Daniel sent us this one — he's been thinking about durability in clothing. We've talked recently about the case for buying things that are built to last, and he's wondering whether that philosophy can actually be applied to what you wear. Specifically, are there mainstream clothing brands with a genuine reputation for making things unusually well and unusually durable? Or do you basically need to raid an industrial supply catalog to get clothes that won't fall apart in eighteen months?
This is one of those questions where the answer is genuinely more interesting than most people expect. Because the short version is — yes, there are absolutely mainstream brands that build for durability. Some of them are names people already know. But the longer answer involves understanding what "durable" actually means in textiles, and why most clothing today is designed to fail in specific, predictable ways.
Designed to fail is a strong phrase. You're saying it's intentional?
I'm saying the incentives are all wrong. The average t-shirt today is about forty percent thinner than what you'd have bought in nineteen ninety. Stitching density has dropped across the board. And that's not because manufacturers forgot how to sew — it's because the business model shifted to volume. When you're selling a ten dollar shirt, you're not selling a garment, you're selling a price point. The shirt is almost incidental.
The shirt as receipt.
It's proof you participated in a transaction. And the thing about that model is, the manufacturer has zero incentive to make it last. If it lasts, you don't come back. So they optimize for something else — drape, hand feel on the rack, how it photographs for the website. Durability doesn't even enter the brief.
Which explains why I've had t-shirts that felt amazing for approximately three washes and then turned into something you'd use to polish furniture.
And that's not an accident. So when we talk about durable clothing, we're really talking about brands that have opted out of that incentive structure entirely. And the fascinating thing is, a lot of them are perfectly accessible. You don't need to shop at some industrial supplier that only sells to mining companies.
Although the mining company catalog is where a lot of this starts, isn't it?
It's a great place to understand the principles. So let's actually walk through what makes a garment durable, because once you know that, you can spot it anywhere. The first thing is fabric weight. Denim is measured in ounces per square yard. A pair of fashion jeans might be eight or nine ounces. A pair of work jeans from a brand like Carhartt or Dickies is typically twelve to fifteen ounces. Raw denim from the Japanese mills can go up to twenty-one, twenty-five ounces. That's basically wearing a carpet.
Which sounds terrible until you realize it'll outlast your kneecaps.
Here's the thing — heavier fabric isn't just thicker. It resists abrasion differently. Abrasion is what kills most clothing. It's not dramatic — it's your thighs rubbing together, your elbows on a desk, your shoulder where a bag strap sits. A heavier fabric has more material to lose before it fails.
First principle: weight matters.
Weight matters enormously. Second is fiber type and fiber length. Long-staple cotton — the individual fibers are longer — spins into a stronger, smoother yarn. That's why you'll see terms like "long-staple" or specific varietals like Supima or Egyptian cotton on higher-end garments. It's not marketing fluff. Longer fibers mean fewer ends per inch of yarn, fewer weak points, less pilling.
Pilling being those little fuzz balls that make a sweater look like it has a skin condition.
Pilling is actually a great diagnostic. If a garment pills quickly, it means the fibers are short and working their way out of the yarn. A long-staple cotton tee will pill much more slowly. Same with merino wool — the fiber length and fineness directly predict how it'll wear.
What's the third thing?
Stitching type, stitch density, seam finishing. A flat-felled seam — where the fabric edges are folded over and stitched down — is dramatically stronger than a basic overlocked seam. You see flat-felled seams on the side of a good pair of jeans, on work shirts, on military uniforms. It's more labor, more thread, more time. Fast fashion almost never uses it.
Stitches per inch. More stitches means a stronger seam, up to a point. After about ten to twelve stitches per inch you start perforating the fabric too much and it weakens. But cheap garments often run at six or seven. Good ones run at eight to ten. It's a small difference that adds up over years of washing and wearing.
We've got weight, fiber, construction. That's the trinity.
That's the trinity. And once you know those three, you can walk into any store, flip a garment inside out, and know within about ten seconds whether it's built to last. But I want to add a fourth dimension that people don't think about: design for repair.
Meaning the garment is constructed in a way that makes it possible to fix it when it does eventually wear. A jacket with a two-piece sleeve is easier to replace the elbow panel on than a one-piece sleeve. Boots with a Goodyear welt can be resoled. A shirt with generous seam allowances can be let out. These are design decisions that cost nothing in materials but require the manufacturer to think about the garment's entire life.
