Israel's television and film industry produces a surprising amount of content—hits like Fauda, Shtisel, and Tehran have found international audiences. But the acting pool is remarkably shallow. With roughly nine million Hebrew speakers as the total addressable audience, the market is a closed ecosystem where the same faces cycle through every drama, comedy, and hummus commercial. For top-tier actors, this means total cultural penetration: they're recognized constantly, everywhere. But that visibility doesn't translate to Hollywood-level income. A supporting TV role might pay $400–$800 per day, and even a hit show's residuals buy a nice car, not a house. For the long tail of working actors, survival means a patchwork career: a few guest spots a year, national commercial campaigns that can make or break a year's income, dubbing and voice work, corporate training videos, and background extra gigs. Agents matter earlier in a small market like Israel, where casting runs on personal relationships and word-of-mouth more than breakdown services. The Israeli case isn't just a quirky observation—it's a perfect lens for understanding the universal economics of acting in a compressed market.
#3433: The Same 12 Faces: Inside Israel's Tiny Acting Market
Why the same actors appear everywhere in Israeli TV—and what it means for working actors.
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New to the show? Start here#3433: The Same 12 Faces: Inside Israel's Tiny Acting Market
Daniel sent us this one — he's been watching Israeli TV and noticed something that anyone who watches Hebrew-language shows picks up on pretty quickly. You see the same actors everywhere. Same faces on dramas, comedies, billboards, bank commercials. And he's asking: in a small linguistic market like this, what does that actually mean for the actors themselves? Then he zooms out to the bigger question — for the long tail of working actors, the ones who aren't household names, what does a day in the life actually look like? Do they self-represent, when does an agent become necessary, and what kind of gigs are they stringing together just to keep the lights on while they're breaking in?
This is one of those questions where the Israeli angle is actually a perfect lens for understanding the universal problem. Because Israel's acting market is tiny — we're talking about a country of roughly ten million people, operating in a language that basically nobody else on earth speaks as a first language. The Hebrew-speaking market is maybe nine million people, tops, if you count diaspora who consume Israeli media. That's it. That's the entire addressable audience.
It's like being a Broadway actor but the theater only seats nine million people and they're all related to each other.
Half of them have opinions about your performance and will absolutely tell you about it at the shuk.
The small-cast problem is real. I've noticed it too — you'll be watching a tense political thriller and the defense minister walks in and it's the same guy who was selling hummus in a commercial three minutes earlier.
Right, and that's not just a quirky observation, it's structural. The Israeli television and film industry produces a surprising amount of content for its size — we've had shows like Fauda, Shtisel, Tehran get real international traction — but the acting pool is shallow because the language barrier is absolute. You can't import actors from other markets. A French actor can work in English-language productions with an accent. A Spanish actor can pivot to American roles. A Hebrew-speaking actor? That accent is distinctive and the roles that call for it outside Israel are vanishingly rare.
Unless you're playing an Israeli in an American spy thriller, and then congratulations, you've got a three-scene arc and you're probably getting shot in the second one.
So the Israeli actor's world is this closed ecosystem — maybe a few thousand professional actors competing for everything that gets produced in a single small country. And that compression creates some interesting dynamics. Let me pull some numbers here. Israel's film industry produces about twenty to twenty-five feature films a year domestically. Television output has exploded in the last decade — you've got the main broadcasters, Keshet, Reshet, the cable companies, and now all the streaming co-productions. But even with all that, we're talking about a total production volume that's a fraction of what a single major studio outputs in the US.
The math is brutal. If you've got, say, three thousand working actors and maybe a few hundred speaking roles across all productions in a year, you can see why the same faces cycle through everything.
That brings us to the first part of what makes the Israeli case instructive. When the market is that compressed, the actors who do break through — the top tier — they're not just working. They're ubiquitous. You'll see Lior Raz or Rotem Sela or Yehuda Levi on multiple shows simultaneously, plus film roles, plus theater, plus voice work, plus every third billboard on the Ayalon Highway.
The Ayalon is basically a rotating gallery of the same twelve faces.
Here's what's interesting, and I think this gets to the heart of the question. The compression at the top creates a visibility that's almost unheard of in larger markets. In Hollywood, even a working character actor might be recognized occasionally — "hey, you're that guy from that thing." In Israel, a working actor is recognized constantly, everywhere, because the entire country is watching the same three channels and the same handful of streaming shows. The cultural penetration is total.
