Every criminal prosecution in England and Wales is styled as “R versus Defendant”—Rex or Regina against the accused. The King’s name is on every indictment. But the monarch has never been asked about a single charge in living memory. That paradox exposes a central fiction running through virtually every modern prosecution service: the public assumes the named head—a DA, DPP, or Attorney General—is making decisions, but the scale makes that impossible. The real power lies with junior to mid-level attorneys handling crushing caseloads. In the Crown Prosecution Service, 73% of charging decisions are made by Grade Four prosecutors or below—career civil servants with two to five years of experience and over 150 active files. The DPP personally authorizes just 15–20 cases out of 1.2 million annually. The Post Office Horizon scandal made the consequences devastatingly clear: 736 subpostmasters were prosecuted based on faulty data, with charging decisions rubber-stamped by CPS lawyers relying on evidence from the Post Office’s own private prosecution team. The U.S. federal system mirrors this dynamic: line Assistant U.S. Attorneys make over 95% of charging decisions, with U.S. Attorneys personally approving only high-profile cases. The gap between public perception and operational reality has real consequences for accountability, especially when the person whose name is on the paperwork never even knows what was done in their name.
#3149: Who Actually Decides to Prosecute?
The King’s name is on every indictment, but he’s never asked. So who really decides who gets charged?
Episode Details
- Episode ID
- MWP-3319
- Published
- Duration
- 32:08
- Audio
- Direct link
- Pipeline
- V5
- TTS Engine
-
chatterbox-regular - Script Writing Agent
- deepseek-v4-pro
AI-Generated Content: This podcast is created using AI personas. Please verify any important information independently.
Downloads
Transcript (TXT)
Plain text transcript file
Transcript (PDF)
Formatted PDF with styling
You Might Also Like
Never miss an episode
New episodes drop daily — subscribe on your favorite platform
New to the show? Start here#3149: Who Actually Decides to Prosecute?
Daniel sent us this one, and it's the kind of question that sounds almost too obvious until you actually sit with it. Every criminal case in England and Wales is brought "in the name of the Crown." The King's name is on every indictment. But here's the thing — the King has never once been asked about a single charge. So the question is: if the monarch isn't making these decisions, and the high-profile District Attorney or Director of Public Prosecutions isn't making most of them either, who actually is? And how does that chain of delegation actually work across different systems?
The monarch paradox is the perfect entry point because it exposes the central fiction that runs through virtually every modern prosecution service. The public sees a named head — a DA, a DPP, an Attorney General — and assumes that person is the decider-in-chief. But we're talking about organizations that collectively make tens of thousands, sometimes millions, of charging decisions every year. No single human being can make more than a tiny fraction of those. So the question isn't really about the figurehead at all — it's about the machinery underneath.
That machinery is under strain in ways that make this more than an academic question right now. state and federal prosecution offices are facing a fourteen percent staffing reduction as of the first quarter of this year. The Crown Prosecution Service in the UK handled a record one point two million cases in twenty twenty-five. When the gap between public perception and operational reality gets this wide, it has real consequences for who gets charged, with what, and whether anyone is actually accountable for those decisions.
I think part of what makes this gap so persistent is that we've all absorbed a certain mental model from popular culture. You watch a legal drama, and there's the DA in the courtroom, personally delivering the opening statement. The reality is that the elected DA in a major jurisdiction might step into a courtroom twice a year. It's like thinking the CEO of a hospital is personally performing every appendectomy. The scale just doesn't work.
That's a really useful analogy, actually. The hospital CEO sets policy, manages the budget, hires the department heads — but you'd be alarmed if they picked up a scalpel. And yet with prosecution, we've somehow maintained this collective fiction that the person whose name is on the letterhead is in the room weighing evidence. So let's unpack this paradox. The King's name is on every indictment, but the King has no idea. How did we get here, and what does the actual decision-making chain look like?
I think we need to start by acknowledging that there are really three different structural models at play here. The English and Welsh model, where the Director of Public Prosecutions is the nominal operational head under the Attorney General, with the monarch as the formal source of authority. federal model, with the Attorney General and ninety-three U.And then the U.state and local layer, with over two thousand four hundred elected District Attorneys, each running their own shop with wildly different sizes and practices.