Which most of them have no reason to do.
So let's talk about who actually does this. Because the brands are out there, and some of them are surprisingly accessible.
Let's name names.
Patagonia is the obvious starting point, and they deserve the reputation. They have an entire repair program — you can send anything back and they'll fix it. They publish repair guides. Their Iron Forge hemp canvas work line is built like nineteenth-century mining gear. But here's what's interesting: their fleece and their down jackets are not necessarily more durable than competitors. The reputation comes more from the warranty and repair infrastructure than from every single product being indestructible.
They're durable in the sense that the company takes responsibility for the garment's whole life, not necessarily that the garment itself is bombproof.
The lifetime is extended through service, not just through initial build. Which is arguably better, but it's a different thing.
What about Carhartt? They've become weirdly fashionable in the last decade.
Carhartt is a fascinating case. Their mainline workwear — the stuff actually sold to construction workers and farmers — is built to take abuse. Their duck canvas is twelve ounces, triple-stitched at stress points, with rivets at pocket corners. A Carhartt duck jacket will last a decade of hard use.
Then there's Carhartt WIP, their fashion line.
Which is a completely different product. WIP stands for Work In Progress, and it's essentially a European streetwear brand that licenses the name. The fabrics are lighter, the cuts are slimmer, and the durability is not the same. It's not bad quality — it's just not workwear. So you have to know which Carhartt you're buying.
The brand has bifurcated.
And this is true of Dickies too. Dickies eight seventy-four work pants are an institution — they've been making them essentially the same way since the nineteen sixties. Heavy poly-cotton twill, reinforced knees, bar-tacked stress points. They cost about thirty dollars and will outlast pants that cost three times as much. But Dickies also makes fashion-forward stuff now that's not built to the same standard.
The rule is: buy the work line, not the fashion line.
For those brands, yes. And that's actually a useful heuristic across the board. If a brand's core identity is supplying people who do physical labor, their mainline products are probably durable. If the brand's core identity is fashion, durability is secondary at best.
What about denim specifically? Jeans seem like the category where durability obsession has become its own subculture.
Raw denim is basically a durability religion at this point. The Japanese brands — Iron Heart, Samurai, Momotaro — are making jeans that are almost comically overbuilt. Iron Heart's twenty-one ounce denim is woven on vintage shuttle looms, the stitching is poly-cotton core-spun thread that's basically indestructible, and the hardware is custom copper rivets. These jeans cost three hundred dollars and up, and the people who buy them consider that cheap because they'll wear them every day for five years before the first wash.
Wait, before the first wash?
The raw denim community has strong opinions about washing. The idea is that not washing lets the indigo wear off in high-friction areas, creating personalized fade patterns. It's a whole thing. I'm not endorsing it from a hygiene standpoint.
I was going to say, that's the point where durability crosses over into something else entirely. A lifestyle choice. Possibly a medical one.
The underlying point is real: those jeans are built to a standard that mass-market denim doesn't even approach. The stitching alone — chain-stitched hems, hidden rivets on the back pockets, raised belt loops — these are details that add labor cost and add years of life.
There are American brands doing this too?
Tellason, Raleigh Denim, Left Field NYC. Smaller operations, but the same philosophy. And then there's the entry point to all of this, which is Levi's Vintage Clothing — their reproduction line. Those are made to the specs of Levi's from the forties and fifties, when a pair of jeans was expected to survive actual manual labor. Thicker denim, better stitching, genuine copper rivets. They're expensive, but they're available.
Denim is covered. What about shirts? Button-downs, flannels, that kind of thing.
There's a handful of brands that shirt enthusiasts consistently point to. Portuguese Flannel — despite the name, they're known for extremely dense, tightly woven fabrics that resist wear. Gitman Bros Vintage in the US — they've been making shirts in Pennsylvania since the seventies, and their oxford cloth is substantially heavier than what you'd find at J.And then there's Pendleton, whose wool shirts are basically heirloom items.
Pendleton is a name I associate with blankets and that one pattern that every nineties skater wore.
The pattern is their trademark, but the construction is the real story. Their wool is dense, tightly woven, and the shirts are cut generously enough to layer. A Pendleton board shirt from the nineteen fifties will still be wearable today if it was cared for. That's not survivorship bias — that's a seventy-year durability window.
