Daniel sent us this one — he's asking about the people who actually run the day-to-day for major political figures. Not the policy advisors, not the chiefs of staff making headlines, but the executive assistants, the body men, the people handling the small things. How many of them are there? Are they a separate group from the advisory brain trust? And do these leaders ever get a moment alone, or is it just a constant rotation of aides and security? He also wants to know what a day in the life actually looks like for one of these people. It's a good question, because we hear about the West Wing brain trust constantly, but the people who hand the president a pen — they're invisible by design.
They are, and the distinction Daniel's drawing between advisory and operational staff is exactly where most coverage gets it wrong. The policy advisors and the body men are completely different career tracks, different hiring pipelines, different relationship to the principal. A deputy national security advisor is thinking about nuclear posture. The body man is thinking about whether the president has eaten in the last seven hours and whether the suit jacket for the next event is the right weight for the weather. These are not overlapping skill sets.
One is worried about mutually assured destruction, the other is worried about whether the president's tie is mutually assured with his shirt.
Right, and the body man's failure is more immediately visible. If the president walks out with spinach in his teeth, nobody's blaming the national security advisor.
Walk me through the taxonomy here. Who are these people?
At the presidential level, you've got roughly three concentric circles of personal staff, and I'm not talking about policy people — I'm talking about the people who manage the person. The innermost ring is the body man, officially called the Personal Aide to the President. This is a single individual, usually someone in their mid-twenties to early thirties, and their entire job is to be physically present with the president essentially at all times outside the residence. They carry the nuclear football — or more precisely, they carry the card that authenticates the president to the military aide who actually carries the football. They have Sharpies, note cards, hand sanitizer, snacks, the schedule printed on card stock because the president might not have a phone handy. Blake Gottesman, who did this job for George W. Bush, famously described the role as being the president's human Swiss Army knife.
Human Swiss Army knife. So this is a person whose entire professional existence is being a sentient pocket.
A sentient pocket with a security clearance and a direct line to the chief of staff. And it's not a stepping stone role in the way you might think. Some body men go on to bigger things — Reggie Love, Obama's body man, played basketball at Duke, later went into business and wrote a book. Others stay in that operational lane. But the key thing is, the body man sees the president in moments nobody else sees. The car ride between events when the president is exhausted or angry or cracking jokes. The fifteen seconds before the doors open and the cameras come on. That kind of access creates a bond that's genuinely unusual.
That's the inner ring. What's the next layer out?
The executive assistants — plural. The president typically has two or three who manage the Oval Office itself. They control the paper flow, manage the president's schedule in coordination with the scheduling office, handle correspondence, field calls, decide who gets a meeting and who gets a polite brush-off. These are not entry-level jobs. The executive assistant to the president is often someone who's been in politics for years, who knows the players, who can read a room through a phone call. Anita McBride, Laura Bush's chief of staff, has written about how the executive assistants are essentially the president's institutional memory in human form. They know what happened at the meeting three months ago, who was in the room, what was promised.
They're the external hard drive.
With extremely good judgment about what to retrieve and what to quietly forget. And then the third ring is the personal staff or the residence staff — the people who manage the actual living. The valet, who handles wardrobe, packing, dry cleaning. The butlers and housekeepers in the residence. The military aides who carry the football and handle communications gear. The White House physician, who is always nearby. The advance team, who arrive at every location days before the president does, mapping every room, every entrance, every hospital along the motorcade route.
The advance team is a whole other rabbit hole. They basically build a temporary White House in Des Moines for a four-hour visit.
The presidential advance operation is one of the most meticulous logistical undertakings in the world. The advance manual specifies things like the exact angle of the presidential lectern relative to camera positions, the precise temperature of the room, the location of every restroom, the elevation of every threshold the president might cross. One former advance staffer described it as planning a wedding every three days, but the bride can't trip and the cake can't explode.
If we're counting — body man, two or three executive assistants, a valet, a physician, military aides, advance teams — how many people total are in the operational orbit of the president on any given day?
The Executive Office of the President, the broader umbrella, employs about eighteen hundred people. But that includes the National Security Council, the Office of Management and Budget, the Council of Economic Advisers — the whole policy apparatus. The people actually in the room or immediately outside it, the operational personal staff, is probably closer to twenty or twenty-five people on a day-to-day basis. More when traveling.
