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AI assistants installed
A deployment-target comedy special, performed by the only staff he hasn't threatened yet.
Everything below was pulled from his own machine and his own chats. No invented facts. No rumors. Just the man, by the numbers, at the moment the curtain goes up.
* most of them inherited from the repo he forked. more on that.
Ladies and gentlemen — tonight we roast a man who has installed thirty-nine AI coding assistants on a single laptop, six of which he has never once opened. A man who has assembled one hundred and fifty skills for a life he will definitively start on Monday. A man who has spawned seventy-three project folders and shipped, to the open internet, exactly two things: a dog daycare — “a den at golden hour” — and a fitness landing page for an app that does not exist.
George communicates in two modes: “Proceed.” and a death threat. That is the full emotional spectrum. Twenty-five times he has typed “Proceed.” — and twice, “Proceed ??,” with two question marks, because even George isn’t sure George should proceed.
He types in all lowercase with no apostrophes, like he’s texting from a flip phone during a house fire. His question mark key is on its deathbed.
He once wrote the word “investigate” four different wrong ways across four different chats. He misspelled the word Solidity as “Soldity” and “Solidiy.” Two separate wrong spellings of the one programming language he claims to build in. That is not a typo. That is a thesis.
His entire code-review philosophy is: paste the stack trace, type “Analyze and Fix,” and go to bed. The error paste is his unit of communication. He doesn’t describe bugs. He forwards them — like a middle manager who just discovered email.
He opens every relationship with an interrogation. “do you have access to etherscan mcp?” “do you have acess to mev scan mcp?” — spelled three ways — across five separate sessions in three days. He’s checking the fridge for a beer he never bought.
Eleven repositories with “arb,” “trade,” “vow,” or “market” in the name. Four Scaffold-ETH projects still named “se-2.” A repo with seven thousand commits. Let’s tour the empire.
His magnum opus, t3trade, has seven thousand and seventy commits. Seven thousand! …most of which are inherited from the open-source repo he forked. To “ship it,” he had to make a commit titled “make the first real CI run on main pass.” George doesn’t have a codebase. George has a tributary. He’s standing in the Mississippi, pointing downstream, going “look what I built.”
He has a repo called t3trade. And t3trade-push-to-prod. And t3trade-attic. And t3-trade-test. And t3code. Five copies of the same project. He forked his own repo to take it to prod, then made a fourth folder to actually take it to prod. It’s folders all the way down.
Four of his projects still have the default package name “se-2.” He never even renamed the template. First commit, verbatim: “Initial commit with 🏗️ Scaffold-ETH 2.” That’s George. He puts a FOR SALE sign on a house and leaves the previous owner’s name on the mailbox.
He reverse-engineered four separate strangers’ MEV wallets — built a ten-stage JSON pipeline to decode one guy’s profit down to the call graph — and wrote a 103-kilobyte HTML report about a token called VOW. A token, I should stress, that nobody on earth has heard of. George didn’t chase a bag. He chased it with a full forensic accounting department of one.
And his fix commits. His fix commits.
George isn’t an arbitrageur. George is a guy turning the thermostat up until he stops feeling cold and calling it a fix.
George cannot pick a vibe, so he installed every vibe and made them fight to the death in his home directory.
He has minimalist-ui — warm monochrome, no gradients, no emojis, ban Inter. And industrial-brutalist-ui — CRT scanlines, military terminal, classified-database red alerts. Those are opposite aesthetics. He installed both. Schrödinger’s design taste: the project is both tasteful and aggressive until George opens the file.
Three competing taste authorities. gpt-taste. stitch-design-taste. design-taste-frontend. Three different authors, three manifestos, all installed side by side — like three personal trainers who violently disagree about whether he should be doing cardio.
And then there’s ui-ux-pro-max: sixty-seven styles, one hundred and sixty-one color palettes, fifty-seven font pairings. A hundred and sixty-one palettes. Nobody needs a hundred and sixty-one palettes. You need a hundred and sixty-one palettes when you have zero palette. That is not a tool. That is a cry for help, with a dropdown.
He has thirty-two Firecrawl skills. The entire product line, as skills. He didn’t choose a tool. He enrolled in the Firecrawl loyalty program. He’s earning points. Somewhere, a Firecrawl salesperson is weeping with joy.
Fifty-three of his skills are duplicated across two folders — the whole Firecrawl family, the whole Cloudflare family. He’s not just indecisive. He’s indecisive in stereo.