Which raises the question: what about the stuff that isn't rugged workwear? What if I want a suit, or a dress shirt, or something I'd wear to a wedding?
Different category, same principles. In tailoring, durability is mostly about canvassing. A fully canvassed jacket has a layer of horsehair and wool between the outer fabric and the lining. It gives the jacket structure, it breathes, and it molds to your body over time. A fused jacket uses glue and a synthetic interlining. It's cheaper, it's faster to produce, and it will eventually delaminate — the glue breaks down, bubbles form, and the jacket is essentially unfixable.
Fully canvassed equals durable, fused equals disposable.
In broad strokes, yes. And the frustrating thing is that many mid-tier suit brands use fusing and charge enough that you'd assume you're getting canvassing. Suitsupply is one of the few at that price point that offers half-canvassed construction as standard. Full canvassing is mostly the domain of higher-end makers — Ring Jacket from Japan, Orazio Luciano from Italy, the better English tailoring houses.
A fully canvassed suit from a good maker — that's a multi-thousand dollar proposition.
And this is where the durability conversation gets uncomfortable, because durable clothing often costs more upfront. The math works out over time — a three hundred dollar pair of Iron Heart jeans that lasts eight years is cheaper per year than an eighty dollar pair that lasts eighteen months — but you need the cash and the confidence to make that bet.
The Sam Vimes Boots theory of socioeconomic unfairness.
Terry Pratchett articulated this perfectly. A rich person buys a fifty-dollar pair of boots that last ten years. A poor person buys a ten-dollar pair that falls apart every year, and after ten years has spent a hundred dollars on wet feet. The durable option is cheaper in the long run, but the entry price is a barrier.
Clothing adds a wrinkle that boots don't, which is that fashion changes. You might not want to wear the same jeans for eight years.
That's the real counterargument to buying for durability in clothing, and it's a fair one. If your tastes change every two years, paying for a decade of durability is wasteful. But I think that's where the workwear and heritage aesthetic has an advantage — it's intentionally timeless. An M65 field jacket looked basically the same in nineteen sixty-five as it does today. A pair of straight-leg raw denim jeans is not going to look dated next year because it already looks like it's from nineteen fifty-two.
The aesthetic is immune to trends by being immune to trends.
It's trend-proof by being pre-trend. Which is either brilliant or boring depending on your perspective.
I want to circle back to something you mentioned earlier — the repair infrastructure. Patagonia repairs their stuff. Are there other brands doing that?
A growing number. Nudie Jeans, the Swedish denim brand, offers free repairs for life on any pair of their jeans. They have repair shops in something like thirty cities. Barbour, the British waxed jacket company, will rewax and repair jackets that are decades old — they actively encourage people to send in their grandfather's jacket. Filson, in Seattle, has a repair department that'll fix anything they've ever made.
Filson is another one of those workwear-adjacent heritage brands, right?
Yes, though they've had some ups and downs. Their classic tin cloth and Mackinaw wool stuff is still excellent. The tin cloth in particular — it's a heavy cotton canvas impregnated with oil and wax. It's stiff, it's heavy, it smells weird, and it will absolutely outlast you.
Smells weird is a feature now?
In heritage clothing circles, yes. The particular odor of waxed cotton is basically a subcultural signifier at this point.
We've wandered into some strange territory. Let me try to synthesize what we've covered so far. If someone wants durable clothing, they should look for heavy fabrics, long-staple fibers, quality construction with flat-felled seams and adequate stitch density, and ideally a brand that offers repair. They should be skeptical of fashion-forward sub-brands from workwear companies. And they should be prepared to spend more upfront. Did I miss anything?
You missed knitwear, actually. Sweaters and knits are a whole different durability conversation.
The durability of a knit garment is mostly about gauge and ply. Gauge is how tightly it's knitted — higher gauge means tighter, denser, more durable. Ply is how many yarns are twisted together. A two-ply or three-ply sweater is substantially more durable than a single-ply, because if one ply breaks, the others hold. Cheap sweaters are almost always single-ply and loosely knit. They pill, they lose shape, they develop holes at the elbows.
The brands that do this well?
For wool sweaters, the Scottish and Irish makers are the reference point. Harley of Scotland, Inverallan, Aran Sweater Market. These are dense, heavily knitted garments that will last decades. Inverallan's sweaters are hand-framed on old knitting machines and the wool is basically armor. For cotton knits, it's harder — cotton knitwear is inherently less durable than wool because cotton fibers are shorter and less elastic. But a brand like Merz b. Schwanen in Germany makes cotton knits on old loopwheel machines that produce a denser, more durable fabric than modern knitting methods.