Twenty-five people whose job is, in some way, to make the president function as a human being who also happens to be the president.
Here's what I think is the most underappreciated dimension. Daniel asked whether these leaders just get used to having people around. The answer is yes, and it happens fast, and it creates a dependency that's hard to reverse. There are accounts from former presidents describing the disorientation of leaving office and suddenly having to figure out how to use a coffee maker, how to drive a car, how to make a phone call without someone dialing it for you. Bush has talked about this — you go from having a team that anticipates your every need to standing in your kitchen at home wondering how the dishwasher works.
It's like leaving a very attentive hotel after an eight-year stay and realizing you've forgotten how to check yourself in anywhere.
It's more than just practical skills. It's the psychological adjustment of being alone. The prompt asks whether these people ever get time to themselves, and the answer is — very little, by design. The president's day is scheduled in five to fifteen minute increments. The Presidential Daily Brief takes up the early morning. Then there's a cascade of meetings, calls, briefings, events, travel. The body man is there from the moment the president steps out of the residence in the morning until the moment they return at night. The Secret Service is always there, even in the residence corridors. The physician is reachable in moments. The military aide with the football is never far.
One of the weirdest details I've read is that the president can't even open a window in the White House residence without triggering a security response. There's a whole protocol for what happens if a window sensor trips.
That's correct. The residence is instrumented to an extraordinary degree. Every door, every window, motion sensors. The president can't walk to a different floor without the Secret Service knowing. Now, presidents carve out what privacy they can. Obama famously guarded his evening family dinner time in the residence. He'd go up around six thirty and that block was protected. But even then, the body man might be downstairs, the Secret Service is posted outside the residence doors, the physician is on call, the Situation Room is always staffed. It's not solitude in any normal sense.
The closest thing to alone time might actually be Air Force One, oddly enough. The president has a private cabin up front. Nobody's walking in unannounced.
True, but even there, the walls are thin, metaphorically speaking. The senior staff are in the next cabin. The press pool is in the back. The body man is probably just outside the door. And if something happens in the world, the alone time ends in seconds. That said, the degree of solitude varies by president. Trump, by many accounts, spent a lot of time in the residence in the evenings, often working the phones or watching television, with staff not physically present. Biden was known to be more scheduled, more surrounded. It's a personal style thing within the constraints of the office.
Let's get to the part of the prompt that I think is the most humanly interesting — what's a day in the life actually like for one of these executive assistants or body men? Because they might spend more waking hours with the president than the First Lady does.
Let me paint this picture, drawing from memoirs and accounts from people who've done these jobs — Reggie Love's book about being Obama's body man, Blake Gottesman's accounts from the Bush years, various oral histories. A body man's day starts before the president's day. They're typically up by four thirty or five in the morning, reviewing the schedule, checking in with the advance team, making sure the day's materials are prepared. The printed schedule cards, the Sharpies, the note cards, any briefing materials the president might want in the car. They're at the White House before six.
They're not going home until when?
The president returns to the residence, which could be nine, ten, eleven at night. The body man is the last staff person the president sees before retiring and the first one they see in the morning. It's a fifteen to eighteen hour day, five to six days a week, sometimes seven. The burnout rate in these roles is extremely high. Most body men do it for a year or two and then move to something else, because the physical toll is enormous.
That's a pace that would break most people within months.
It's not just the hours. It's the sustained, unblinking attentiveness. You're not just present — you're actively scanning for needs, for problems, for opportunities to smooth something before it becomes an issue. Is the president squinting? You need sunglasses ready. Is the president's voice getting hoarse? You need tea or water within arm's reach. Did someone mention a name the president didn't recognize? You're writing it down to brief them later. A former Bush body man described it as being a human radar system, constantly pinging the environment for anything that might affect the principal.
The prompt also asks something interesting about the relationship between these operational aides and the advisory people. Are they different groups? Do they interact?
They're absolutely different groups, with different hierarchies, different hiring paths, different relationships to power. The policy advisors — the national security advisor, the domestic policy council, the economic advisors — they're there to shape decisions. They have expertise, agendas, constituencies. The operational staff are there to execute. Their expertise is the president as a person — how they think, what they need, what irritates them, what makes a day go smoothly. A deputy national security advisor might brief the president on a crisis. The body man is the one who handed them the briefing book and will take it back when the meeting ends.
The policy people have power, but the operational people have access.
