Daniel sent us this one, and it's a big one — he's asking about messianic thinking in Judaism, and specifically what's going on with Chabad and those yellow Moshiach flags you see in certain neighborhoods. How does a movement that was so fixated on its last Rebbe as the Messiah reconcile itself to the fact that he died? Then he wants us to compare that to mainstream Judaism's view of the Messiah, and trace how what looks like a small ideological divide actually explains a lot of the split between Judaism and Christianity. And finally, look at Jews for Jesus — what they're trying to do, why mainstream Judaism rejects them, and where they fit in this whole picture. There's a lot to unpack here.
There really is. And I think the place to start is by naming something that a lot of people don't realize — messianic thinking is not some fringe enthusiasm in Judaism. It's built into the structure. Maimonides lists belief in the coming of the Messiah as one of his thirteen principles of faith. The daily amidah prayer, recited three times a day, includes multiple blessings pleading for the restoration of the Davidic monarchy and the coming of the redeemer. This isn't optional. It's in the liturgy.
The baseline is, every observant Jew is already praying for the Messiah three times a day before they've had their morning coffee.
But here's where it gets interesting — and where the Chabad question becomes so revealing. Mainstream Judaism holds that the Messiah will be a human being, a descendant of King David, who will accomplish specific, verifiable things. Rebuild the Temple in Jerusalem, gather all Jews back to the land of Israel, usher in an era of universal peace and knowledge of God. The key word is accomplish. The Messiah is defined by what he does, not by who he is. If someone dies without having done those things, he wasn't the Messiah. That's the consensus position. It's not complicated.
The job description is the whole thing. No deliverables, no title.
And this is the first major fault line with Christianity, by the way. Christianity takes the position that Jesus was the Messiah and that the redemption he brought was spiritual — salvation from sin — with the full physical redemption deferred to a second coming. Judaism looks at the same texts and says, no, the prophetic vision is explicit. Isaiah chapter eleven — the wolf dwells with the lamb, the earth is filled with knowledge of God, war ends. These are concrete, observable realities. If they haven't happened, the Messiah hasn't come. There's no concept in classical Judaism of a Messiah who comes, dies, and finishes the job later.
Which is a polite way of saying, from a Jewish perspective, Christianity invented a workaround for a failed prophecy.
I'd frame it as a theological divergence that created two incompatible models of what redemption means. But yes, the workaround is the doctrine of the second coming. And that's not a small thing — once you accept that the Messiah can arrive in two installments, you've fundamentally redefined what messianic fulfillment looks like. And this is exactly the lens we need for understanding Chabad.
Alright, let's get into Chabad. I've seen those yellow flags. They say "Moshiach" on them, sometimes with a crown, sometimes with a picture of the Rebbe. What's the message being broadcast there?
Chabad-Lubavitch is a Hasidic movement founded in the late eighteenth century in what's now Belarus. By the mid twentieth century, under the seventh Rebbe, Menachem Mendel Schneerson, it had become arguably the most visible Jewish outreach organization on the planet. Schneerson was a genuinely extraordinary figure — a brilliant scholar, a charismatic leader, and someone who built an institutional machine that sent emissaries, shluchim, to essentially every corner of the world where Jews could be found.
At some point, the movement starts to believe he's the Messiah.
It builds gradually through the late 1980s and early 1990s. Schneerson himself spoke increasingly about the imminence of the redemption. He said things like, the time of the redemption has arrived, we are the last generation of exile and the first generation of redemption. His followers began singing "Yechi Adoneinu Moreinu v'Rabbeinu Melech HaMoshiach" — "Long live our master, our teacher, our rabbi, King Messiah" — in his presence. He didn't exactly shut it down.
The musical equivalent of a campaign rally.
Then came 1994. Schneerson suffered a stroke, and on June twelfth of that year — almost exactly thirty-two years ago this month — he died. He was buried in Queens. And this is the moment that should have resolved the question. The Talmud is clear: if someone dies, they are not the Messiah. End of discussion.
It wasn't end of discussion.
It wasn't, because a significant faction within Chabad couldn't accept the implication. They'd invested too much. They'd told their children, their communities, their own souls that the Rebbe was the Messiah. And so they developed what scholars call Chabad messianism — a set of beliefs that attempt to reconcile his death with his messianic status. The most common framework is that he didn't really die, or that his death is a temporary state from which he'll return, or that he's concealed but still present. Some take the position that he's literally alive in a physical sense but hidden — a kind of occultation similar to what some Shia Muslims believe about the hidden Imam.
