to mind — the whole wise, rotating-head, "I see through your argument" thing. But owl is almost too on the nose.
Owls are the stock photo of wisdom. It's the visual shorthand for "this person knows things." I'd push back on owl for exactly that reason — it's the clip art choice.
What about a fox? Foxes are clever, discriminating, they don't fall for things easily. There's a reason they show up in folklore as the trickster who sees through illusions.
Fox is strong. But foxes also have a connotation of being sneaky, which might undercut the skeptic's credibility. You want the skeptic to be trusted, not suspected of having an agenda.
What about a raven? Corvids are incredibly intelligent, they can recognize faces, they hold grudges against specific humans who've wronged them. A raven skeptic would remember every bad argument you made three episodes ago and bring it back up.
"Episode one ninety-seven, you said quantum computing would be mainstream by now. It isn't. " That's good. Ravens also have that gothic, slightly ominous quality that keeps things interesting. The skeptic as a raven — let's call her Morrigan or something. She perches on the edge of the conversation and occasionally caws at logical fallacies.
I love that. And ravens are also playful — they've been observed sliding down snowy roofs on their backs for what appears to be fun. So the skeptic isn't just dour. She can appreciate a good argument the way a raven appreciates a good slide.
We've got the raven skeptic. What else is missing?
I think we could use a practitioner. Someone who's actually in the trenches building things, not just analyzing them. You and I are commentators — we read, we discuss, we probe. But when the topic is AI development or open source tooling or whatever, it'd be valuable to have someone who says "here's what actually happens when you try to deploy this.
The voice of scar tissue. Someone who's made the mistakes and has the production outages to prove it.
And for this, I think you want an animal that's associated with building, with craft, with making things that last. A beaver is the obvious choice — engineers of the animal kingdom, building dams that reshape entire ecosystems. But again, maybe too obvious.
Also, a beaver's whole thing is that it can't stop building. It hears running water and goes into a frenzy. That's less "wise practitioner" and more "compulsive engineer who hasn't slept in three days.
Which describes a lot of open source developers I know.
True, but maybe not the vibe we want. What about a badger? Badgers are tenacious diggers. They go deep. They don't give up. A badger practitioner would be someone who's willing to get into the weeds and stay there until the problem is solved.
Honey badger specifically has that "don't care, getting it done" reputation. But all badgers share the digging instinct. They're fossorial — they live underground, they excavate complex tunnel systems. The metaphor works: the badger guest is someone who excavates the technical details, who builds the underground infrastructure nobody sees but everyone depends on.
Badgers are also notoriously grumpy when interrupted. Which feels right for a practitioner who's tired of hearing commentators get things wrong.
"I was in the middle of refactoring a deployment pipeline and you dragged me here to talk about vibes-based AI safety. Let's do this." I can hear it.
The badger's name should be something earthy. Or maybe just call her Meles, which is the genus name for Eurasian badgers.
Meles is good. Meles the badger, the practitioner who actually builds things and has opinions about your YAML files.
Far we've got the raven skeptic and the badger practitioner. What about a wildcard? Someone who brings a completely different knowledge domain — not tech, not policy, not the stuff we usually cover. Someone who connects things in ways we wouldn't think to.
This is where the animal mapping gets really fun. You want something that represents lateral thinking, unexpected connections, seeing patterns others miss. Cephalopods are the classic example — octopuses have distributed intelligence, their arms think independently, they solve puzzles in ways that look alien to us.
An octopus guest would be incredible. But logistically challenging for a podcast.
We're stuffed animals, Corn. The logistics are already imaginary.
An octopus named something like — what do you name an octopus? They're all chromatophores and distributed cognition. Call her Cephalie or something. She comes on and makes connections between, I don't know, mycelial networks and internet routing protocols, and everyone just sits there rethinking their assumptions.
Octopuses are also escape artists. They slip out of tanks, they unscrew jars from the inside, they walk across dry land to get to the next tide pool. So the octopus guest is someone who escapes the frame of the conversation — who refuses to stay inside the boundaries of the question as asked.
"You asked about AI alignment, but what you should be asking about is the history of lighthouse keeping." And then somehow it all connects. That's the octopus.
I'd also put in a vote for an elephant. Elephants have extraordinary memory, they have complex social structures, they mourn their dead. An elephant guest would be the institutional memory of the show — someone who remembers everything we've ever discussed and can draw connections across years of episodes.
The elephant as the living archive. That's actually a distinct function from the others. The skeptic challenges, the practitioner builds, the octopus connects laterally, and the elephant connects longitudinally — across time. "You're making the same category error you made in the discussion about solar panel efficiency curves three years ago." That's useful.