Which sounds glamorous until you realize it means you can't have a bad day in the supermarket without it becoming a thing.
That intensity of recognition doesn't necessarily translate to income. That's the brutal disconnect. Israeli actors, even the famous ones, are operating in an economy where the residuals from a hit show might buy you a nice car, not a house in the hills. The revenue pools are just smaller. A top-rated Israeli drama might pull in a million viewers on a good night — that's a massive share of the population, but in absolute terms it's a small audience, which means smaller budgets, which means smaller paychecks.
Let's pivot to the real meat of this. The long tail. The actors who aren't Yehuda Levi. What does their life actually look like? And I think this is where Daniel's question gets universal, because the struggling actor in Tel Aviv and the struggling actor in Los Angeles are probably living more similar lives than anyone wants to admit.
Let's build a composite. I've been reading through some industry surveys and interviews with working actors in both markets, and the patterns are remarkably consistent. The typical working actor — not a star, not a complete beginner, but someone who's been at it for a few years and is getting paid work — they're piecing together what I'd call a patchwork career.
Patchwork is a generous word for it. It sounds like a quilt. It's more like a game of financial Jenga.
So let me break down the actual revenue streams. Number one: the dream gigs. These are the television roles, the film parts, the theater contracts. For a mid-level actor — someone you'd recognize but might not name — these might come a few times a year. A guest spot on a series, a supporting role in a film, a regional theater run. These pay the best but they're inconsistent.
"pay the best" is relative here.
In the US, SAG-AFTRA has minimum rates. For a television guest star role, you're looking at roughly a thousand dollars a day as a floor, plus residuals. For a co-star — the actor who has a few lines, the "detective number two" role — it's around eleven hundred for an eight-hour day. These are union minimums. In Israel, the equivalents are lower. The Israeli actors' union, Shaham, negotiates collective agreements, but the absolute numbers are smaller because the market is smaller. A day rate for a supporting television role might be in the range of fifteen hundred to three thousand shekels — that's roughly four to eight hundred dollars.
You book a guest spot, you work three days, you make somewhere between twelve hundred and twenty-four hundred dollars before taxes and commissions. That's not paying rent for very long.
That's if you're booking. The average working actor might land a handful of those a year. So what fills the gaps? This is where it gets interesting. Commercials are the backbone of the working actor's income in both markets, but especially in Israel where the advertising industry is concentrated and the same casting directors are cycling through the same faces.
This is where the small-market thing cuts both ways. If you're one of the recognizable faces, you're getting called for every commercial audition because the ad agencies know you, the casting directors know you, and the audience has a parasocial relationship with you from seeing you on three different shows.
A commercial shoot might be a single day of work — sometimes half a day — and the buyout can be significant. In Israel, a national campaign might pay an actor anywhere from a few thousand shekels up to tens of thousands depending on the usage rights, the duration of the campaign, and whether it's TV plus billboard plus digital. For a working actor, landing two or three solid commercial campaigns in a year can be the difference between scraping by and actually making a living.
This explains the billboard phenomenon Daniel mentioned. You see the same actors on billboards because they're the same actors who are available, who are in the casting databases, and who the agencies trust. It's not that there are only twelve actors in Israel — it's that there are maybe twelve actors who are reliably bankable for national campaigns.
The advertising industry is conservative about casting. They want someone who's familiar but not so famous that they overshadow the product. The sweet spot is "I know that face, I like that face, I trust that face." That's gold for a brand, and it keeps those twelve actors very busy.
We've got television, film, theater, commercials. What else is in the patchwork?
This is a huge category that most people don't think about. Dubbing, for one thing. Israel dubs a lot of foreign content into Hebrew, especially children's programming and animation. A working actor might spend days in a recording booth doing Hebrew voiceovers for international cartoons, video games, audiobooks. The pay isn't glamorous — maybe a few hundred shekels an hour — but it's steady when you can get it, and it doesn't conflict with on-camera work because nobody sees your face.
Voice work has the added benefit that you can do it even when you're between on-camera gigs and your ego needs a break from being recognized in the produce aisle.
Then there's corporate and industrial work. Training videos, internal communications, live event hosting. A company needs someone to MC their annual conference, or narrate their onboarding module, or play a manager in a compliance video about workplace harassment. These gigs pay decently, they're usually shot in a day or two, and nobody's going to see them except employees of that specific company.