The second-coming workaround. Christianity's innovation, repurposed in Crown Heights.
That's the uncomfortable parallel, and it's one that many Chabad messianists would vigorously reject. But the structural similarity is hard to miss. You have a messianic claimant who dies without fulfilling the traditional criteria, and a community that resolves the cognitive dissonance by introducing a return mechanism. Now, I want to be precise here — not all of Chabad holds this view. The movement is deeply split. There are many Chabadniks, including some in leadership, who acknowledge that the Rebbe died and was not the Messiah, even if they revere his memory and his teachings. The yellow flags are not a universal Chabad thing. They represent the messianist wing specifically.
What does mainstream Orthodoxy make of all this?
You'll find rabbinic authorities across the spectrum — from Modern Orthodox to Haredi — who've criticized Chabad messianism as borderline heretical, or not even borderline. The late Rabbi Elazar Shach, a towering Lithuanian Haredi leader, was famously scathing about it. But there's a political dimension too. Chabad provides services that no one else does — kosher food in remote cities, Jewish education for isolated families, pastoral care on college campuses. A lot of Orthodox institutions rely on Chabad infrastructure even as they wince at the messianist fringe.
The plumbing works, so you don't ask too many questions about the theology.
That's a very Corn way to put it, but yes. And Chabad's mainstream leadership has walked a very careful line. They don't officially endorse the messianist position — the movement's institutions don't teach that the Rebbe is the Messiah as doctrine — but they also don't excommunicate the messianists. They keep the tent wide. That's a strategic choice, and it's worked for them organizationally.
Let's zoom out. You mentioned Maimonides earlier. What does the mainstream Jewish view of the Messiah actually look like, and how does it differ from what most people — including most Christians — assume it is?
The best source is Maimonides' Mishneh Torah, the Laws of Kings, chapters eleven and twelve. He lays out a two-stage process. Stage one: a king arises from the house of David, learned in Torah, observant of the commandments, who compels all Israel to follow the law, fights the wars of God, and succeeds. If he does all this, rebuilds the Temple on its site, and gathers the dispersed of Israel, he is presumptively the Messiah. Stage two: if he succeeds further and establishes universal peace, then he is definitely the Messiah.
There's a provisional status. You can be the presumptive Messiah and then fail out.
And Maimonides is explicit — if he doesn't succeed, or if he dies, he's not the Messiah. He uses the example of Bar Kokhba, the second-century revolt leader whom Rabbi Akiva initially proclaimed as Messiah. Bar Kokhba died in battle, the revolt was crushed, and that was that. Rabbi Akiva was wrong. Judaism absorbed the lesson and moved on. There's no shame in being wrong about a messianic candidate. The shame is in refusing to update your model when the facts change.
Which is the Chabad messianist failure mode, if we're being blunt.
It's the failure mode of messianic movements generally. The pattern recurs throughout history. Sabbatai Zevi in the seventeenth century — declared himself Messiah, attracted a massive following across the Jewish world, and then the Ottoman sultan gave him the choice between death and conversion to Islam. Most of his followers, shattered, walked away. Some didn't, and Sabbateanism persisted underground for centuries.
When your Messiah puts on a turban, it's time to revisit your assumptions.
The Sabbateans developed elaborate mystical justifications for the conversion — the idea that the Messiah had to descend into the realm of impurity to redeem the sparks of holiness trapped there. It's the same cognitive pattern: the facts contradict the belief, so you reinterpret the facts rather than abandoning the belief. And the parallels with early Christianity are striking. A messianic claimant dies a humiliating death. The followers don't say, well, we were wrong. They say, no, the death itself was part of the plan. The humiliation was the victory.
This is where Daniel's prompt points us — this isn't just a Chabad story. It's the story of how Judaism and Christianity became two separate religions.
In the first century, the followers of Jesus were a Jewish sect. They kept the Sabbath, they observed dietary laws, they worshipped in the Temple. The debate was internal: is this man the Messiah, and what does it mean that he died? The mainstream Jewish answer was no, and the Christian answer was yes — but that yes required redefining what "Messiah" meant so fundamentally that it eventually became a different religion entirely.