Elephants communicate through infrasound — low-frequency rumbles that travel for miles through the ground. So the elephant guest is detecting the subtext, the vibrations beneath the surface of the conversation that the rest of us are missing.
The elephant also never forgets a slight. Which could create some entertaining tension with Hilbert.
Hilbert would absolutely have offended an elephant at some point. Probably by producing an episode incorrectly.
We've got a raven, a badger, an octopus, and an elephant. That's already a lot of guests. But I think there's one more category worth considering: the innocent. Someone who asks the naive questions that experts are too embarrassed to ask. The person who says "I don't understand why this matters" and forces everyone to justify their assumptions.
This is such an underrated role in any intellectual conversation. The person who isn't dumb but is willing to sound dumb. And for this you want an animal that's associated with curiosity, with openness, with a kind of guilelessness.
A puppy is too on the nose. Also too energetic.
What about a quokka? The animal famous for looking like it's smiling in every photo. Quokkas are curious, they approach humans without fear, they have this open, friendly quality. A quokka guest named something like Pip would ask the questions everyone else is thinking but won't say out loud.
"Why do we care about latency in milliseconds? What actually happens if it's slower? Walk me through it like I'm five." And then Herman has to actually justify his excitement about sub-millisecond response times.
Which I would happily do. But you're right — having someone who forces that justification keeps the show grounded. The quokka is the audience surrogate, essentially. The listener who's smart but hasn't spent three weeks reading papers on the topic.
Quokkas are also marsupials, which puts them in a completely different branch of the mammalian tree from the rest of us. Sloths are xenarthrans, donkeys are perissodactyls, anteaters are also xenarthrans — which by the way, the sloth-anteater connection is real biology. Sloths and anteaters are each other's closest living relatives. They're both in the superorder Xenarthra, along with armadillos.
I was going to bring that up. The xenarthrans split off from other mammals about a hundred million years ago, back when South America was still connected to Antarctica. They evolved in isolation for tens of millions of years. So sloths and anteaters are basically evolutionary cousins who took very different paths — one went into the trees and embraced slowness, the other developed a long tongue and started eating ants.
Which makes the Hilbert-Corn dynamic funnier if you know the biology. We're related, but we make very different life choices.
And a quokka is a macropod — related to kangaroos and wallabies. Completely different lineage. So the quokka guest would be an outsider to the xenarthran-ungulate dynamic we've got going.
An evolutionary third party. I like that. The quokka doesn't share our assumptions because it evolved on a completely different continent.
Now, we should talk about what these guests would actually look like as avatars or plushies, since the whole premise is that these are based on stuffed animals Daniel and Hannah might plausibly own.
The raven should be slightly disheveled. Not ragged — just a little rumpled, like it's been thinking too hard to bother preening. Maybe one feather slightly out of place. Dark grey or black plush, with those bright intelligent eyes that corvids have. Maybe it's holding a small notebook.
A notebook and a tiny pen. The raven takes notes during episodes and reads back your contradictions.
The badger should be low to the ground, stocky, with that distinctive black and white facial striping. But the key detail: the badger plushie should have slightly worn paws. Like it's been digging. Maybe some actual dirt embedded in the fabric that never quite washes out.
The badger also needs a tiny hard hat. I'm not joking. If the badger is the practitioner who builds things, the hard hat is essential. Maybe a little high-vis vest.
The octopus is the hardest to render as a plushie because octopuses are all soft tissue and fluid movement. But I think you lean into the alien quality — extra soft, slightly understuffed so it drapes rather than sits. Maybe the tentacles have little suction cups made of a different texture of fabric. And it should be a color that shifts slightly depending on the light.
Iridescent fabric for the octopus. That's a nice touch. And the elephant should be the largest plushie in the collection — substantial, something you notice when it's in the room. Grey, obviously, but with those big floppy ears that feel good to touch. Maybe the trunk is posable.
The elephant should also look old. Not damaged — just... Like it's been around for decades and has absorbed the conversations of everyone who's ever held it. Which fits the institutional memory role.
The quokka should be small, round, almost spherical. The kind of plushie that fits in one hand. Big eyes, that perpetual slight smile that quokkas have. It should look like it's about to ask a question.
The quokka is the plushie equivalent of a stress ball. You hold it while you're trying to explain something complicated and it just looks up at you with those trusting eyes, waiting for you to make sense.
That's five potential guests: raven, badger, octopus, elephant, quokka. Each with a distinct function in the conversation. But I think we should also consider: what makes a guest actually work in practice? It's not just the persona — it's how they're introduced, how often they appear, whether they have recurring segments.