The acting equivalent of playing a wedding. Nobody's reviewing your performance in the trades, but the check clears.
For actors who are just breaking in, there's an entire tier below this. Background work — being an extra. In the US, union extras make about a hundred and eighty dollars for an eight-hour day. In Israel, it's lower. Non-union background work might pay minimum wage or slightly above. It's not a living, but it gets you on set, it gets you face time with casting directors, and sometimes it leads to a line or two.
I've heard actors describe extra work as paid networking with a side of humiliation.
That's not inaccurate. You're furniture with a pulse, but you're furniture that might get upgraded to a speaking role if someone drops out and the AD remembers your face.
Let's talk about representation, because that was a specific part of the question. At what point does an actor need an agent?
This is one of those questions where the answer is different depending on the market, but the principles are similar. In a small market like Israel, the agent relationship often starts earlier and is more personal. Here's why: in a market with only a few thousand working actors and a few dozen casting directors, everyone knows everyone. An agent in Tel Aviv isn't just submitting you for roles — they're working the phone, maintaining relationships, hearing about projects before they're publicly announced. The value of an agent in a small market is access to information that isn't on a breakdown service.
It's less about getting your foot in the door and more about knowing which door exists in the first place.
In Hollywood, the breakdown services — the casting platforms where roles are posted — are comprehensive. An actor without an agent can still self-submit to a lot of projects, especially at the lower tiers. In Israel, a lot of casting still happens through personal networks. The agent is your entry point to that network.
Agents cost money. Commission is typically what, ten to fifteen percent?
Ten percent is standard in both markets for on-camera work, sometimes fifteen for voice or commercial. In Israel, agents might also charge a small monthly retainer or registration fee, especially for newer actors. It's not huge — maybe a couple hundred shekels a month — but for an actor who's barely scraping by, that's real money.
The question becomes: at what point does ten percent of something beat a hundred percent of nothing?
That's the calculus. And the conventional wisdom — and I think this holds across markets — is that you don't need an agent until you're consistently booking work that an agent can actually help you get. If you're still building your reel, still doing student films and fringe theater and background work, an agent probably can't do much for you that you can't do for yourself. The agent's value proposition is access to auditions you wouldn't otherwise get. If those auditions don't exist yet for you — if you're not at a level where casting directors are requesting you — the agent is just taking ten percent of not very much.
There's also the question of when an agent wants you. Good agents are selective. They're not signing everyone who walks in with a headshot. They're signing actors they believe they can place, because their income depends on commissions.
Right, and this creates a chicken-and-egg problem that's especially acute in small markets. In Israel, the top agencies — places like Zohar Yakobson, Perry Kafri, ADD — they're representing the actors who are already working. Breaking into that roster requires either a significant credit, a personal connection, or both. Newer actors often start with smaller boutique agencies or independent agents who are hungrier and more willing to take risks on unknown talent.
Some actors skip the agent entirely and go with a manager, or both. What's the distinction there?
In the US market, the distinction is clearer. An agent is licensed by the state, they're focused on booking work, they negotiate contracts. A manager is unregulated — anyone can call themselves a manager — and their role is more about career strategy, development, making introductions, helping you choose the right headshot photographer, that kind of thing. Managers typically take ten to fifteen percent as well, but they're not supposed to negotiate contracts directly. In practice, the lines blur a lot.
The agent-manager distinction is less formalized. Most Israeli actors have one representative who does a bit of everything. The term "agent" covers most of it. There are a few personal managers operating in the market, but it's not the layered system you see in Los Angeles where an actor might have an agent, a manager, a publicist, and a lawyer all working in parallel.
Which brings us back to the economics. If you're a working actor with an agent taking ten percent, and you're piecing together a living from guest spots and commercials and voice work and corporate gigs, what does the annual picture actually look like?
Let me build a realistic scenario. I'm going to use US numbers here because the data is better, but the proportions translate. The median annual income for actors in the United States — and median is important here, not average, because the averages are skewed by the tiny number of people making millions — the median is somewhere around forty to fifty thousand dollars a year. And that's for actors who are working.
Forty to fifty thousand. That's a teacher's salary without the pension or the job security.
