This episode tackles a deeply familiar and painful social dilemma: what to do when someone in your life — a parent, partner, or close relative — routinely tears apart the character of a family member you know to be a decent person. The scenario, submitted by a listener in Rishon LeTsion, captures a situation many recognize but few know how to navigate. The host breaks down why standard advice like "change the subject" or "set a boundary" often fails. The core problem isn't bad communication — it's that the badmouthing serves an emotional regulation function for the speaker. Drawing on concepts from clinical psychology — splitting, triangulation, and moral injury — the episode explains why the speaker's attacks feel unshakeable and why your discomfort is actually a legitimate values violation. The conversation then moves to practical strategy: how to stop being a receptacle for harmful speech without triggering the escalation that makes everything worse. The key insight is that you cannot fix the speaker's psychology, but you can change your role in the dynamic. The episode offers concrete scripts and decision frameworks for preserving your integrity while managing the relationship, acknowledging that sometimes the only clean move is to step out of the triangle entirely.
#4172: How to Handle Chronic Badmouthing Without Making It Worse
What to actually do when someone you care about relentlessly trashes a decent family member.
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New to the show? Start here#4172: How to Handle Chronic Badmouthing Without Making It Worse
We have a special prompt today from a listener named Jason in Rishon LeTsion. He describes a situation I suspect a lot of people will recognize — being stuck listening to someone with what sounds like a personality disorder tear apart a family member you know to be a decent person. The speaker is permanently angry, always has a grudge running, and you can't stop them when they're on a roll. But sitting there silently feels like betraying the person being trashed. If you speak up, you get accused of taking sides and the rage turns on you. Jason's question is simple: if you're in a relationship with someone who does this routinely, what do you actually do?
That's the trap. Three exits and every one of them is wired. You stay quiet, you're complicit. You defend the target, you're the enemy. You try to reason, you're naive. And the worst part is, the person doing it genuinely believes they're the victim — so your discomfort reads to them as proof you're against them too.
I've been in that room. Most people have, whether they name it or not. You're sitting across from someone you care about, or at least someone you're obligated to, and they're methodically dismantling the character of a person you know to be kind, reliable, maybe even the one holding things together. And every nod you give feels like a small betrayal.
What Jason's describing is a communication problem that sits at the intersection of clinical psychology and everyday relationships. And it's timely — there's been a surge in pop psychology content about personality disorders, and people are recognizing these patterns in their own families. But recognition without tools just leaves you more frustrated. You can name the thing and still have no idea what to say when it's happening.
Knowing someone might have borderline or narcissistic traits doesn't tell you what to do at dinner when they're six minutes into a monologue about how your sister is a manipulative monster and you know she's the one who's been paying their rent.
Let's name what this actually is. The behavior Jason's describing isn't ordinary gossip or venting. It's chronic badmouthing as a symptom — a way of regulating internal distress by externalizing it onto a fixed target. In the clinical literature, this connects to several personality disorders, particularly borderline, narcissistic, and paranoid PD. The common thread is what Melanie Klein described back in nineteen forty-six as splitting — the inability to hold ambivalent feelings about a person, so they get sorted into all-good or all-bad categories.
Once you're in the all-bad bucket, there's no nuance. Every action gets interpreted through that lens. The person who paid your rent? That was manipulation. The person who didn't return your call? Proof of their cruelty. The narrative is self-sealing.
That's where triangulation comes in. This is a concept from family systems theory — Murray Bowen's work originally. Triangulation is when a dyad that's unstable pulls in a third person to diffuse tension. In this case, the speaker has an internal conflict they can't tolerate — shame, rage, fear of abandonment — so they pull you into a three-person dynamic where they're the wronged party, the absent person is the villain, and you're the audience whose job is to validate the script.
That's the thing that makes it feel so violating. You didn't sign up for a role in someone else's psychodrama. You're just trying to have a normal conversation, and suddenly you're cast as the jury.
There's research on this. Studies on moral injury and bystander complicity show that silence in the face of harmful speech gets interpreted — both by the speaker and by your own conscience — as tacit agreement. The speaker hears your silence as endorsement. Your own brain registers it as a values violation. You're not just uncomfortable — you're experiencing a genuine moral tension.
That's the part Jason is clearly feeling. It's not just awkward. It feels wrong. And the reason it feels wrong is that it is wrong — not because you're a bad person, but because you're being conscripted into something without consent.