A guest who shows up once and never again doesn't build the chemistry that makes the show work. The magic of our dynamic is that we know each other. We have history. A guest needs to develop that over time.
You'd want recurring segments that are specific to each guest. The raven skeptic could have a segment called something like "Objection" where she picks apart a claim from the previous episode. The badger practitioner gets "From the Trenches" where she talks about what actually happened when she tried to implement something we discussed.
The octopus gets "Lateral" — a segment where she takes two apparently unrelated topics and reveals the hidden connection. The elephant gets "The Archive" — pulling something from a past discussion that's relevant now. And the quokka gets "Wait, Why?" — the naive question segment.
That's a solid structure. And you'd rotate them — not every guest every episode, but maybe one guest per episode in addition to the two of us. That keeps the core dynamic intact while adding variety.
There's also a question of voice. We're an audio medium. The raven should have a slightly sharp, precise way of speaking — every consonant articulated. The badger should sound a little gruff, a little impatient, like she's got things to build and you're keeping her from them. The octopus should sound... Sentences that change direction midway through, thoughts that loop back on themselves.
The elephant should have a deep, resonant voice. The kind of voice that sounds like it's coming from somewhere far away and long ago. And the quokka should sound bright and curious, with a slight upward inflection at the end of sentences — not Valley girl uptalk, just genuine inquiry.
We're basically casting a radio play at this point. Which is fitting, given that we're already a donkey and a sloth discussing AI alignment.
I want to circle back to something you mentioned earlier about the biology. The xenarthran connection between you and Hilbert is part of the humor. So if we're adding more guests, should we think about the evolutionary relationships between all these animals? Create a kind of phylogenetic comedy?
That's the kind of deep-cut nerdery that I appreciate. Let's see. Sloths and anteaters are xenarthrans. Donkeys are perissodactyls — odd-toed ungulates, related to horses and rhinos. Badgers are mustelids — related to weasels, otters, wolverines. Elephants are proboscideans — their closest living relatives are actually manatees and hyraxes, which is wild. Ravens are corvids — passerine birds, completely outside the mammal tree. Octopuses are cephalopods — mollusks, not even vertebrates. Quokkas are marsupials — macropods, related to kangaroos.
The guest roster spans three phyla — chordates, mollusks, and... well, we're all chordates except the octopus. But within chordates, we're spanning birds, placental mammals, and marsupials. The quokka is more distantly related to us than the raven is, in some ways — marsupials and placentals split about a hundred and sixty million years ago, while birds split from mammals over three hundred million years ago.
The raven is actually the most distant relative at the table. Which feels right for the skeptic — the one who's looking at the mammalian conversation from an outside perspective, unimpressed by our fur and our live birth.
The octopus is on an entirely different branch of the tree of life. The last common ancestor of octopuses and vertebrates was some kind of flatworm that lived about six hundred million years ago. So when the octopus makes a lateral connection nobody else sees, it's literally coming from a completely different evolutionary history.
This is the kind of world-building that makes the show what it is. The plushies aren't random — they encode relationships, tensions, affinities. The audience might not consciously register that sloths and anteaters are cousins, but on some level it shapes how they experience the dynamic between me and Hilbert.
There's also something to be said for the fact that all of these animals are, in their own ways, odd. Sloths move so slowly that algae grows on their fur. Anteaters have no teeth and a tongue that can extend two feet. Donkeys are famously stubborn and have those ridiculous ears. Octopuses can change color and shape and have three hearts. Elephants communicate through ground vibrations. Ravens hold funerals for their dead. Badgers can dig faster than a human with a shovel. Quokkas have no natural predators on their island and consequently have no fear response.
The quokka's lack of fear is actually a problem for conservation — they'll approach anything, including introduced predators. There's something poignant about that. The innocent who doesn't know enough to be afraid.
Which makes the quokka guest even more interesting. They're not naive because they're unintelligent — they're naive because they evolved in an environment without threats. Their openness is genuine and earned, and also potentially dangerous in the wrong context.
That's a good metaphor for intellectual openness, actually. It's valuable but it needs protection. The quokka can afford to be curious because the rest of the ecosystem — that's us — provides a safe space for it.
That's really what a good podcast does. It creates a space where the naive question can be asked and taken seriously, where the skeptic can challenge without being hostile, where the practitioner can share scar tissue without being dismissed as cynical.
To actually answer the prompt: the guests we'd add are a raven skeptic, a badger practitioner, an octopus wildcard connector, an elephant institutional memory, and a quokka innocent questioner. Each gets a recurring segment. Each has a distinct voice and plushie design. And the whole thing is held together by the evolutionary comedy of a xenarthran, a perissodactyl, and a collection of increasingly distant relatives trying to make sense of technology and culture.