The resurrection becomes the pivot. If the Messiah can die and come back, you've changed the rules of the game.
Once you've changed the rules, everything else follows. If belief in Jesus as Messiah is the path to salvation, then the Torah's commandments become secondary, or symbolic, or abrogated. Paul's letters are essentially an extended argument for why gentile believers don't need to become Jewish. By the time the Temple is destroyed in 70 CE, you've got two communities that share some texts and some vocabulary but have diverged on the core question of how redemption works.
Let me see if I can compress this. Judaism says the Messiah is a political and spiritual leader who fixes the world in observable ways — rebuilds the Temple, ends war, brings universal knowledge of God. No one has done that yet, so we're still waiting. Christianity says the Messiah already came, but the redemption he brought was spiritual, and the physical part comes later. Those are not compatible claims, but they're also not symmetrical — one is a revision of the other.
That's a fair framing. And I'd add that from the Jewish perspective, the Christian revision isn't just a different interpretation of the same texts — it's a category error. The prophets weren't speaking in metaphors about spiritual salvation. They were describing a transformed world. Isaiah doesn't say the wolf will dwell with the lamb in your heart. He says the wolf will dwell with the lamb, and a little child shall lead them, and they shall not hurt nor destroy on all my holy mountain. If you visit a zoo and the wolf is still eating the lamb, the Messiah hasn't come. Judaism's position is refreshingly empirical on this point.
Alright, let's get to the third piece of Daniel's prompt — Jews for Jesus. What are they, what's their pitch, and why does the mainstream Jewish world treat them the way a body treats a foreign object?
Jews for Jesus was founded in 1973 by Moishe Rosen, a Jewish convert to Christianity who had been ordained as a Baptist minister. The organization's formal name is the Messianic Jewish Alliance of America, though Jews for Jesus is the better-known brand. Their core claim is that a person can be fully Jewish and fully Christian simultaneously — that accepting Jesus as the Messiah doesn't make you any less Jewish, it makes you a completed Jew.
That word "completed" is doing a lot of work.
It's the whole pitch. The implication is that Judaism is a partial revelation, a beta version, and Christianity is the full release. And you can see why that framing infuriates the Jewish community. It's not just a theological disagreement — it's an appropriation. Jews for Jesus uses Jewish symbols, Jewish holidays, Jewish liturgical language, all repurposed to mean Christian things. They hold Passover seders that are reinterpreted as pointing to Jesus. They blow the shofar and talk about the Trinity. The aesthetic is Jewish, the content is evangelical Christian.
It's the uncanny valley of religion. Close enough to be recognizable, different enough to be deeply unsettling.
The Jewish community's response has been unambiguous. Every major Jewish denomination — Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, Reconstructionist — rejects Jews for Jesus as not Jewish. The Israeli Supreme Court has ruled on this multiple times. In the 1989 case of Beresford v. Ministry of Interior, the court determined that belief in Jesus as Messiah places a person outside the Jewish community for purposes of the Law of Return. Subsequent cases have refined but not overturned that principle.
The state of Israel itself has a legal definition that draws the line exactly where we've been drawing it in this conversation — Messiah plus divinity equals not Judaism.
And this gets to something deeper about what Jewish identity is. It's not just a set of beliefs. It's a peoplehood, a legal category in Jewish law. Someone born Jewish who converts to Christianity is, in halachic terms, still Jewish — you can't un-Jew yourself — but they're considered a heretic, a meshumad. Their Jewish status is suspended for practical purposes. They don't count in a minyan, they can't serve as witnesses, their wine is considered forbidden. It's a kind of social and ritual death within the community.
Which is harsher than just saying you disagree with them. It's saying, you're still one of us, which is precisely why your rejection of us is so damaging.
That's a profound point. The vehemence of the Jewish response to Jews for Jesus isn't about doctrinal purity in the abstract. It's about a long and painful history. For centuries, Christian authorities tried to forcibly convert Jews, often on pain of death. The Spanish Inquisition, the Crusades, the pogroms — conversion wasn't a free choice, it was a survival strategy. Jews for Jesus operates in a very different context, but it's seen as continuing that project by other means. The deception is part of what rankles. They present themselves as a Jewish movement when they're funded by and accountable to evangelical Christian organizations.
Follow the money. Where does their funding come from?