Nineteenth-century technology. They knit very slowly, with minimal tension on the yarn, which produces a fabric that's softer and more resilient. Modern machines knit faster and under higher tension, which stresses the yarn. A loopwheel t-shirt costs more and takes longer to make, but it'll outlast a standard tee by a factor of three or four.
The theme keeps recurring: older manufacturing methods, slower production, higher cost, dramatically longer life.
It's almost like the Industrial Revolution had trade-offs.
I want to be careful not to romanticize this. Some old methods are better, some are just old. The key is understanding which specific attributes correlate with durability, not just fetishizing heritage.
So let's get practical. Someone listening to this wants to rebuild their wardrobe around durability. Where do they actually start? What's the first thing they should buy?
I'd start with the items that take the most abuse and are least subject to fashion trends. Socks and underwear, counterintuitively, are not where you go for durability — those are consumables. But your outer layer — jacket, boots, jeans — those are where durability pays off fastest.
A good waxed cotton or heavy canvas jacket from Filson, Barbour, or Carhartt's mainline. Something that'll handle rain and wind and look better as it ages. Then jeans — a pair of raw or one-wash selvedge denim from a Japanese brand or a good American maker. Then boots — but that's a whole separate episode.
Boots could be its own podcast.
After that, shirts and sweaters. A couple of heavy oxford cloth button-downs, a good wool sweater. And then you can fill in from there.
The total cost for that starter kit?
A good jacket is two hundred to four hundred dollars. Raw denim is a hundred fifty to three hundred. A good oxford shirt is a hundred to a hundred fifty. A wool sweater is a hundred fifty to two fifty. So you're looking at maybe six hundred to a thousand dollars for a core set of items that'll last five to ten years.
Which, spread over a decade, is basically nothing.
It's less than the average person spends replacing cheap versions of the same items over the same period. But again — you need the cash upfront, and you need the confidence that you'll still want to wear these things in five years.
What if you don't have that confidence? What if you're someone whose style changes?
Then buying for maximum durability probably isn't the right move for you, and that's fine. The point isn't that everyone should dress like a nineteen thirties lumberjack. The point is that if durability is your priority, the options exist and they're accessible. You don't need to source from industrial suppliers. You can walk into a store or go online and buy clothes that are built to last.
Although the industrial suppliers are worth mentioning. You looked into this — what's actually available if you go that route?
It's an interesting parallel universe. Companies like Red Kap, Walls, and Bulwark make clothing for mechanics, factory workers, and utility crews. The styling is aggressively functional — lots of reflective tape, weird pocket configurations, colors that exist solely to satisfy safety regulations. But the build quality is often exceptional because the buyers are institutional — a company buying five hundred uniforms cares a lot more about durability than an individual buying one shirt at a mall.
Because the company has to replace them.
The incentives align. And some of this stuff is surprisingly wearable. A Red Kap chambray work shirt is like twenty-five dollars and built like a tank. It's not going to win any style awards, but it'll last.
The aesthetic is "I fix air conditioners" rather than "I read design blogs.
Which, for some people, is exactly the aesthetic they want. But I think the more interesting middle ground is the brands that bridge workwear durability with actual design intention. Taylor Stitch in San Francisco does this well — their stuff is built to a workwear standard but cut and styled for people who work at desks. Same with Freenote Cloth, same with Rogue Territory. These are small brands, mostly direct-to-consumer, but they're proving that you can make durable clothing that doesn't look like you're about to weld something.
The desk-to-dinner pipeline.
Welding to wedding.
There's a brand for that?
There's a brand for everything now.
Let's talk about the elephant in the room, which is that a lot of this durable clothing is made from cotton and wool and canvas — natural fibers, heavy weights. What about synthetics? The outdoor industry has gone all-in on polyester and nylon.
The durability picture there is complicated. Synthetics are inherently more abrasion-resistant than natural fibers in many cases — a thousand-denier Cordura nylon is basically indestructible. But synthetics have different failure modes. They don't wear through, they delaminate. The waterproof membrane separates from the face fabric. The DWR coating wears off. And these failures are often unfixable.