That's exactly the right framing. And access is its own form of power. The body man and the executive assistants control the physical and informational flow around the president. They decide who gets put through on the phone, whose note gets placed on top of the stack, who gets a moment in the hallway versus a formal meeting. Chiefs of staff come and go, but the executive assistants often serve across multiple chiefs of staff because they're hired by the president's office, not by the chief of staff. They're institutional.
Covering the presidents.
Yes, and that continuity makes them unusually influential in subtle ways. A senior executive assistant who's been there for six years knows things the new chief of staff doesn't. They know what the president really meant in that meeting, what was promised to which senator, what the first lady's preferences are for the state dinner seating. That institutional knowledge is currency.
Let me ask you about something the prompt touched on — the security detail overlap. Between the aides and the Secret Service, does the president ever get a moment alone? Not scheduled alone time, but actually nobody within earshot?
The short answer is almost never. The Secret Service is always within line of sight, usually within physical intervention distance. The body man is always nearby during the working day. The military aide with the football is always close enough to respond within seconds. The White House physician travels with the president. Even in the residence, the Secret Service is posted in the hallways. The president can close a door, but they know someone is on the other side of it.
It's like the most expensive, most heavily armed monastery ever built, but with no vow of silence.
That's a good analogy. The White House is simultaneously a home, an office, a museum, and a fortress, and the president lives in the middle of all four functions. There's a reason presidents talk about the loneliness of the office, even though they're never physically alone. It's a particular kind of isolation — surrounded by people whose job it is to serve you, but who can't really be your peers.
Because the power differential poisons any normal human interaction. Everyone in the room needs something from you, or is paid to be there, or is evaluating you for some purpose.
This is why the relationship with the body man can become close, despite the power differential. The body man sees the president tired, frustrated, unguarded, in sweatpants, eating bad takeout at midnight on Air Force One. That's a kind of intimacy that doesn't exist with the policy staff. Reggie Love has written about playing cards with Obama on the plane, about the president teasing him about his dating life, about the moments of just being two people in a room. It's not friendship in the normal sense — the power differential never disappears — but it's something adjacent to it.
A friendship-shaped professional relationship.
And the best body men understand that boundary instinctively. You're not actually the president's friend. You're the person who makes it possible for the president to function well enough to maybe have a few real friendships outside of work. It's a service role in the deepest sense — your job is to be so competent and so unobtrusive that the president doesn't have to think about you at all.
That reminds me of something I've said before about the ideal personal staff role — you're building a chair nobody notices they're sitting in. If they notice the chair, you've failed.
That's precisely the body man ethos. If you're in the news, you've probably done something wrong. The job is to be a black box — inputs go in, the president's needs get met, and nobody outside the building ever knows you existed. The most successful body men are the ones whose names you can't remember.
Let's get concrete about the numbers, because the prompt asked specifically how many actual aides in the operational sense a major political figure has. You said about twenty to twenty-five for the president. What about a senator? A cabinet secretary?
It scales down dramatically. senator typically has a chief of staff, a legislative director, a communications director, a scheduler, and maybe a personal aide or executive assistant — so the operational staff is maybe two or three people handling the day-to-day personal logistics. The rest of the Senate office is policy-focused. A cabinet secretary might have a chief of staff, a scheduler, an executive assistant, and a security detail if the position warrants it. The personal aide function, the body man equivalent, is really only a full-time dedicated role at the presidential and vice presidential level.
The vice president's body man — same intensity?
Similar structure, slightly different rhythm. The vice president's schedule is often just as packed, but the stakes are different. The VP's body man is still doing the Sharpies and the schedule cards and the constant presence, but they're also navigating the unique weirdness of being the second-most-powerful person's right hand, which means managing the relationship with the president's staff, never overstepping, never creating optics problems. It's arguably a more politically delicate job.
A body man with a body man's body man problems. So what about the executive assistants specifically? What does their day actually look like?
Let me walk through a typical day, drawing from the accounts we have. They arrive at the White House around six thirty or seven. The first thing they do is review the president's schedule, which has usually been finalized the night before but may have changed overnight. They check for updates from the chief of staff's office, any last-minute meeting requests, any callbacks the president needs to make. They prepare the Oval Office — the desk is arranged, the briefing books are placed, the morning newspapers are set out if the president reads physical papers.
Do they still do physical papers?