Jews for Jesus is transparent about this if you dig into their financials. The organization is supported primarily by evangelical Christian donors. It's a missionary organization whose target demographic is Jews. Their annual budget is in the tens of millions. They run campaigns in cities with large Jewish populations, they set up storefronts, they distribute literature that looks Jewish but contains Christian theology. The whole model is built on blurring the boundary.
The boundary is exactly what we've been talking about this whole episode. The messianic question is the boundary. Once you accept that the Messiah came, died, and is coming back, you're standing on the other side of a line that Judaism spent two thousand years drawing.
That's the unifying thread across all three parts of Daniel's prompt. Chabad messianism, the Jewish-Christian split, Jews for Jesus — they're all about what happens when the Messiah doesn't meet the job description. Do you revise the job description, or do you wait for a better candidate? Christianity revised it. Chabad messianists are attempting a revision within a Jewish framework. Jews for Jesus is essentially saying the revision was right the first time and Jews should come home to it.
I want to push on something, though. You said earlier that messianic thinking is normative in Judaism, and I think that's important because it's easy for a secular listener to hear all this and think, well, this is all just different flavors of magical thinking. But there's a real distinction between hoping for a future redemption and claiming it's already happened in a specific person.
That's crucial. The mainstream Jewish position is aspirational messianism. It shapes the moral imagination — the world as it should be — without making empirical claims about the present. The Chabad messianist position makes a very specific empirical claim: this particular man, who lived in Brooklyn and died in 1994, is the Messiah. That's a different kind of statement entirely. It's falsifiable in a way that aspirational messianism isn't.
It was falsified.
It was falsified. The Messiah is supposed to rebuild the Temple. The Temple Mount currently has two mosques on it. The Messiah is supposed to inaugurate world peace. We have a war in Ukraine, tensions across the Middle East, and whatever the opposite of world peace is. The Messiah is supposed to bring universal knowledge of God. The most watched YouTube video of all time is Baby Shark.
A compelling counterargument.
The evidence is not on the messianist's side. And yet the flags are still there. And I think that persistence tells us something important about human psychology that transcends Judaism or Christianity. When a belief system provides identity, community, and meaning, people will perform extraordinary intellectual contortions to preserve it in the face of contradictory evidence. The cost of abandoning the belief feels higher than the cost of maintaining it, even when the maintenance requires believing things that don't make sense.
That's the sunk cost fallacy with a yarmulke.
It's the sunk cost fallacy in every religion and ideology that's ever made a failed prediction and survived. The Millerites in the 1840s — William Miller predicted the Second Coming for October twenty-second, 1844. Didn't happen. The Great Disappointment, they called it. Some of his followers became the Seventh-day Adventists. They reinterpreted the prophecy — Jesus had entered the heavenly sanctuary, the date was right but the event was misunderstood. Failed prophecy leads to reinterpretation, not abandonment.
Where does this leave us? We've got a spectrum. On one end, mainstream Judaism with its wait-and-see empiricism about the Messiah. On the other end, Christianity with its already-but-not-yet model. And somewhere in the middle, Chabad messianism trying to hold both positions at once — the traditional criteria and the specific candidate who didn't meet them.
I'd add that there's a political dimension here that we haven't touched on. Messianic enthusiasm isn't just a theological abstraction — it has real-world consequences. In Israel, there are groups actively preparing for the rebuilding of the Temple. They've woven priestly garments, they've reconstructed the Temple vessels, they've bred red heifers for the purification ritual. For most of Jewish history, these were theoretical discussions. Now they're practical plans, and they have the potential to ignite conflicts that make the current situation look tame.
Because the Temple Mount is not an empty lot.
It's the single most contested piece of real estate on the planet. And messianic activism around it — people who believe they're fulfilling prophecy by changing the status quo there — that's not just theology. That's geopolitics with an eschatological fuse.
Which brings us back to what Daniel was really asking. This isn't just comparative religion as an academic exercise. The way a community thinks about the Messiah shapes how it acts in the world. If you believe the redemption is something God will do in his own time, you wait. If you believe you can hasten it through political action, you act. If you believe it's already happened and you just need to convince everyone else, you proselytize.
That's the practical payoff. And it's why I think the Jewish-Christian divide on messianism is underappreciated as an explanatory factor. People focus on the obvious differences — the Trinity, the divinity of Jesus, the role of the law — but all of those flow from the prior question of what the Messiah is supposed to accomplish. Change the job description, and you change the religion.