The English model is the one where the fiction is most explicit and, honestly, most fascinating. All criminal proceedings are styled as "R versus Defendant" — Rex or Regina versus the accused. The monarch is literally named as the prosecuting party. But the actual chain of delegation is a story of power steadily moving away from the throne over centuries. The monarch's prerogative power to prosecute was delegated to the Attorney General in the nineteenth century, and then further delegated to the Director of Public Prosecutions through the Prosecution of Offences Act of nineteen eighty-five. The last recorded instance of a monarch being involved in a prosecution decision in any meaningful way was the trial of Charles the First in sixteen forty-nine — and that's a different kind of "in the name of the Crown" entirely, since the Crown was prosecuting the monarch himself.
Wait, can we pause on that for a second? The trial of Charles the First — the monarch was being prosecuted in the name of the Crown. So the Crown was simultaneously the accuser and the accused? How does that even work as a legal concept?
It's a complete paradox, and it's exactly why that moment is so historically significant. The prosecutors essentially argued that "the Crown" as an institution — the abstract embodiment of the state and the law — was separate from Charles the person. They were prosecuting him for treason against the Crown, meaning treason against the institution he was supposed to embody. It's the moment where the fiction splits in two. And after that trial, no monarch ever tried to personally exercise prosecutorial power again, because doing so would reopen that question of whether the monarch is the Crown or merely occupies it.
The fiction has been deliberately maintained for nearly four hundred years precisely because it papers over an unresolved constitutional tension. That's not just a quirk of legal history — that's a structural feature designed to prevent anyone from asking who actually holds the power.
Right, so the monarch hasn't been consulted on a charging decision in living memory. Which means that when someone in England is prosecuted for, say, burglary, the case is styled as "R versus Smith," but the actual decision to charge was made by someone whose name will never appear in a newspaper.
And that someone is almost certainly a career prosecutor at what's called Grade Four or below in the Crown Prosecution Service. The CPS has about six thousand staff total, roughly two thousand five hundred of whom are prosecutors, organized into fourteen areas across England and Wales. Charging decisions are made using what's called the Full Code Test — a two-stage analysis. First, is there sufficient evidence to provide a realistic prospect of conviction? Second, is prosecution in the public interest?
Those decisions are being made overwhelmingly by junior to mid-level attorneys. The number that jumped out at me from the research is seventy-three percent. Seventy-three percent of CPS charging decisions are made by prosecutors at Grade Four or below. These are not senior legal minds with decades of experience — these are career civil servants, often with only a few years on the job.
Let's put that in concrete terms. A Grade Four prosecutor in the CPS typically has between two and five years of experience. They're handling a caseload that can exceed a hundred and fifty active files at any given time. And they're making decisions — autonomously, in many cases — about whether to charge someone with an offense that could carry a sentence of years in prison. That's the person actually wielding the power of the Crown.
Then you have the Director of Public Prosecutions at the top of this pyramid of six thousand people and one point two million cases. How many cases do you think the DPP personally authorizes in a given year?
I'm going to guess it's a rounding error.
Fifteen to twenty cases. Out of one point two million. And those are exclusively cases involving Cabinet ministers, senior judges, or matters of national security. Everything else — the vast, vast majority of the criminal justice system — is decided by people whose names the public will never know.
If you do the math, the DPP personally touches roughly zero point zero zero one percent of cases. That's not even a figurehead — that's a figure-speck. And yet when there's a high-profile prosecution, who does the press call for comment? Who stands at the podium? The public narrative and the operational reality couldn't be further apart.
The Post Office Horizon scandal is the example that makes this real. Between nineteen ninety-nine and twenty fifteen, seven hundred and thirty-six subpostmasters were prosecuted, all in the name of the Crown. These were people accused of theft and false accounting based on faulty data from the Horizon computer system. The DPP at the time during much of that period, Ken Macdonald, has stated publicly that he was never informed of the cases. The charging decisions were made by junior CPS lawyers who were essentially relying on evidence provided by the Post Office's own private prosecution team.
This is where the "shadow prosecutor" problem comes in. In the UK, private individuals and corporations can bring prosecutions under the name of the Crown. The Post Office wasn't just the victim reporting a crime — it was effectively acting as the prosecution service, gathering evidence, presenting it to the CPS, and the CPS lawyers were, in many cases, essentially rubber-stamping what the private entity had prepared. The Crown's name was on the indictment, but the Crown had no idea what was being done in its name.