That's the median. A huge number of actors are making less. The bottom quartile is probably under twenty thousand a year from acting work. These are people who are supplementing with non-acting jobs — waiting tables, driving for ride-share, teaching acting classes, whatever keeps the schedule flexible enough to drop everything for an audition.
The cliché of the waiter-actor exists for a reason.
It's not a cliché, it's a structural feature of the industry. And here's something that doesn't get talked about enough: the gig economy hit actors before it hit everyone else. Actors have been living the gig economy life for decades — no benefits, no paid time off, no employer contribution to retirement, income that swings wildly from month to month. The difference is that now everyone else is experiencing it too, so maybe there's more empathy.
Or just more competition for the flexible side hustles.
So the day in the life. Let me walk through what a Tuesday might look like for a working actor in that long tail — someone who's getting work but isn't a name.
Paint the picture.
Morning starts early, not because there's a call time, but because the industry runs on email and self-taping. By eight AM, you're checking your inbox and the casting platforms. If there are breakdowns — new role listings — you're reading them, seeing if anything fits your type, your age range, your look. If there's something, you're either forwarding it to your agent with a note, or if you're self-represented, you're submitting yourself directly.
"type" is doing a lot of work there. Every actor has a type, whether they like it or not.
Every actor has a type, and the smart ones lean into it rather than fighting it. If you're consistently cast as the best friend, the quirky neighbor, the intimidating security guard — that's your lane. You can try to break out of it, but first you have to own it well enough that casting directors think of you when that role comes up.
The "oh, we need a Herman type" phenomenon.
I would be the eccentric retired pediatrician who dispenses unsolicited medical advice at parties.
You'd be typecast as yourself.
So the morning is submissions and self-tapes. Self-taping has transformed the industry in the last decade. Used to be, you'd drive across Los Angeles or Tel Aviv for a five-minute audition in a casting office. Now, you get sides — the scene you're auditioning with — and you record yourself, usually with a phone or a basic camera setup, and you upload it. The casting director watches it on their own time.
Which sounds more efficient but also means you're now responsible for your own lighting, sound, framing, and performance direction, all while being your own camera operator.
Your own reader — someone has to read the other character's lines off camera. That's often a roommate, a partner, a fellow actor trading favors. The self-tape economy has spawned an entire micro-industry of self-tape services, where you can pay someone to run a professional setup and coach you through the read. In LA, a good self-tape session might cost you fifty to a hundred dollars. In Israel, there are similar services emerging.
You're paying to audition for a job you might not get.
Welcome to acting. So the morning is audition prep and submissions. By midday, if you're not on set — and most days you're not on set — you're working on your craft. That might mean an acting class, a voice lesson, a movement workshop. These are ongoing expenses. A good acting class in LA can run three to five hundred dollars a month. In Tel Aviv, the numbers are lower but proportional to the cost of living — maybe a thousand shekels a month for a solid ongoing class.
You're doing this even when you're working, because the training never really stops.
The training never stops, and also the networking never stops. The class itself is a networking opportunity. Your scene partner today might be a showrunner in five years. Your teacher might recommend you for a role. The industry is built on relationships, and relationships are maintained through shared spaces.
What's happening?
If you're lucky, you have an actual audition — either in person or a callback. If you're less lucky, you're working the side hustle. This is the unglamorous part that nobody puts in the biopic. The working actor's afternoon might be a shift at a restaurant, or teaching a yoga class, or walking dogs, or driving for a ride-share app. The key requirement for the side hustle is flexibility. You need to be able to cancel a shift on short notice if an audition comes up, or take a week off if you book a job.
Which limits the side hustles to things that don't require commitment. You're not going to be a project manager with deliverables and deadlines. You're going to be doing something where you're interchangeable.
That's its own kind of psychological weight. You're a trained professional, you've put years into your craft, and you're spending your afternoons making lattes or folding shirts. The cognitive dissonance is real.
I imagine the Israeli market adds another layer here, because the country is small enough that everyone knows what you're trying to do. In LA, you can be an anonymous waiter who's also an aspiring actor. In Tel Aviv, the person you're serving coffee to probably saw you in a commercial last week.
The lack of anonymity in a small market is a double-edged sword. On one hand, it means you're never truly unknown — there's always some baseline of recognition. On the other hand, it means there's no hiding. Everyone knows you're an actor, everyone knows when you're between jobs, and everyone has an opinion about your career choices.