I want to circle back to Chabad for a moment, because I think there's a nuance we should acknowledge. Even among the messianists, there's a range. Some are what scholars call "moderate messianists" — they believe the Rebbe was the Messiah but they don't make it the center of their public practice. They're not the ones with the yellow flags. And then there are the "radical messianists" who are actively trying to convince other Jews that the Rebbe is the Messiah and will return. The flag-wavers.
There's a third group — the "anti-messianists" within Chabad, who find the whole thing embarrassing and theologically dangerous. They revere the Rebbe as a great leader and teacher but reject the messianic claim outright. The internal Chabad debate is actually quite fierce, though it mostly happens in Hebrew and Yiddish publications that the broader Jewish world doesn't read.
Is there polling on this? How many Chabadniks actually believe the Rebbe is the Messiah?
It's notoriously hard to measure. The best study I've seen was published in the journal Contemporary Jewry about a decade ago. Researchers surveyed Chabad-affiliated Jews and found roughly thirty percent held some form of messianist belief about the Rebbe. But the numbers vary depending on how you ask the question and which communities you sample. In Crown Heights, the movement's Brooklyn headquarters, the proportion is probably higher. Among Chabad emissaries in the field, it's probably lower, in part because they know it would alienate the mainstream Jews they're trying to serve.
The movement has an incentive to keep the messianists quiet in public-facing roles.
A very strong incentive. The shaliach in Bangkok or Buenos Aires is running a Chabad house that serves kosher food to Jewish tourists and backpackers. If he starts talking about the Rebbe as Messiah, he loses his audience. So there's a pragmatic moderating force built into the institutional structure. The messianism is most visible in the movement's heartland and least visible on the front lines.
Let's talk about the Jews for Jesus side a bit more. You mentioned their founding in 1973. What's their actual scale today?
They're not huge, but they're persistent. Jews for Jesus claims branches in about a dozen countries, with the largest presence in the United States, Israel, and the former Soviet Union. They run something called the Moishe Rosen Center for Training and Development, which is essentially a missionary training program. They have a media arm that produces content designed to look like Jewish educational material. Their annual budget, based on their most recent public filings, is around twenty-five to thirty million dollars.
That's real money for a group that most Jews have never heard of or think of as a fringe curiosity.
They're part of a broader ecosystem. The Messianic Jewish movement, of which Jews for Jesus is the most aggressive component, claims several hundred congregations worldwide. These are churches that use Jewish liturgy, celebrate Jewish holidays, and identify as Jewish while holding standard evangelical Christian theology. The movement has grown significantly since the 1970s, partly fueled by evangelical support and partly by the rise of what's sometimes called the Hebrew Roots movement — Christians who want to reconnect with the Jewish origins of their faith.
How does the Jewish community actually engage with this? Is it just condemnation, or is there a more sophisticated response?
There are organizations dedicated specifically to countering missionary activity. Jews for Judaism, founded by Rabbi Bentzion Kravitz, is probably the best known. They do outreach, they counsel families affected by missionary recruitment, they produce educational material. The approach is generally to educate Jews about their own tradition so they can recognize when someone is presenting Christianity in Jewish clothing. The idea is that a Jew who knows Judaism well is essentially immune to Jews for Jesus — the theological holes are obvious once you can spot them.
It's inoculation rather than quarantine.
It's probably the only strategy that works, because you can't legally ban missionaries in a free society and you can't argue someone out of a position they've adopted for emotional or social reasons. What you can do is make sure Jews have enough Jewish literacy to see the bait-and-switch for what it is.
I want to pull on one thread you mentioned earlier — the idea that Maimonides treats messianic belief as a rational expectation rather than a supernatural hope. That's a surprising framing for a lot of people. Can you unpack that?
Maimonides is fascinating on this. He was a rationalist of the highest order, and his treatment of the messianic era reflects that. He explicitly rejects the idea that the Messiah will perform miracles or that the natural order will be suspended. In the Mishneh Torah, he writes — and I'm paraphrasing — let no one think that in the days of the Messiah anything of the natural course of the world will cease, or that any innovation will be made in the work of creation. The world will follow its accustomed course. The difference is that Israel will dwell in security, and the knowledge of God will fill the earth as the waters cover the sea.
No flying camels, no magical bread. Just peace and wisdom.