The three responses most people reach for each have a failure mode. Option one, passive listening — you sit there, you make neutral noises, you wait for it to end. The cost is your integrity, and over time, the speaker's behavior gets reinforced because they're getting what they need from you. Option two, defending the target — you say "actually, I don't think that's fair." The cost is immediate. The speaker feels attacked, you've confirmed their fear that everyone's against them, and now you're part of the conspiracy. Option three, confronting the behavior directly — "you're doing that thing again where you trash people" — which tends to produce the most explosive response of all.
You've got three doors and behind each one is a different flavor of disaster. That's the communication trap Jason's asking about. What do you do when every move is wrong?
Before we get to solutions, I want to sit with why this is so hard. Because it's not just about finding the right words. It's about what's happening in the speaker's psychology that makes normal social repair impossible.
Normal social repair relies on shared reality. If I say something unfair about someone and you push back, a healthy person might get defensive for a second, but they can eventually hear it. What Jason's describing is a situation where that part doesn't exist — or is so walled off that no amount of gentle correction can reach it.
That's the splitting mechanism again. In borderline personality organization, the all-bad representation of the target serves a function. It's not a misunderstanding you can clear up with better information. It's an emotional regulation strategy. The speaker is managing intolerable internal states — shame, emptiness, rage — by projecting them onto someone else and then attacking that person by proxy through speech.
When you say "hey, maybe Aunt Carol isn't actually a narcissist," you're not correcting a factual error. You're threatening their emotional regulation system. No wonder they come at you.
And this is where I think the pop psychology discourse has actually done some harm. It's given people the vocabulary to label these behaviors — "that's gaslighting," "she's a narcissist," "he's splitting" — without giving them the understanding that the behavior is functional for the person doing it. It's not random cruelty. It's a maladaptive but real attempt to feel okay.
Which doesn't make it less damaging to be around. Understanding why someone sets fires doesn't mean you have to stand in the burning building.
No, and that's exactly the balance we need to strike. Compassion for the underlying pain, zero obligation to absorb the behavior. Those two things can coexist.
Let's talk about what's actually happening in that moment from the speaker's perspective, because it explains why the usual social scripts fail. When someone with these traits starts badmouthing a family member, they're not just complaining. They're doing something closer to what a prosecutor does in opening arguments — they're building a case. Every anecdote is evidence. Every remembered slight is an exhibit. And they need a jury.
Juries aren't supposed to interrupt with character witnesses for the defense. If you do, you've broken the rules of the courtroom they've constructed.
You're not supposed to have independent knowledge of the accused. Your job is to receive the evidence and render the verdict they've already written.
There's a case that comes to mind — composite, but it captures the dynamic. A woman I'll call Miriam has a mother who, after a divorce, began systematically trashing her ex-husband to anyone who'd listen. This man, by every account including Miriam's own observation, was a reliable, kind father. But any time Miriam tried to gently push back — "Mom, I know you're hurting, but Dad's not a monster" — her mother would explode. Accusations of betrayal, days of silent treatment. The mother wasn't interested in accuracy. She was using speech to regulate the pain of the divorce, and Miriam's corrections were interfering with that process.
That's the pattern. The badmouthing often comes packaged in the language of legitimate grievance. The speaker has real pain. The divorce was hard. The feelings are real. But the target and the narrative have become disconnected from reality, and you're being asked to cosign the disconnection.
This is where the concept of moral injury becomes really relevant. Jonathan Shay wrote about it in the context of combat veterans, but the framework applies more broadly. Moral injury happens when you're forced to participate in or witness something that violates your deeply held values. Being the silent audience to character assassination of someone you know to be decent — that can produce a genuine moral injury response over time.
That's a strong claim, but I think it holds up. If you're in this situation repeatedly — weekly family dinners, regular phone calls — the cumulative effect isn't just annoyance. It's a slow erosion of your sense of yourself as someone with integrity. Every time you let it pass, you're reinforcing a story about yourself: I'm the kind of person who lets this happen.
That's part of why people eventually blow up or cut contact entirely. They're not just tired of the badmouthing. They're trying to recover their own sense of moral coherence.
That's the landscape Jason's question sits in. A communication problem that's actually a clinical problem that's actually a moral problem. And the advice most people get is terrible.
What kind of advice?