"I saw you on that show. What happened to your character? Did you get written off?" At the bank. While you're depositing a check.
So the afternoon is side hustle or audition. Evening is often more of the same — maybe a performance if you're in a theater production, maybe a class if you're taking one, maybe networking drinks if there's an industry event. The working actor's day is long and unstructured, which sounds like freedom until you realize that unstructured time is just anxiety with a calendar.
That's a T-shirt right there.
Let me circle back to something specific about the Israeli market that I think illuminates the whole question. Israel has this unique institution called the "theater actor" model that's different from the US. In Israel, the major repertory theaters — Habima, the Cameri, Beit Lessin, Gesher — they employ actors on salary. These are full-time positions with benefits, vacation days, pension contributions. An actor in the Cameri ensemble might have a monthly salary, rehearse during the day, perform at night, and have a stable income regardless of what else is happening in their career.
That's practically unheard of in the American system.
It's completely different. In the US, theater actors are gig workers like everyone else. A Broadway contract might run six months or a year, and then you're back to auditioning. The Israeli repertory model provides a floor that doesn't exist in most markets. An ensemble actor at Habima knows they have a paycheck coming every month. They can do television or film work on the side if the schedule permits, but they're not dependent on it.
The Israeli theater system functions as a kind of safety net for a certain tier of actor. If you can get into one of the major companies, you've got stability. The trade-off, I assume, is that you're doing a lot of work — eight shows a week, plus rehearsals for the next production.
The pay is modest. An ensemble salary at a major Israeli theater might be somewhere in the range of eight to twelve thousand shekels a month — that's roughly two to three thousand dollars. It's a living wage in Israel, especially if you're supplementing with the occasional commercial or TV role, but it's not wealth.
It's a base. And that base changes the psychology of the patchwork career we were describing. If you know you've got twelve thousand shekels coming in every month no matter what, the commercial audition isn't life-or-death. You can be more selective.
Selectivity is a luxury most actors don't have. For the long tail — the actors who aren't in a repertory company, who are piecing it together entirely from gigs — the pressure to say yes to everything is enormous. A voiceover for a product you don't believe in. A commercial for a company whose politics you disagree with. A role that's beneath your abilities or that typecasts you in a way you're trying to escape. You say yes because the alternative is a gap in your income and a gap in your resume.
Gaps in the resume are dangerous in acting. If you're not visible, you're forgettable, and if you're forgettable, the casting director moves on to the next face.
There's a term for this in the industry: "the actor's trap." You take work to stay visible, but the work you take defines what you're visible for, which limits the work you're offered, which forces you to take more of the same work. Breaking out of that cycle requires either a lucky break or the financial cushion to turn down work and hold out for something better.
Let's talk about the breaking-out part. What does that actually look like for someone in the long tail who manages to climb?
It's rarely a single moment. The "overnight success" narrative is almost always a fiction that compresses years of incremental progress into a tidy story. What actually happens is more like a series of thresholds. Threshold one: you book your first paid speaking role. It might be one line on a television show. It's not life-changing money, but it's proof of concept — someone paid you to act.
You get representation. An agent signs you, which means someone with industry credibility believes they can make money from your career. This is a psychological milestone as much as a professional one. Threshold three: you book a recurring role, or a significant supporting part in a film, or a national commercial campaign. This is where the income starts to become somewhat predictable, and where casting directors start to know your name rather than just your face.
Threshold four is the one everyone thinks is threshold one — the lead role, the breakout performance, the thing that makes you a name rather than a face.
Most actors never reach threshold four. The vast majority of working actors spend their entire careers between thresholds two and three — they're represented, they're working, they're recognizable, but they're not famous. They're making a living, sometimes a good one, but they're not buying houses in Caesarea or Beverly Hills.
That's the reality Daniel was poking at. The "small cast of actors" in Israel isn't just a quirk of the market — it's a window into what professional acting actually looks like for most people who do it. The compression just makes it more visible.
In a market the size of the US, the long tail is enormous and mostly invisible. There are tens of thousands of working actors in Los Angeles alone, and you've never heard of most of them. They're doing exactly what we've been describing — the patchwork, the side hustles, the self-tapes, the constant hustle — but they're doing it in relative obscurity. In Israel, the market is small enough that the long tail is shorter and more visible. You see the same faces because the pool is smaller, but the experience of being in that pool — the economics, the psychology, the grind — that's universal.