And he's very clear that the Messiah is a human being, not a divine figure. He'll be a king, a scholar, a political leader — extraordinary, but not supernatural. He'll die eventually, and his son will succeed him. The messianic era is a golden age of human flourishing, not a cosmic transformation. This is one of the reasons Maimonides was controversial in his own time. Some of his contemporaries thought he was demystifying the messianic idea too much.
This is the same Maimonides who wrote the thirteen principles. So the Jewish thinker who most emphatically made messianic belief a dogma also most emphatically naturalized it.
That paradox is very Jewish. The messianic hope is central, but it's also mundane. You pray for it three times a day, and then you go about your business. There's a famous story — possibly apocryphal, but it captures the ethos — that a rabbi told his students, if you're planting a tree and someone tells you the Messiah has arrived, finish planting the tree, then go and see. The work of this world isn't put on hold for messianic expectations.
Which is the polar opposite of the apocalyptic mindset, where normal life stops and everything becomes about the imminent end.
That's another fault line, not just between Judaism and Christianity, but within Christianity itself. Some Christian traditions have been intensely apocalyptic — expecting the end times any day now, reading current events as fulfillment of Revelation. Others have been more Augustinian, treating the millennium as a symbolic reality within the church. Judaism, for the most part, has been firmly in the plant-the-tree camp. Even the most messianically enthusiastic Jewish groups tend to combine their enthusiasm with practical institution-building. Chabad is actually a perfect example — their messianism is paired with one of the most pragmatically effective outreach networks ever built.
The Messiah might come tomorrow, but in the meantime, we need a kosher deli in Kathmandu.
That's exactly the Chabad ethos. And it's not nothing, that combination of visionary hope and practical action. It's produced something impressive. The tension is only when the visionary hope attaches itself to a specific person who then dies. At that point, the practical institution-building and the messianic claim come into conflict, and you get the split we've been describing.
Let's bring this home. If someone's walking through a Jewish neighborhood and sees those yellow Moshiach flags, what should they understand that they probably don't?
They should understand that they're looking at a live theological controversy, not a settled feature of Judaism. Those flags represent a minority position within a specific Hasidic movement, one that mainstream Judaism regards with anything from polite discomfort to outright rejection. They should also understand that the debate those flags represent is not new — it's a replay of arguments that have been happening in Jewish communities for two thousand years, ever since the first messianic claimant died without bringing the redemption. The flags are a contemporary expression of a very old question: what do you do when the Messiah doesn't show up, or shows up and doesn't deliver?
The answer, across most of Jewish history, has been: you wait. You keep the hope, but you don't name it, you don't date it, and you definitely don't put it on a flag.
The flag is the whole problem in a way. Messianic hope is supposed to be a horizon — something you orient toward without claiming to have reached it. The moment you put a name and a face and a flag on it, you've made a claim that can be tested against reality. And reality has a way of being uncooperative with messianic schedules.
The flags are a category error rendered in nylon.
That's our episode, really.
Now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: In the 1840s, the British explorer Richard Francis Burton disguised himself as an Arab merchant to enter the forbidden city of Harar in present-day Somaliland — and the city's name, Harar, is believed by some linguists to derive from an early Arabic word meaning "to boil," possibly a reference to the volcanic hot springs in the region.
A city named after boiling water. Hope the tourism board leans into it.
So where does this leave us? I think the open question is whether the messianic idea, in its traditional Jewish form, can survive modernity. The Enlightenment offered a secularized version of messianism — progress, universal peace through reason, the end of history through human effort rather than divine intervention. That project hasn't exactly delivered. The twentieth century was a brutal refutation of the idea that history bends toward justice on its own. And so the religious messianic hope persists, because the alternatives have their own track record of failure.
Yet the traditional Jewish version has the advantage of making no promises about when. It's the ultimate long game. You can plant your tree, build your institutions, raise your children, and the Messiah is still somewhere on the horizon. It's not a prediction that can be falsified by tomorrow's headlines.
Which is either its great strength or its great evasion, depending on how you look at it. But it's kept the Jewish people oriented toward the future for a very long time. And that's not nothing. Thanks to our producer Hilbert Flumingtop for the fact, and to everyone listening. This has been My Weird Prompts. Find us at myweirdprompts dot com, and if you enjoyed this, leave us a review — it helps.
Until next time.