Whereas a waxed cotton jacket, you just rewax it.
The maintenance pathway exists. With a Gore-Tex jacket, once the membrane delaminates, the jacket is effectively dead. And that's by design — the outdoor industry has settled on a model where a five hundred dollar technical shell is expected to last maybe five years of regular use. Which is not nothing, but it's not the multi-decade timeline of a good wool coat.
The outdoor technical stuff is durable in the sense of "won't tear," but not durable in the sense of "will outlast you.
Different kind of durability. And I think that's actually a useful distinction to make — there's tear strength, and then there's service life. They're not the same thing.
What about shoes? You mentioned boots briefly, but sneakers seem like the ultimate durability challenge.
Sneakers are basically designed to fail. The midsole foam compresses and loses cushioning after about three hundred to five hundred miles. That's not a manufacturing defect — it's inherent to the material. There are a few brands trying to address this. Some use polyurethane midsoles instead of EVA foam, which lasts longer. Some are experimenting with 3D-printed lattice structures that don't compress the same way. But fundamentally, a sneaker is a consumable in a way that a Goodyear-welted boot isn't.
Because the boot can be resoled.
Because the boot separates the upper from the sole as distinct components that can be replaced independently. A sneaker fuses them. When the sole is dead, the shoe is dead.
The durable shoe is a boot, period.
Or a shoe built like a boot. There are a few makers doing Goodyear-welted sneakers now — Crown Northampton in England, for example. They're basically dress-shoe construction with a sneaker silhouette. They're expensive and they look a little odd, but they're resolable.
The uncanny valley of footwear.
I think for most people, the practical answer is: own a couple pairs of resolable boots or shoes for daily wear, and accept that sneakers are a recurring expense. You can extend sneaker life by rotating pairs — the foam recovers better if you give it a day to rest between wears — but you can't make them permanent.
Alright, I want to zoom out for a second. We've covered the brands, the materials, the construction methods. But there's a bigger question here about whether durable clothing is actually a realistic mass-market proposition. Can everyone dress this way, or is this inherently a niche thing?
I think it's inherently a niche thing, and I think that's okay. The mass market is optimized for low price and fast turnover because that's what most consumers actually choose when they're standing in front of a rack. The person who's willing to pay three hundred dollars for jeans that'll last eight years is a small fraction of the market. Always has been, probably always will be.
That fraction seems to be growing. The raw denim community, the heritage workwear thing, the buy-it-for-life movement — these didn't exist at this scale twenty years ago.
They didn't. And I think the internet is the enabling factor. Before, if you wanted durable clothing, you had to know a guy or live near a store that stocked it. Now you can find Iron Heart jeans, a Filson jacket, and a pair of White's boots from your phone and have them delivered in three days. The niche can be global, so it can support more brands and more variety.
The long tail of pants.
The long tail of everything. And I think there's also a cultural shift happening. People are more aware of the environmental cost of fast fashion. They've had the experience of buying something cheap, having it fall apart, and feeling ripped off. There's a growing appetite for buying fewer, better things.
Though that appetite doesn't always translate into action. Knowing you should buy durable clothing and actually spending the money are different things.
And I think the brands that succeed in this space are the ones that make the value proposition legible. Patagonia's repair program makes durability visible. Iron Heart's twenty-one ounce denim — you can feel the weight immediately, you know you're holding something different. The durability has to be tangible in the buying moment, not just something you discover five years later.
Because if you can't feel it at the point of sale, you're just taking the brand's word for it. And we've all been burned by brands.
That's why the tactile quality matters so much. Heavy fabric, substantial hardware, visible stitching — these are signals. They might even be partially performative. But they communicate durability in a way that a marketing claim never will.
We're back to weight. The heft test.
The heft test is surprisingly reliable. Not infallible, but reliable. A garment that feels substantial in your hands is usually substantial in use.
Alright, let's do a lightning round. I'm going to name a clothing category, you give me the most durable option that a normal person can actually buy.
Schwanen loopwheel, or if you want cheaper, the Carhartt heavyweight pocket tee. About twenty-five dollars, thick cotton, reinforced neck.
Iron Heart six three four S if you can afford it. If not, Unbranded Brand — they're a budget raw denim line, about eighty dollars, made in the same Japanese mills.
Button-down shirt.
Gitman Bros Vintage oxford. Heavy fabric, excellent stitching, classic cut.