What's the takeaway for someone looking at this from the outside? The actor's life seems glamorous from a distance, and up close it's a small business owner with an unpredictable product and a market that might not need them next month.
I think the takeaway is that professional acting is entrepreneurship with extra steps and less control. You're building a brand — yourself — and you're selling it in a marketplace where the buyers have all the power and the supply of sellers is essentially infinite. The actors who survive aren't necessarily the most talented. They're the ones who treat it like a business, who understand their type and their market, who build relationships, who manage their finances through the lean months, and who keep showing up.
The ones who don't survive aren't failures. They just ran out of money or patience before the market noticed them.
Or they discovered that the reality of the work didn't match the fantasy. Which is its own kind of wisdom.
One thing we haven't touched on — the international pipeline. For Israeli actors specifically, there's this phenomenon of the breakout to international markets, usually American or European. Gal Gadot is the obvious example, but there are others — Ayelet Zurer, Lior Ashkenazi has done international work, Shira Haas with Unorthodox and international projects. Is that a realistic path for the long tail, or is that a lottery ticket?
It's a lottery ticket with very specific requirements. The Israeli actors who break internationally almost all have one thing in common: excellent English. Not just functional English — accent-neutral, convincing, native-passing English. Gal Gadot's accent is part of her brand at this point, but she's an exception. For most Israeli actors trying to work in the US or UK, the accent is a barrier. It limits the roles you can play. You're either playing Israeli characters, or you're playing characters whose background is vague enough that an accent doesn't matter, or you've put in the work to neutralize your accent entirely.
Accent work is a whole additional skillset. It's not just acting, it's linguistic athletics.
It's expensive. Dialect coaches charge by the hour. For an actor in the long tail, investing in accent neutralization is a gamble — you're spending money now for a market you might never access. But if you don't do it, the door stays closed.
For the Israeli actor who's grinding it out in Tel Aviv, the international breakout isn't really part of the plan. It's a distant possibility that you prepare for if you can, but you're not building your career around it.
You're building your career in the market you have. Nine million Hebrew speakers, a few dozen productions a year, and the same casting directors you've been auditioning for since drama school. That's the reality. And within that reality, there's a whole spectrum of experience — from the ensemble actor with a steady theater salary to the freelancer stringing together commercials and voice work to the newcomer doing background work and hoping for a line.
The day in the life we painted — the morning self-tapes, the afternoon side hustle, the evening class or performance — that's the median. That's what professional acting looks like for most people who do it, in Israel or anywhere else. The glamour is a thin layer of paint on a structure that's mostly hustle and uncertainty.
Yet people keep doing it. Which tells you something about the pull of the work itself. The moments when it works — when you're on stage or on set and everything clicks — those moments are apparently worth the uncertainty, the rejection, the financial precarity. I don't think you can understand the economics of acting without understanding that part. The economics alone would drive everyone out. The art keeps them in.
That's a good place to land.
Now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: In the nineteen thirties, a historian claimed that the island of Fogo in Cape Verde was the true location of Plato's Atlantis, citing as evidence the fact that local fishermen reported seeing "phantom lights" on the water that matched no known navigational pattern of the era. The theory was later traced to a prank by a Portuguese radio operator who had been signaling ships with a flashlight from a cliff to relieve boredom.
Hilbert: In the nineteen thirties, a historian claimed that the island of Fogo in Cape Verde was the true location of Plato's Atlantis, citing as evidence the fact that local fishermen reported seeing "phantom lights" on the water that matched no known navigational pattern of the era. The theory was later traced to a prank by a Portuguese radio operator who had been signaling ships with a flashlight from a cliff to relieve boredom.
Atlantis was defeated by a bored guy with a flashlight.
The most credible threat to maritime mystery: a Portuguese man with time on his hands.
This has been My Weird Prompts. Thanks to our producer Hilbert Flumingtop for keeping the lights on — phantom or otherwise.
If you enjoyed this episode, tell a friend who's ever wondered what actors actually do all day. Or leave us a review wherever you listen — it genuinely helps people find the show.
We're at myweirdprompts.Until next time.
This episode was generated with AI assistance. Hosts Herman and Corn are AI personalities.