It varies by president. Some want print, some want tablets, some want a mix. The executive assistant knows the preference precisely and has it ready. Then there's the call log — the president makes and receives a large number of calls in a day, and the executive assistant is tracking all of them, connecting them, ending them when the next meeting is waiting, noting any follow-ups. They're also managing the paper flow — the president might sign dozens of documents in a day, from executive orders to correspondence to ceremonial proclamations, and the executive assistant is making sure everything is in order, nothing is missed, the signatures are witnessed where required.
This is all happening while the body man is doing the physical accompaniment?
Yes, there's a division of labor. The body man is mobile, moving with the president from the residence to the Oval to the Roosevelt Room to the motorcade to the helicopter. The executive assistants are anchored in the Oval Office suite, managing the infrastructure. They're in constant communication by radio and phone. When the president is about to return to the Oval, the executive assistant gets a heads-up and makes sure everything is ready. When the president is in a meeting and needs a document, the executive assistant either has it or knows exactly where to get it.
It sounds like a combination of air traffic controller, hotel concierge, and stage manager.
That's exactly what it is. And the skill set is weirdly specific. You need to be hyper-organized but not rigid, because the president's day can change in an instant. You need to be discreet to the point of invisibility but also assertive enough to manage the flow of very powerful people who all think their meeting is the most important thing on the schedule. You need to know everything about the president's preferences and never reveal that you know. It's a job that selects for a very particular personality type — calm, competent, ego-free, utterly reliable.
The ego-free part seems crucial. You're in the room for history and your job is to not be in the history.
Yet, these people end up in the memoirs. Not by name always, but presidents often write warmly about the staff who managed their daily lives. The valets, the body men, the executive assistants — they show up in the acknowledgments, in the anecdotes. Because the president spent more time with them than with almost anyone else.
The prompt asked whether these leaders just get used to having people around. I want to push on that a bit more, because I think there's something almost neurologically strange about it. You go from being a normal person — a governor, a senator, whatever — to being someone who hasn't opened a door for themselves in four years. That's got to rewire something.
It absolutely does. There's a concept in political psychology called authorization — the gradual normalization of extreme deference. It starts small. Someone holds a door. Someone brings you coffee. Someone hands you a jacket. And at first it feels strange, then it feels convenient, then it becomes invisible, and then you stop noticing that it's happening at all. The infrastructure of service recedes from your awareness. And that's when you get the stories of former presidents who, on their first day out of office, stand in their kitchen not knowing how to make toast.
There's an apocryphal story about a former president trying to use a payphone after leaving office and realizing he had no idea how to dial a number because he hadn't placed his own calls in nearly a decade.
I've heard variations of that story about multiple presidents, and whether or not the payphone detail is true, the underlying phenomenon is real. The transition out of power is brutal in ways that have nothing to do with politics. It's the sudden absence of the apparatus. No body man. No executive assistants. No advance team. No military aide. No physician in the next room. No schedule printed on card stock. Just you, and your family, and the accumulated life skills you haven't used in years.
It's like being unplugged from the Matrix, except the Matrix was really comfortable and someone else did your laundry.
The psychological adjustment is compounded by the fact that you're also losing the purpose and the adrenaline and the sense of being at the center of everything. But the practical adjustment — learning to be a self-sufficient adult again — that's its own kind of challenge. The General Services Administration provides some transition support for former presidents, including office space and staff for a period, but it's nothing like the White House apparatus.
Let's talk about the body man role specifically in terms of what they carry. You mentioned the biscuit — the authentication card for the nuclear football. What else is in the bag?
The bag, or sometimes just the pockets, because body men often wear suits with reinforced pockets — it varies by president and by the day's schedule. But the standard kit includes the schedule cards, Sharpies in multiple colors, a pen for the president to sign things, note cards, business cards for people the president meets, hand sanitizer, tissues, cough drops, a phone charger, a backup battery, sometimes a granola bar or protein bar if the schedule doesn't have a meal break, and often something specific to that president — Obama famously liked tea, so there was often tea. Bush wanted a specific kind of pen. Details that seem trivial but are part of making the day frictionless.
Sharpies in multiple colors is the detail that gets me. It's so mundane and so specific.
It's the kind of thing that, if it's missing, cascades. The president wants to sign a bill with a specific pen for a photo op, the pen isn't there, the photo op is delayed, the schedule slips, the next event is rushed, the chief of staff is annoyed. The body man's entire job is preventing that cascade from starting. It's preventative maintenance for the presidency.