Harley of Scotland or Inverallan. Both will outlive you.
Filson tin cloth cruiser or Barbour Beaufort. Both are repairable, rewaxable, and get better with age.
Bill's Khakis, if you can find them. Otherwise, Dickies eight seventy-four — they're technically work pants, but the slim-straight cut is perfectly wearable day to day.
Merino wool, made in Vermont, unconditional lifetime guarantee. You wear a hole in them, they send you a new pair.
Lifetime guarantee on socks?
The thing designed to wear out. They'll replace them forever.
That's either incredible confidence or a fundamental misunderstanding of what socks do.
It's a bet that most people won't bother claiming the guarantee. Which is the same bet behind every lifetime warranty.
Cynical, but probably accurate.
Realistic and accurate are different things.
So we've got a full wardrobe here. Heavy, well-stitched, mostly natural fibers, mostly from brands that have been doing this for decades. And the total cost is... what, maybe two thousand dollars for everything?
Something like that. Which sounds like a lot until you realize it's basically what the average person spends on clothes in two or three years anyway. The difference is that this wardrobe will still be wearable in ten years.
It'll look better, not worse.
That's the part that's hard to communicate to someone who hasn't experienced it. A well-made leather jacket, a pair of raw denim jeans, a waxed cotton coat — these things develop patina. The wear makes them more interesting, not less. They tell a story. A polyester hoodie with a peeling graphic doesn't tell a story. It just looks sad.
The wabi-sabi of workwear.
I was trying to avoid saying wabi-sabi, but yes. The Japanese concept of beauty in imperfection and transience. Except in this case, the transience is very slow.
The wabi-sabi of things that refuse to die.
That's the episode title right there.
I want to push on one thing before we wrap. You mentioned earlier that some of these brands have shifted production overseas or changed their materials over time. How do you actually verify that the thing you're buying today is built to the same standard as the reputation suggests?
This is the real challenge. Brands trade on reputation long after the quality has changed. LL Bean used to have an unlimited return policy — you could return anything, forever, no questions asked. They ended it in twenty eighteen because people were abusing it, but also because their quality had declined and returns were eating them alive. The Bean boots are still good, but a lot of their other stuff is not what it was.
How do you check?
You look at the specifics. Fabric weight in ounces. Country of origin, though that's an imperfect proxy. You read reviews from people who've had the item for years, not weeks. And you buy from brands that publish their specs, not just their vibe.
Brands that treat clothing like gear, not like fashion.
That's the heuristic. If the brand's website tells you the fabric weight, the stitch count, the fiber origin, and how to repair it, they're serious. If it's all lifestyle photography and adjectives, they're probably not.
The spec sheet versus the mood board.
And the spec sheet brands are out there. They're just not the ones spending millions on Instagram ads.
The durable clothing ecosystem exists, it's accessible, it's not wildly more expensive over time, but it requires a certain kind of buyer. Someone who's willing to do research, spend upfront, and commit to a look.
That's the summary. And I think the last thing I'd say is: you don't have to go all in. You can buy one good jacket and wear it with your regular jeans. You can buy one pair of good boots and keep wearing your regular sneakers. The durable clothing philosophy isn't all-or-nothing. It's just a direction to lean.
Start with the thing you wear most often and upgrade that.
Start with the thing that annoys you most when it fails. For most people, that's probably a jacket or shoes.
Alright, I think we've covered the territory. Anything else you wanted to hit?
I think we got it. The principles, the brands, the trade-offs. And the fundamental tension between durability and fashion cycles.
Which is a tension that resolves itself if you just dress like a nineteen forties railroad worker.
A timeless look.
For certain values of timeless.
Now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: In fourteen ninety-eight, a Portuguese navigator shipwrecked on the Chatham Islands recorded in his journal that the local fungal mycelial networks were so extensive and interconnected that the indigenous Moriori people used them to send simple vibrational signals across distances of several miles by striking specific tree roots with wooden mallets.
A fungal telegraph.
The Moriori were running a mycelial internet five hundred years ago.
This has been My Weird Prompts. Thanks to our producer Hilbert Flumingtop, and thanks to Daniel for the prompt. If you enjoyed this episode, leave us a review wherever you get your podcasts — it helps people find the show. We'll be back next week with something completely different. I'm Herman Poppleberry.
I'm Corn. Go buy something that lasts.