The usual stuff. "Just change the subject." "Don't engage." "Be the bigger person." All of which assumes the speaker is operating with normal social cognition, where a subject change is a cue, not an insult. For someone in the middle of splitting, your attempt to change the subject reads as dismissal of their pain. You've just become part of the problem.
There's also the "just set a boundary" advice, which is correct in principle but useless without specifics. What does a boundary actually sound like in this situation? What words do you use when someone's mid-tirade and you need to exit the conversation without triggering a bigger explosion?
That's exactly where we're headed. But before we get to scripts and strategies, I want to flag one more thing. When the badmouthing is about family, you're not just managing one relationship — you're managing a whole web of them. If you push back, the speaker might punish you, but they might also escalate against the target. Suddenly your attempt to defend someone has made their situation worse.
That's the triangulation trap in its purest form. The speaker has positioned themselves as the gatekeeper of information and relationships. If you're not with them, you're against them — and they'll make sure everyone knows it.
We've got the problem mapped. Chronic badmouthing as emotional regulation, splitting as the mechanism, triangulation as the structure, and moral injury as the cost of silence. Now the real question is what Jason actually asked: what do you do?
I think the answer starts with accepting that you can't fix the speaker. Your goal isn't to make them see reason or to heal their attachment wounds. Your goal is to stop being a receptacle for something that's harming you and the person being targeted — without triggering the escalation that makes everything worse.
That's a narrower goal than most people want. We want the person to get better, to see the truth, to stop hurting people. But those are therapeutic goals that require the speaker's participation. What Jason's asking about is communication strategy — what you can control in the moment.
That's where we'll pick up next. Because there are actually specific, evidence-grounded techniques for this — adapted from clinical settings, from hostage negotiation, from behavioral psychology — that give you something to do besides the three bad options.
The short version is that you can be compassionate without being a dumpster. But the how of that is where it gets interesting.
I want to be precise about what we mean by "symptom" here, because it's easy to hear that word and think we're medicalizing ordinary bad behavior. The distinction matters. Someone venting about a frustrating coworker is discharging stress. Someone with borderline or narcissistic traits who routinely badmouths family is doing something different — they're using speech to stabilize a self that keeps threatening to fragment.
That's the phrase I keep coming back to. The badmouthing isn't an opinion they happen to hold — it's a tool they need. Take it away and they have to sit with feelings they've spent a lifetime avoiding.
And this connects directly to Jason's dilemma about the three bad options. Because if you understand the behavior as regulation, you immediately see why defending the target fails. You're not disagreeing with a take — you're pulling someone's coping mechanism out of their hands.
It also explains why the badmouthing is so relentless. It's not that they woke up choosing to be cruel. It's that the internal pressure builds, and the speech relieves it. Like a valve. They feel shame or rage or emptiness, they externalize it onto the designated villain, and for a few hours they feel better. Then the pressure builds again.
There's a clinical term for this — projective identification. It's more than just projection, where you attribute your own unacceptable feelings to someone else. With projective identification, you actually provoke the other person to feel and act in ways that confirm your projection. So if I can't tolerate my own aggression, I project it onto you, then I needle you until you snap, and now I've proven you're the aggressive one.
Which is why the person being badmouthed often ends up looking like the problem. They finally lose their temper after months of character assassination, and the speaker says "see? I told you they were unstable.
Jason's question — what do you actually say — is really about how to refuse the role you're being assigned without becoming the next target. And the first step is recognizing that the three bad options aren't equally bad in all situations. They're context-dependent.
Say more about that.
Passive listening is corrosive long-term, but in a one-off situation — you're at a wedding, you're trapped at a table, you'll never see this person again — it might be the least costly option. Defending the target works only when the speaker has enough ego strength to tolerate dissent, which by definition they don't in the middle of splitting. Confronting the behavior directly is for relationships you're willing to lose.
The real question isn't "which option is best" — it's "which option fits the relationship and the stakes." And for most people in Jason's situation, none of the three fits. That's why they feel trapped.
Which brings us to the fourth option that isn't obvious. And it's not a compromise between the three — it's a different category of response entirely.
The fourth option is something behavioral psychologists call "gray rock" — though the term gets thrown around so loosely online that I want to be precise. The core idea is that you become uninteresting to the person who's trying to pull you into their drama. Not cold, not hostile, not passive-aggressive. Like a gray rock.