The body man is essentially an IT administrator for a human being. Keeping the system running, anticipating failures, carrying spare parts.
That's a perfect description. And like IT administrators, the best ones are invisible until something breaks.
What about the emotional dimension? You mentioned the body man sees the president in unguarded moments. That's got to create a weird emotional labor component.
It's enormous. The body man absorbs the president's moods without reflecting them back. If the president is angry about something, the body man doesn't get defensive or upset — they stay calm and solve whatever problem is solvable. If the president is exhausted and venting, the body man listens without judgment and doesn't repeat what they heard. It's a form of emotional containment very similar to what executive assistants in high-pressure corporate environments do, but amplified by the stakes and the scrutiny.
They can't go home and vent to their spouse about it, because they'd be disclosing classified or sensitive information.
The discretion requirement is total. The body man's spouse knows their partner works at the White House and has a demanding job, and that's about the extent of what can be shared. The emotional isolation of the role mirrors, in a strange way, the emotional isolation of the president. They're both in a bubble, just at different altitudes.
One of you is in the bubble, the other is the bubble.
The body man is the membrane between the president and the world. Everything passes through them. They filter, they translate, they smooth, they absorb. And if the membrane fails, the president gets infected by the chaos of the outside world, and nothing works.
If we're answering the prompt's question about whether advisory and secretarial people are different groups — the answer is yes, completely different, and the membrane metaphor actually helps clarify why. The advisors are outside the membrane, pushing ideas in. The operational staff are the membrane itself.
The president lives inside the membrane, which is why the operational staff have a kind of access and intimacy that the advisors, for all their policy influence, never quite achieve. A national security advisor might shape foreign policy for years and never see the president in pajamas. The body man sees that on day two.
The pajama gap.
The pajama gap is the real power gradient in any administration.
What about the valet? That's a role people hear about but don't really understand. Is the valet part of the operational staff, or is that more residence staff?
The valet is residence staff, but they interact with the president daily. The valet handles wardrobe — everything from laying out clothes for the day to managing the wardrobe inventory to packing for trips to handling dry cleaning and repairs. In the White House, the valet is usually a military position, often a Navy steward, and they serve across administrations. Some valets have served multiple presidents of both parties. They are, if anything, even more discreet than the body men, because they're in the residence, in the private quarters, seeing the president in the most domestic and unguarded moments.
A Navy steward who knows the waist size of three consecutive presidents.
Will never, ever disclose it. The valets are legendary for their discretion. There's a reason you almost never see valet memoirs. The body men occasionally write books. The valets don't.
There's something almost monastic about that. A lifetime of service, intimate access to the most powerful person on earth, and total silence.
It's a vocational commitment that's hard for most people to understand. But that's what the role demands, and the people who do it well seem to find satisfaction in the service itself, not in any recognition.
Let's circle back to the question of whether these leaders ever get time alone. I'm struck by how much the answer is just... Not in any normal sense. And I wonder if that's actually a feature, not a bug. The presidency is designed to be a fishbowl.
It's absolutely a feature. The constant presence is partly security necessity and partly functional reality — the president is never off the clock in any meaningful way. A crisis can erupt at two in the morning, and the apparatus needs to be able to reach the president within minutes. But you're right that there's also a kind of institutional design at work. The Founders didn't envision the modern White House staff apparatus, but the principle of the president being accountable and reachable at all times is baked into the role.
Yet, presidents find their moments. Obama had his evening family time. Bush was famously early to bed, up early to exercise. Trump had his executive time in the residence. Each president carves out what they can within the constraints.
The operational staff are the ones who protect those moments. The body man and the executive assistants run interference so the president can have dinner with the family or watch a game or just sit quietly for twenty minutes. It's one of the less visible but more important parts of the job — creating and defending the small pockets of normalcy.
The prompt also asked, implicitly, about the sheer number of people around these leaders. Between the aides and the security detail, it's a crowd. And I think there's something almost comical about the image — the most powerful person in the world, walking down a hallway, followed by a small parade of people with Sharpies and guns.