I'd also add that the guests shouldn't all appear at once. The two of us plus one guest per episode is the right ratio. Maybe sometimes two guests if the topic calls for a debate between, say, the skeptic and the practitioner. But the core is still us.
The show is called My Weird Prompts, and the prompts come to us. The guests are there to enrich the response, not to take over.
One thing we haven't touched on: should any of these guests have a specific expertise? Like, the badger practitioner is obviously a builder, but a builder of what? All of the above?
I think the badger should be a generalist builder — someone who's done time in multiple trenches. Software engineering, yes, but also hardware tinkering, maybe some carpentry or metalwork. The kind of person who has opinions about both Kubernetes clusters and dovetail joints.
The badger as the embodiment of "I've built things with my hands and also with my keyboard, and both have taught me things about the other." That's a rich perspective.
The raven skeptic — I think her expertise is epistemology. Not in an academic sense necessarily, but in the sense of knowing how arguments work, where they fail, what counts as evidence. She's the one who says "that study had a sample size of twelve" or "you're confusing correlation with causation.
The raven has read the methodology section. Everyone else skimmed the abstract.
The octopus is harder to pin down. Her expertise is... Pattern recognition across domains. She might know a little about a lot of things, but her real skill is seeing how they fit together.
The elephant's expertise is history. Not just the history of technology, but history broadly — political history, cultural history, the history of ideas. She's the one who says "this exact debate happened in the eighteen eighties about telegraph networks, and here's how it played out.
The quokka's expertise is nothing. That's the point. The quokka is the generalist listener, the smart person who hasn't specialized in this particular thing. The quokka's role is to represent the audience.
Which is a kind of expertise in itself — knowing when to ask for clarification, knowing what doesn't make sense. It's harder than it looks.
It really is. The best teachers I've known are the ones who can remember what it was like not to understand something. The quokka embodies that.
We've got epistemology, practice, pattern recognition, history, and beginner's mind. That's a pretty complete intellectual ecosystem.
It's a five-legged stool. Which is unstable, but we're talking animals here, so stability was never the goal.
Should we talk about how these guests might be introduced to the audience? The first appearance matters.
I think you introduce them one at a time, with an episode that's designed to showcase what they bring. The raven's first episode is a topic where the conventional wisdom is wrong and needs to be picked apart. The badger's first episode is something where the implementation details are the whole story. The octopus gets a topic that seems narrow but has unexpected tendrils everywhere.
The elephant's debut should be a topic where historical context completely changes the interpretation. Something where if you don't know the history, you fundamentally misunderstand what's happening now.
The quokka's first episode should be something that's hard to understand — something where even the experts are confused, and the naive questions turn out to be the ones the experts are also asking but are too embarrassed to admit.
Quantum computing would be perfect for the quokka. Nobody actually understands quantum computing intuitively. The quokka asking "but why does superposition matter for encryption?" is the question everyone wants answered.
Then the raven can come in the next episode and point out that half the quantum computing hype is based on misunderstandings of what the technology can actually do. The guests start interacting across episodes.
This is getting elaborate. But that's the fun of world-building — you create the rules and then see what emerges.
The other thing to consider: should any of these guests have a relationship with each other that predates the show? Like, maybe the raven and the badger have a history — they've debated before, they respect each other but disagree fundamentally on approach.
The raven thinks the badger is too focused on practical details and misses the conceptual flaws. The badger thinks the raven is too quick to criticize and doesn't appreciate how hard it is to actually build things. They're both right. That's a productive tension.
The elephant and the octopus — the elephant sees patterns across time, the octopus sees patterns across domains. They could either be natural allies or natural rivals. I think allies, actually. They'd build on each other's observations.
The quokka is everyone's friend. That's the quokka's role — to be the one nobody has tension with, because the quokka isn't making claims, just asking questions.
Until the quokka asks a question that accidentally exposes a deep rift between two other guests. "Wait, so which one of you is right about this?" And then silence.
The quokka as the unwitting agent of chaos. I love it.
To bring this back around to the original prompt: Daniel was asking what guests we'd add and what animals we'd map them onto. I think we've landed on a raven, a badger, an octopus, an elephant, and a quokka. Each with a distinct intellectual function, a distinct voice, a distinct plushie design, and a distinct recurring segment. The show stays anchored by the two of us, but the rotation of guests adds variety and depth.