Instead of being a jury, you become a wall. Not a hostile wall — a neutral wall. The kind that doesn't argue back but also doesn't nod along.
That's the theory. But here's where most people get it wrong. Gray rock in the context of badmouthing isn't about being silent. Silence, as we've established, gets interpreted as agreement. What you need is a specific kind of verbal response that acknowledges the person's emotional state without engaging the content of what they're saying.
You're not ignoring them. You're responding — just not to the part they want you to respond to.
The badmouther needs something from you — validation of their narrative. They're handing you a script and waiting for you to read your lines. The gray rock approach refuses the script while still acknowledging that a human being is speaking to you.
Which is harder than it sounds. Most people, when they try to disengage, either go completely mute — which feels like punishment to the speaker — or they offer some kind of rebuttal, which reignites the whole thing. Finding the middle path requires actual words.
There's a phrase from hostage negotiation training that maps surprisingly well onto family dynamics. Negotiators use something called "assertive neutrality." They're not agreeing with the hostage-taker's worldview, but they're not challenging it either. They're present, they're calm, they're listening — and they're steering toward de-escalation without ever endorsing the premise.
"I hear that you're upset" is not the same as "you're right to be upset.
It's doing all the work. And for someone in Jason's situation, that distinction is the difference between being complicit and being compassionate without being complicit.
Let's make this concrete. You're on the phone with your mother and she's fifteen minutes into a monologue about how your father is a narcissist who ruined her life. You know this isn't true. What do you actually say?
The script I've seen work — and there's decent clinical support for this — is some variation of "I hear that you're really upset, but I can't have this conversation about Dad.Said without apology. And then — this is the critical part — repeated without variation if she pushes back.
The broken record technique. You don't get drawn into explaining why you can't have the conversation. You don't defend your position. You just restate the boundary in the same words.
Because the moment you start explaining, you've re-entered the courtroom. Now you're arguing about whether the boundary is fair, whether you have the right to set it, whether you're being disloyal. The boundary itself becomes the new topic of conflict, and the original badmouthing just moves to a different channel.
The script does two things simultaneously. It acknowledges the emotion — "I hear you're upset" — which meets the speaker's need to feel seen. And it refuses the role — "I can't have this conversation" — which protects your integrity. You're not saying they're wrong. You're not saying you disagree. You're saying you're not available for this particular activity.
That's the shift in mindset that makes this sustainable. Your goal isn't to correct the narrative. It's to stop being a receptacle for it. You're not the therapist. You're not the judge. You're a person who has decided that this specific use of your attention isn't something you're going to offer anymore.
There's a knock-on effect here that nobody warns you about. When you first start doing this, it often gets worse before it gets better.
The extinction burst. Classic behavioral psychology. When you remove reinforcement from a behavior that's been working for years, the person doesn't just shrug and stop. They try harder. The badmouthing gets more intense, the accusations get sharper, the guilt trips get more elaborate — because the old script isn't working and they're trying to force it back online.
Which is why most people try the boundary once, get hit with a thermonuclear response, and conclude that boundaries don't work. They do work. They just work on a timeline that includes an initial period of things getting much, much worse.
This is documented across behavioral interventions. Extinction bursts can last days to weeks. For someone with a personality disorder whose entire emotional regulation strategy depends on this dynamic, the burst can be intense. You're not just withholding attention — from their perspective, you're withholding the thing they need to feel okay. That's terrifying for them.
The advice has to come with a warning label. If you're going to try this, expect the first few attempts to fail spectacularly. Expect to be called disloyal, cold, ungrateful. Expect the silent treatment or the rage or both. The question isn't whether it'll happen — it's whether you can hold the line through it.
That's where the relationship calculus comes in. For some relationships, the extinction burst is survivable. Your mother eventually learns that you won't engage on the topic of your father, and she stops bringing it up — or she finds someone else to triangulate. For other relationships, the burst never ends, because the person's need for this dynamic is more important to them than the relationship with you.
That's the hardest truth in all of this. Some people will choose the badmouthing over you. Not because they don't love you — they might, in whatever way they're capable of — but because the emotional function the badmouthing serves is non-negotiable. Take it away and the relationship collapses.
There was a case I came across that illustrates this perfectly. A man — I'll call him David — had a brother who constantly vilified their sister. The sister was, by all accounts, a generous and patient person who'd helped the brother financially multiple times. But the brother had constructed this elaborate narrative in which she was controlling and manipulative. Every phone call with David turned into a litigation of the sister's crimes.