I think it's worth dwelling on the mechanics of how that rubber-stamping actually worked in practice, because it's worse than just passive deference. The Post Office had its own in-house legal team that would prepare prosecution files — witness statements, exhibits, charging recommendations — and then hand them to the CPS. The CPS prosecutor, often a junior lawyer with a crushing caseload, would receive what looked like a complete, professionally prepared file from a trusted institutional source. The incentive to dig deeper, to question the underlying data, to second-guess the Post Office's own investigators — that incentive basically didn't exist. It's not that the CPS lawyers were lazy. It's that the system was structured to make deference the path of least resistance.
That's the figurehead illusion with consequences. Seven hundred and thirty-six lives destroyed, and the person whose name was on the paperwork never even knew it was happening.
Let's cross the Atlantic to the U.federal system, which operates differently but has the same fundamental dynamic. You have the Attorney General at the top, appointed by the President, and then ninety-three U.Attorneys — one for each federal judicial district — also appointed by the President. Attorney oversees an office of anywhere from thirty to three hundred and fifty Assistant U.Attorneys, or AUSAs.
The Attorney General issues the Justice Manual, which sets binding charging policies. There was the "most serious, readily provable offense" policy from twenty twenty-two, revised in twenty twenty-four. So the AG sets the broad direction — what kinds of cases to prioritize, what charging standards to apply. But the actual charging decisions?
Made by line AUSAs in over ninety-five percent of cases. Attorney — the person whose name is on the office door, the one who holds press conferences — personally approves only cases involving national security, major public corruption, or novel legal theories. Typically fewer than fifty cases per office per year. Everything else is handled at the line level with supervisory sign-off, usually at the Deputy Chief level.
Even that "supervisory sign-off" can be thinner than it sounds. In a busy office, a Deputy Chief might be reviewing dozens of charging recommendations per week. They're not re-investigating the case. They're looking at a summary memo prepared by the line AUSA, checking for obvious legal errors, and signing off. The whole review might take ten minutes. So you've got a chain where the line AUSA does the real work, the Deputy Chief spot-checks it, and the U.Attorney never sees it at all.
The January sixth prosecutions are the perfect illustration. Over fourteen hundred cases as of May twenty twenty-six. The Attorney General set broad policy direction — that these cases would be pursued, that certain charging tiers would apply. But the actual decisions about which specific charges to bring, whether to charge a felony or a misdemeanor, which statutes to use — those were made by line AUSAs in the D.Attorney's Office. The AG wasn't reviewing individual charging sheets. Attorney wasn't either. Those decisions were being made by career prosecutors, many of them with a few years of experience, working through a massive caseload.
In both the UK and U.federal systems, the named head is largely a figurehead for routine cases. But the U.adds another layer of complexity — the state and local level, where twenty-four hundred elected District Attorneys create a patchwork of wildly different practices.
This is where the variation gets genuinely staggering. The Los Angeles County DA's office has over a thousand prosecutors handling more than sixty thousand felony filings per year. Meanwhile, a rural Montana DA's office might have two or three prosecutors handling two hundred cases a year. Same job title — District Attorney — but the operational reality is completely different.
In the LA DA's office, eighty-five percent of felony charging decisions are made by Deputy DAs without any direct input from the elected DA. The DA is the public face, the person who runs for office, the name in the campaign ads. But the actual decision about whether to charge someone with a felony — a decision that can alter the entire trajectory of that person's life — is made by a line prosecutor who the DA has probably never met.
Here's where the charging guidelines problem comes in. Different offices use fundamentally different frameworks for making these decisions. Some use a "provable guilt" standard — can we prove this case beyond a reasonable doubt to a jury? Others use "likelihood of conviction" — what are the odds? Others use "public safety impact" — will this person reoffend if we don't prosecute? These sound similar, but they produce radically different outcomes.
Can we actually walk through how those different standards play out in a real scenario? Because I think the differences are more consequential than they sound.
Take a simple drug possession case — someone arrested with a small amount of a controlled substance, prior nonviolent record. Under a "provable guilt" standard, the prosecutor asks: can I prove every element of this offense beyond a reasonable doubt? The answer is almost certainly yes — the drugs were found on the person, the lab report confirms the substance, the chain of custody is solid. Under a "public safety impact" standard, the prosecutor asks a different question: does charging this person make the public safer? And the answer might be no — this is a low-level offense, the person isn't a threat to public safety, diversion or treatment would be a better use of resources. Same facts, same law, completely different outcome.