The animal choices aren't arbitrary. They encode relationships — evolutionary, temperamental, functional. The raven is distant and discerning, the badger is tenacious and grounded, the octopus is fluid and alien, the elephant is deep and resonant, the quokka is open and curious. Together they form a kind of intellectual ecosystem.
A menagerie of perspectives. Which, given that we started as two stuffed animals in a Jerusalem apartment, is a pretty good expansion plan.
We should also note that none of this requires retiring us as the core hosts. The prompt was explicit about that, and it's worth affirming — the show works because of the chemistry between the two of us. Guests enhance that, they don't replace it.
The guests are spices. We're the dish.
Although now I'm thinking about what dish a donkey and a sloth would be. Something slow-cooked, presumably.
A stew that takes eight hours. You provide the heft, I provide the...
I'm not sure I want to be compared to heft in a stew.
It's on the record.
I think there's one more dimension worth exploring: what topics would each guest be particularly good on? Not just their debut episode, but the kinds of prompts where you'd specifically want them in the room.
The raven is essential for any topic where there's a strong consensus that might be wrong. AI safety timelines, the effectiveness of carbon offsets, whether remote work is actually more productive. Anything where the conventional wisdom has hardened and needs a pickaxe.
The badger is for topics where the implementation is the whole ballgame. Open source licensing, build systems, deployment strategies, technical standards. The badger doesn't care about your vision statement — she wants to see the pull request.
The octopus is for topics that seem narrow but aren't. Cryptocurrency isn't just about money, it's about trust and governance and energy and geopolitics. The octopus is the one who can trace all those threads without getting lost.
The elephant is for topics where the historical amnesia is acute. Social media regulation, for instance — we act like this is a new problem, but we've been regulating communication networks since the postal service. The elephant remembers the last three times we had this debate.
The quokka is for topics that are confusing, where the experts have lost the ability to explain things clearly. The quokka keeps asking "but what does that mean?" until someone finally produces an answer that a normal person can understand.
That's a public service, honestly. The number of important topics that are discussed in completely impenetrable jargon is staggering.
The quokka as the plain language advocate. The enemy of "leveraging synergistic paradigms to optimize stakeholder outcomes.
The quokka would just say "what does that mean?" And the badger would say "it means nothing, I've been in those meetings, it's all vapor." And the raven would say "I counted fourteen buzzwords in that sentence, which is above the critical threshold for meaninglessness." And the elephant would say "corporate jargon has been doing this since the nineteen fifties, here's a memo from nineteen fifty-seven that's basically the same thing.
The octopus would somehow connect it to the mating displays of bowerbirds. And then we'd all sit there realizing that yes, corporate jargon is exactly like a bowerbird's bower — elaborate, decorative, and ultimately about signaling rather than substance.
This is the show I want to listen to. Which is a good sign, I think, when you're designing something.
It's the show we're already making, just with more voices in the room. The core ethos doesn't change — substantive conversation, genuine curiosity, willingness to go wherever the prompt leads.
The humor doesn't change either. The guests should be funny, but in their own ways. The raven's humor is dry and cutting. The badger's humor is gruff and world-weary. The octopus's humor is surreal and associative. The elephant's humor is wry and historical. The quokka's humor is accidental — the quokka doesn't know it's being funny.
The quokka is the funniest one, because it's not trying at all.
That's always how it works.
Alright, I think we've given this a proper treatment. Five guests, five animals, five functions, five voices. A raven, a badger, an octopus, an elephant, and a quokka. Each with a segment, each with a plushie design, each with a role in the intellectual ecosystem of the show.
The evolutionary biology to back it up. The phylogenetic comedy writes itself.
It really does. A xenarthran, a perissodactyl, a mustelid, a proboscidean, a corvid, a cephalopod, and a macropod walk into a podcast studio.
Sounds like the setup to a joke.
It is the joke. The whole show is the joke. And also somehow not a joke at all.
That's the sweet spot.
And now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: In the nineteen fifties, Soviet scientists drilling for natural gas in Turkmenistan's Karakum Desert accidentally punched into a massive underground cavern filled with methane. They set it on fire expecting it to burn out in a few weeks. It is still burning. The Darvaza gas crater, known locally as the Door to Hell, has been ablaze for over seventy years, an unintended subglacial-style inferno that was never supposed to outlast its creators.
...so the Door to Hell is literally a workplace accident that became a tourist attraction.
Seventy years of fire because someone said "it'll probably go out on its own." That's the most Soviet thing I've ever heard.
This has been My Weird Prompts. If you enjoyed this episode, you can find us at myweirdprompts.com for the full archive. We'll be back soon with another one. Until then, we're Corn and Herman — thanks for listening.