David tried everything. Defending her, changing the subject, pointing out the inconsistencies.
David started using the script — "I hear you're frustrated, but I'm not going to talk about Sarah with you." Same words every time. The first month was brutal. His brother accused him of being brainwashed, of being part of the conspiracy, of betraying the family. David held the line. By month three, the brother had stopped bringing up Sarah in their conversations entirely. Not because he'd changed his mind about her — he almost certainly hadn't — but because David was no longer a useful audience for that particular performance.
That's the win condition. Not that the brother sees the truth. Not that the sister gets an apology. Just that David gets to have a relationship with his brother that doesn't require him to participate in character assassination. That's a real victory, even if it feels smaller than what we want.
It's the difference between a therapeutic goal and a communication goal. Therapy would aim to heal the brother's splitting. Communication strategy aims to protect David's integrity within the relationship as it actually exists.
That reframe matters because it takes the pressure off. You're not failing if the person doesn't get better. You're succeeding if you stop being a participant in something that violates your values. The metric isn't their healing — it's your own moral coherence.
Let's get practical about what this actually sounds like in the moment. The script I've seen work consistently is some variation of "I hear you're upset, but I can't join this conversation about your brother." The exact words matter less than the structure: acknowledge the emotion, decline the invitation.
The "I can't" framing is doing something specific. It's not "I won't" — which sounds like a moral judgment. It's not "I disagree" — which opens the door to debate. "I can't" positions this as a limitation of yours, not an indictment of them.
The second piece is equally important, and it's the one people resist most. You have to repeat the script verbatim. No variation, no explanation, no softening. If they push back — "why won't you listen to me, you're just like the rest of them" — you don't defend yourself. You say "I hear you're upset, but I can't join this conversation about Sarah.
Because the moment you start explaining, you've re-entered the courtroom. Now you're arguing about whether the boundary is fair. The boundary itself becomes the new topic, and the badmouthing just moves to a different channel.
This is where the extinction burst comes in. When you first start doing this, it almost always gets worse. You remove reinforcement from a behavior that's been working for years, the person escalates. The accusations get sharper, the guilt trips more elaborate.
Which is why most people try the boundary once, get hit with a thermonuclear response, and conclude that boundaries don't work. They do work. They just work on a timeline that includes an initial period of things getting much worse.
Extinction bursts can last days to weeks. For someone whose entire emotional regulation strategy depends on this dynamic, the burst can be intense. You're not just withholding attention — from their perspective, you're withholding the thing they need to feel okay.
The advice has to come with a warning label. Expect the first few attempts to fail spectacularly. Expect to be called disloyal, cold, ungrateful. The question isn't whether the escalation will happen — it's whether you can hold the line through it.
David's case illustrates this. He started using the script. "I hear you're frustrated, but I'm not going to talk about Sarah with you." Same words every time. The first month was brutal. His brother accused him of being brainwashed, of being part of the conspiracy. David held the line. By month three, the brother had stopped bringing up Sarah entirely. Not because he'd changed his mind — he almost certainly hadn't — but because David was no longer a useful audience for that particular performance.
That's the win condition. Not that the brother sees the truth. Not that the sister gets an apology. Just that David gets to have a relationship with his brother that doesn't require him to participate in character assassination.
That reframe matters because it takes the pressure off. You're not failing if the person doesn't get better. You're succeeding if you stop being a participant in something that violates your values.
There's a harder version of this conversation we need to have. What happens when the extinction burst doesn't end?
That's the line between a difficult relationship and a dangerous one. If the person escalates and stays escalated — if months go by and every interaction is still a battleground — you're not dealing with a communication problem anymore. You're dealing with emotional abuse. And the only safe communication is no communication.
That's a threshold most people don't want to cross, especially with family. But there's a point where the cost of staying exceeds the cost of leaving. And I think people need permission to recognize that point when it arrives.
The clinical literature is clear on this. If the badmouthing is part of a broader pattern of coercion, manipulation, or emotional violence, then boundary-setting isn't the right tool. Not as a punishment, not as a negotiation tactic — as self-preservation.
That's the distinction Jason's question implicitly asks for. Am I dealing with someone who's difficult but capable of adaptation, or someone whose need for this dynamic will consume the relationship entirely? The script helps you find out. If you hold the line consistently and the behavior changes, you have your answer. If you hold the line and the relationship disintegrates, you also have your answer.