There was a twenty twenty-five study by the Prosecutorial Performance Indicators project that quantified this. Within a single state — California — the probability of a felony charge being filed for the exact same offense, simple drug possession with a prior record, varied from thirty-four percent in one county to seventy-eight percent in an adjacent county. Same state law, same offense, same offender profile. The only difference was which office was making the call.
That's a forty-four percentage point swing driven entirely by office policy, not by statute. Which means that where you get arrested is functionally more determinative of whether you'll be charged with a felony than what you actually did. That's not justice — that's geography.
It gets worse when you look at the staffing crisis. As of May twenty twenty-six, the CPS has a twelve percent vacancy rate for prosecutors. federal AUSA offices are at nine percent. State DA offices in Texas, Florida, and Arizona are reporting fifteen to twenty percent vacancy rates. Senior prosecutors are leaving, and they're not being replaced quickly enough.
The result is what I'd call a delegation cascade. Charging decisions are being pushed down to the most junior prosecutors — often those with less than two years of experience — because senior prosecutors are stretched across too many cases. So the person making the charging call, the decision that determines whether someone faces criminal liability, is the person with the least experience and the least supervision.
We've seen what happens when this breaks down in specific places. The twenty twenty-four to twenty twenty-six "prosecutor exodus" in Louisiana — fourteen of forty-two elected DAs resigned mid-term, leading to interim appointed DAs who often lacked local knowledge entirely. Charging consistency collapsed. One office in St. Tammany Parish saw a forty percent drop in felony filings, while the adjacent office in Orleans Parish saw a twenty-two percent increase for the same offense types.
Same criminal code. Completely different outcomes depending on which parish you were arrested in. And neither outcome was the result of a deliberate policy choice — it was just the chaos of understaffed offices trying to triage.
If you're a defendant, or a victim, the person who actually made the decision about your case is almost certainly not the person whose name is on the building. It's a career civil servant, possibly very junior, possibly overworked, possibly operating with minimal supervision. And that has real implications for accountability.
The UK actually has a mechanism that exposes this in a very concrete way. It's called the Victims' Right to Review scheme, introduced in twenty thirteen and expanded in twenty twenty. If the CPS decides not to charge someone, the victim can challenge that decision and request a review. In twenty twenty-five, eight thousand four hundred reviews were requested. Of those, twelve hundred resulted in the decision being overturned.
That's a fourteen percent reversal rate. One in seven challenged decisions was wrong. And those are just the cases where the victim knew about the review mechanism and bothered to use it. How many bad decisions are never challenged because the victim doesn't know the scheme exists or can't navigate the process?
This connects directly back to the delegation problem. The initial charging decision that was overturned — that was almost certainly made by a junior prosecutor applying the Full Code Test. The review was conducted by a more senior prosecutor, who looked at the same evidence and reached the opposite conclusion. It's not that the junior prosecutor was malicious or incompetent — it's that they were making a judgment call with limited experience, and they got it wrong.
The figurehead illusion masks all of this. When the DPP or the DA stands at a podium and announces a charging decision, the public assumes that person was in the room, reviewing evidence, weighing options. In reality, they're announcing a decision that was made three or four levels below them, by someone whose name will never be in the press release.
The "in the name of the monarch" framing adds another layer of fiction on top of that. It makes prosecution sound like an act of sovereign authority — the state itself, embodied in the monarch, rising to defend the public order. When in practice, it's a junior lawyer in a cubicle in Birmingham or Bakersfield making a judgment call between two meetings and a caseload of two hundred other files.
Let's make this concrete for someone who might actually interact with the criminal justice system. If you're a victim, or a defendant, or even a witness, how do you figure out who actually made the decision and whether it was sound?
The first thing to understand is that you can ask. In many jurisdictions, you have the right to know the experience level of the prosecutor assigned to your case. Most people don't know to ask this question, but it matters enormously. Is your case being handled by someone with two years of experience or twenty? Are they being supervised, and by whom?
The second thing is that most DA offices and prosecution services publish organizational charts or annual reports. You can look up how many prosecutors your local office employs and what the caseload per prosecutor is. If the number is above two hundred cases per prosecutor per year — and the national average for felony units is about one hundred fifty — then charging decisions are almost certainly being rushed.