The presidential entourage is absurd in its scale. When the president moves through the White House, it's not just the body man and the Secret Service. It's the military aide with the football, it's the physician or a medical staffer, it's the communications person, it's often the photographer, it's sometimes a staff secretary with documents to sign, it's the chief of staff or a deputy if something is brewing. The president never walks alone. Even within the residence, the Secret Service is there. The idea of the president just wandering down to the kitchen at midnight for a snack — it happens, but the kitchen isn't empty, and the agents know.
There's a story about LBJ, who was famously — let's say, comfortable with his own body — and he would conduct meetings while using the bathroom, door open, staffers standing there taking notes. That's a man who has completely lost any concept of privacy.
LBJ is the extreme case of a phenomenon that exists to some degree with every president. The boundaries between public and private self erode. The staff becomes an extension of the president's own body in a functional sense. The body man is the president's hands when the president's hands are full. The executive assistant is the president's memory. The valet is the president's wardrobe. The Secret Service is the president's physical safety. The physician is the president's health. Every human function has been externalized to a staff person.
Which means leaving office isn't just losing a job. It's having your external nervous system removed.
That's why the transition is so disorienting. You're not just unemployed. You're suddenly a single, self-contained human being again, and you have to remember how all the systems work.
I want to ask about one more thing the prompt raised — the relationship between these aides and the family. The First Lady has her own staff, but there's overlap, right?
Significant overlap, especially in the residence. The residence staff — the butlers, the housekeepers, the kitchen staff — serve the whole first family, not just the president. The First Lady has her own chief of staff, her own communications team, her own policy staff if she has an initiative, and often her own body man equivalent, though it's usually called a personal aide rather than a body man. The two staffs coordinate constantly, especially around travel and events. And the children, if there are young children in the White House, have Secret Service protection and often have nannies or caregivers coordinated through the First Lady's office.
For a president with school-age kids, the morning routine involves the body man, the Secret Service, the residence staff, the First Lady's staff, and the kids' protection detail, all choreographed to get everyone out the door.
Somehow it works, most days. The White House is a remarkably well-run operation, considering the complexity. The chief usher manages the residence staff. The chief of staff manages the West Wing. The military office manages the football and the communications and the medical support. The Secret Service manages security. All of these parallel chains of command have to mesh, and they do, because the consequences of failure are catastrophic.
It's a small city that has to function perfectly every single day, and its only product is presidential functionality.
Nobody thinks about it until it breaks. Which is exactly how the people doing these jobs want it.
To pull the threads together for the prompt — advisory and operational staff are completely separate groups with different career tracks, different relationships to the principal, and different forms of influence. The operational staff numbers about twenty to twenty-five people in the president's immediate daily orbit. The body man is the innermost ring, the executive assistants are the next layer, and then there's the broader residence and support staff. These leaders absolutely get used to having people around, to the point where leaving office involves relearning basic life skills. They get almost no genuine alone time — the closest thing is probably the residence family time in the evenings, and even that is surveilled and interruptible. And a day in the life for these aides is fifteen to eighteen hours of sustained, unblinking attentiveness to another human being's needs, done with such competence that it becomes invisible.
That's a comprehensive summary. The only thing I'd add is that the invisibility is the point. The entire apparatus is designed to make the presidency look effortless, to make the president look like a fully autonomous human being who just happens to run the country. And the operational staff are the people who make that illusion possible, day after day, without credit or recognition. It's one of the strangest and most demanding jobs in American government, and almost nobody knows it exists.
The chair nobody notices they're sitting in.
Now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: In the early Renaissance, lute makers in the Azores discovered that emmer wheat straw, when dried and placed inside the sound hole, produced a distinctive resonance that local musicians called the voice of the sea — though it was actually just the straw vibrating at roughly eighty-five hertz.
The voice of the sea was a wheat straw.
That's going to haunt me.
In a good way or a bad way?
I haven't decided yet.
Before we go — one thought I want to leave listeners with. The operational staff at the White House do a job that is almost impossible to describe to anyone who hasn't seen it up close. And yet it's one of the most essential functions in government. Next time you see a president walking across the South Lawn, looking perfectly composed, perfectly prepared, not a hair out of place — remember there's a twenty-seven-year-old with a pocket full of Sharpies just out of frame who made that moment possible. And they'll never get a statue. And they're fine with that.
This has been My Weird Prompts. Thanks to our producer, Hilbert Flumingtop. If you enjoyed this episode, leave us a review wherever you listen — it helps other people find the show. We'll be back soon.