Let's pull this into something you can use tomorrow morning. Two things to hold onto, and the second one is the one most people skip.
First is the script itself. "I hear you're upset, but I can't join this conversation about your brother." Swap in whoever the target is. Say it calmly. Then say it again, verbatim, when they push back. No explanation, no softening, no improvising. The repetition is the mechanism.
The broken record isn't a failure of creativity — it's the whole point. You're not trying to win an argument. You're training a new expectation. This topic, with me, doesn't go anywhere.
The second thing — this is the one people resist — your goal is not to change their mind. It's to stop being a receptacle for their emotional waste. That's a smaller goal than most people want, but it's actually achievable. You can't make someone stop splitting. You can decide you're no longer available as the audience for it.
That reframe is everything. You're not failing if they still believe the terrible things. You're succeeding every time you protect your own integrity without escalating the conflict.
Practically, I'd say practice the script in low-stakes situations first. Say it to your bathroom mirror. Say it to a friend who's role-playing the pushback. Get the words in your mouth before you need them under fire, because in the moment your nervous system will want to do the old thing — defend, explain, appease. You need the new response to be automatic.
Pick one relationship where you'll try it this week. Not the hardest one — don't start with the person who's most volatile. Start with someone where the stakes are medium and the extinction burst won't destroy you. Build the muscle.
Think of it like archery. You don't start by aiming at a target a hundred meters out in a windstorm. You start close, in controlled conditions, until the form is second nature.
All of this leaves us with a question I don't think has a clean answer. What do you actually owe a person whose pain is real but whose behavior is destructive?
That's the one that keeps people up at night. Because the pain isn't fake. Someone with borderline personality organization isn't pretending to suffer. The emptiness, the terror of abandonment, the shame spirals — those are genuine. And genuine suffering pulls on us. We're wired to respond to it.
The pop psychology discourse has made this harder, not easier, by splitting into two camps. One camp says cut off anyone with a personality disorder — they're toxic, they'll never change, protect yourself. The other camp says these are wounded people who need compassion, and abandoning them is cruel. Both are too simple.
The truth is messier. You can acknowledge that someone's pain is real and still refuse to be the vessel they pour it into. Compassion doesn't require you to absorb harm. Those aren't contradictory positions — they're just hard to hold at the same time.
I think about where this is heading. Teletherapy has exploded, AI companions are getting more sophisticated — there's a version of the future where people with these traits have healthier outlets. A chatbot doesn't get morally injured. An AI therapist doesn't burn out. The emotional regulation that currently gets outsourced to family members could get routed somewhere else.
Or the darker version — they find new audiences. Social media is already a triangulation machine. You can broadcast your splitting to thousands of people who've never met the target and will validate anything you say. The tools for externalizing internal distress are only getting more powerful.
Which makes the skill Jason's asking about more important, not less. Knowing how to set a verbal boundary without escalating — that's going to be a core competency for the next decade of human relationships.
Here's what I'd leave people with. You can be compassionate without being a dumpster. The script is simple, the execution is hard, and the extinction burst is real. But the alternative — years of silent complicity in something that violates your values — that cost compounds.
Thanks to Jason in Rishon LeTsion for sending this one in. Really good question.
Now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: Certain moss species of the genus Funaria reproduce through a process where the male reproductive cells actively navigate toward the female structures by following chemical gradients — but only when a thin film of water is present. The ancient Greek philosopher Theophrastus observed moss growing on the shores of Lake Tanganyika and concluded, incorrectly, that the plants were spontaneously generated from the lake's mist.
Hilbert: Certain moss species of the genus Funaria reproduce through a process where the male reproductive cells actively navigate toward the female structures by following chemical gradients — but only when a thin film of water is present. The ancient Greek philosopher Theophrastus observed moss growing on the shores of Lake Tanganyika and concluded, incorrectly, that the plants were spontaneously generated from the lake's mist.
Theophrastus had some interesting weekends.
Thanks to our producer Hilbert Flumingtop. This has been My Weird Prompts. If you enjoyed this episode, tell someone who needs to hear it — or send us your own question at show at my weird prompts dot com. We'll be back soon.
This episode was generated with AI assistance. Hosts Herman and Corn are AI personalities.