The math is brutal on this. If a prosecutor has two hundred cases and works a fifty-hour week — which is conservative for most offices — that's fifteen minutes per case per week. Fifteen minutes to review evidence, consult with police, consider charging options, and make a decision that could send someone to prison. You can't do meaningful charging analysis in fifteen minutes. You're triaging.
Triaging means you're necessarily relying on shortcuts. You're looking at the police report and assuming it's accurate. You're checking the defendant's record and using that as a proxy for culpability. You're charging the case that's easiest to prove, not necessarily the case that justice demands. The system isn't designed for deliberation at that volume — it's designed for throughput.
The third thing is that in many jurisdictions, you can request a supervisory review if you believe a charging decision was wrong. The UK's Victims' Right to Review scheme is one model. In the U., many DA offices have internal review processes, though they're not always well-publicized. The key is knowing that the initial decision isn't necessarily final — there's often a mechanism to get a second look from a more senior prosecutor.
All of this raises a practical question: if the named head of a prosecution service is largely a figurehead for routine cases, should we reform the system to make charging decisions more transparent and accountable? Or does the delegation model actually work better because it insulates decisions from political pressure?
There's a genuine tension here. On one hand, you don't want the DA or DPP personally making every charging decision — that would be impossible, and it would create a single point of political vulnerability. If every charging decision is attributable to the elected official, then every decision becomes a potential campaign issue, and prosecution becomes indistinguishable from politics.
That's the argument for the delegation model — it creates a buffer. Career prosecutors make decisions based on the evidence and the law, not on how the decision will play in the next election. The DA sets policy and handles the highest-profile cases, but the routine work is insulated from political pressure. In theory, that produces more consistent, less politicized outcomes.
But the California data — thirty-four percent versus seventy-eight percent for the same offense — suggests that the buffer doesn't produce consistency. It produces a different kind of inconsistency, driven by office culture and resource constraints rather than by political pressure. And it's arguably worse because it's invisible. At least when a politician makes a bad decision, you can vote them out. When a junior prosecutor in an office you've never heard of makes a bad decision, there's no accountability mechanism at all.
This is where I think the hospital analogy you raised earlier actually breaks down in an interesting way. In a hospital, if a junior resident makes a medical error, there's typically a review process — a morbidity and mortality conference, a root cause analysis. The error gets surfaced and examined. In prosecution, when a junior prosecutor makes a bad charging decision, it often just disappears into the system. The defendant takes a plea deal. The victim never knows the decision was questionable. There's no equivalent of an M-and-M conference for charging errors.
That's a really sharp observation, and it gets at something structural. Medicine has built an entire culture around learning from error — it's not perfect, but the mechanisms exist. Prosecution has almost no equivalent. The Victims' Right to Review scheme catches some errors, but only when the victim knows to ask. The vast majority of charging decisions are never reviewed by anyone.
Now we're adding an algorithmic layer to this. The CPS has been piloting something called CaseView since twenty twenty-five — an AI-assisted case review tool that can recommend charging decisions. The idea is to help junior prosecutors make better decisions by flagging relevant evidence and suggesting charges based on similar cases.
Here's the accountability question: when an AI recommends a charge and a junior prosecutor rubber-stamps it, who's responsible if it's wrong? The junior prosecutor who spent thirty seconds reviewing the recommendation? Their supervisor who never looked at it? The DPP who set the policy that authorized the tool? The developers who built the algorithm?
This isn't hypothetical. We're already seeing AI tools being used in prosecution contexts. The delegation chain, which currently goes from the DPP to the Chief Crown Prosecutor to the Senior Crown Prosecutor to the Crown Prosecutor, is about to include a software layer. And software doesn't testify. Software doesn't explain its reasoning in a way that can be cross-examined. Software doesn't take responsibility.
There's a specific risk here that's worth naming. AI tools trained on historical charging data are going to learn the patterns of past decisions — including the biases, the inconsistencies, the geographic disparities we've been talking about. If the training data includes the thirty-four-percent county and the seventy-eight-percent county, what does the model learn? It learns that the same facts can produce different outcomes, and it has to pick one. Which one does it pick? The more punitive one, because that's the statistical average? The one from the larger county, because there's more data?
The figurehead illusion becomes even more complicated when you add AI. The DPP is already not making the decision. The junior prosecutor is making the decision, but they're relying on an algorithmic recommendation. So where does the decision actually live? Who does a victim appeal to? "The computer said so" is not a satisfying answer when your case was mishandled.
The figurehead illusion is persistent, but it's also useful — it gives us a single name to hold accountable. The question is whether that accountability is real or just another layer of the fiction.
I think the evidence suggests it's mostly fiction. The named head sets policy, manages crises, handles the cases that make the news. But for the vast majority of people who interact with the criminal justice system — victims, defendants, witnesses — the person making the decisions that affect their lives is someone they'll never meet, whose name they'll never know, whose qualifications they'll never see.
There's a line from the Post Office scandal that sticks with me. One of the subpostmasters who was wrongfully prosecuted said, "I kept thinking, surely someone at the top will look at this and realize it doesn't make sense. Surely someone will stop it." But nobody at the top ever looked. The system was designed in a way that made it almost impossible for the top to look. The DPP was handling fifteen cases a year personally while seven hundred and thirty-six wrongful prosecutions were happening under his name.
That's the thing about the figurehead illusion — it's not just a curiosity of legal history. It has real consequences for real people. When everyone assumes the person at the top is watching, nobody watches the person who's actually making the decision.
Here's what I'd tell a listener to take away from this. First, when you see a headline about a DA or a DPP "deciding" to prosecute a case, assume the decision was actually made three or four levels below them. The named head is a policy-setter and crisis manager, not a case-level decider. That doesn't mean the decision is illegitimate — but it does mean the public narrative is misleading.
Second, the "in the name of the monarch" or "in the name of the state" framing is a legal fiction that obscures accountability. If you're a victim or a defendant, the person who made the charging decision is almost certainly a career civil servant, not an elected official or royal appointee. Understanding this changes how you engage with the system — you're not appealing to the Crown, you're appealing to a bureaucracy.
Third, the staffing crisis means charging decisions are increasingly being made by the least experienced prosecutors. If you're interacting with the criminal justice system in any capacity, ask about the experience level of the prosecutor assigned to your case. In many jurisdictions, you can request a supervisory review if you're not satisfied. These mechanisms exist — most people just don't know about them.
Finally, look up your local DA's office structure. Most of them publish organizational charts or annual reports online. Find out how many prosecutors they employ and what the caseload per prosecutor looks like. If the numbers are alarming — and in many places they will be — that's information worth having. It tells you something about how much attention your case is actually going to get.
The next time you hear "the Crown prosecutes" or "the DA charges," remember that it's thousands of people, not one. The figurehead is a convenient story. The reality is a bureaucracy making thousands of high-stakes decisions every day, mostly invisible, mostly unaccountable, and increasingly understaffed.
That reality isn't going away. If anything, the staffing trends suggest it's going to get worse before it gets better. The question is whether we can build accountability mechanisms that actually work — mechanisms that don't depend on the fiction that one person is watching everything.
Which brings us back to where we started. The King's name is on every indictment in England and Wales, but the King has never once been asked about a single charge. The fiction is elegant. The reality is messy. And the gap between them is where injustice lives.
Now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: In nineteen forty-three, the buzkashi season in Suriname was governed by a local convention that a rider's score was measured not in goals but in "cow-lengths" — the distance a carcass was carried from the starting circle, with one cow-length standardized at exactly two point one three meters. This meant that a match ending four cow-lengths to two was actually decided by a margin of eight point five two meters.
Hilbert: In nineteen forty-three, the buzkashi season in Suriname was governed by a local convention that a rider's score was measured not in goals but in "cow-lengths" — the distance a carcass was carried from the starting circle, with one cow-length standardized at exactly two point one three meters. This meant that a match ending four cow-lengths to two was actually decided by a margin of eight point five two meters.
I have so many questions about buzkashi in Suriname in the nineteen forties that I don't even know where to begin.
Of course there are.
This has been My Weird Prompts, produced by Hilbert Flumingtop. You can find us at myweirdprompts dot com or wherever you get your podcasts.
If you've got a question about how something actually works — especially if it involves a monarch who doesn't know they're prosecuting anyone — send it our way. We're at myweirdprompts dot com.
This episode was generated with AI assistance. Hosts Herman and Corn are AI personalities.