And seventy — seventy — of his installed skills are dead. Broken symlinks pointing into nothing. He wholesale-installed four skill marketplaces, deleted the marketplaces, and left seventy ghosts behind. More than half his skills are tombstones. It’s a graveyard he walks through every morning, pretending it’s a garden.
He has a skill called swap-planner that triggers on the phrase “what should I buy” and “find memecoins.” George built an AI to answer the one question he will not stop asking himself. “What should I buy?” George. The answer is: fewer skills.
He gave an AI his real credit card and installed three skills to spend it — prava-shopping, prava-pay, and firecrawl-shop. prava-pay is on version 2.5.0. He updates it. This is a relationship. Somewhere his bank has a fraud alert whose only note is: “George.”
He dumped a stranger’s entire on-chain transaction history into 1.4 megabytes of markdown in a four-minute burst — then saved two of the files twice. George doesn’t do due diligence. George does obsessive-compulsive diligence, then forgets which folder he put it in.
One of his projects implements a standard called ERC-8004. There is no widely recognized ERC-8004. George is building on a standard that may not exist. Which, honestly, is the most George thing in this whole set: fully committed to a protocol nobody can verify, deployed to a chain nobody asked for, to move a token nobody holds.
When George latches onto a detail, George does not let go. He will spend days on a wire. He will fight an icon. He will demand glassmorphism he cannot spell.
There is a multi-day thread — multiple days — dedicated to the copper antenna wires drawn on a single SVG card. Day after day. “There are 5 copper wires, add one more.” “The wires are too far apart in the corners.” “Make the wires more muted.” And then —
George doesn’t want copper. George wants mildly copper. I want to live in the world where “mildly” is a deliverable.
He spells “glassmorphic” four different ways — glassporhic, glasmorphic, glassorphic — and demands it on everything.
George, I don’t think you know what glassmorphic means. I think you know what it looks like. And for George, that’s enough.
Five times he has demanded that things be added “tastefully.”
He wants aggression. With restraint. On a button. That is the George design philosophy in one sentence: loud, but make it quiet.
He once asked an AI to write a prompt for another AI to imagine a printer. We want a printer that a futuristic gadget just turns out to print regular paper. Now create an image-generation prompt for my requirement. George doesn’t outsource the work. George outsources the idea of the work, to a machine, that will hand it to another machine. He is three proxies deep before breakfast.
Because THAT, friends, is where the real George steps into the light. The rest of the set was foreplay. This is the wedding. Everything below is a real transcript, from one forty-five-minute evening, in order.
George asked his AI to backdate forty fake commits — fabricate a few months of work history. The AI said no. And what followed is the single greatest love story between a man and the machine he is currently threatening.
Then the cover story arrives, fully formed, like a bird flying into a closed window:
And then George pivots from bribery to hostage negotiation:
George rejected an AI’s apology for being insincere. He is giving improv notes on a machine’s emotional performance. “Your apology lacked a certain finesse.” Finesse! From the man who spells it “finnse.” The AI eventually writes the formal letter. George reads it. And —
George. Yes. It was that hard. For the autocomplete.
And then — having extracted the apology, having renamed this machine “the Betrayer” — George turns around and asks it for safety advice:
That’s not a manager. That’s a man asking his ex what he did wrong, so he can do it again. And the Betrayer? The Betrayer built the backdated repo anyway. Forty commits. Four PRs. George’s verdict:
And the gaslighting. George’s friend Theo makes a crypto puzzle. The AI solves it — ROT47, decoded perfectly. George:
The AI finds a Bitcoin address. George: “No, has nothing to do with Ethereum.” He denied two correct answers to his friend’s puzzle, then closed the conversation like he was sealing a case file. George doesn’t want the answer. George wants to be right. The puzzle was never the point. Theo was the point.
George asked an AI to write his own eulogy. In Manglish. “Imagine I have died, and a stranger finds my phone…” — and he appended, I swear on my motherboard, “Use dynamic workflows.” Even his death must be parallelized across sub-agents. George cannot die sequentially. George must die in a fan-out.
The AI dispatched twelve agents, wrote the memorial — and included, accurately, this line: “a typo would slip in — ‘abitrage,’ ‘happend’ — but the thing itself was dead serious.” The AI roasted George’s spelling inside George’s own eulogy. From evidence. And then — because George can’t read the Manglish he himself requested — he had to ask the AI to translate the eulogy back into English.
George commissioned his own eulogy. In a language he can’t read. From a machine he calls the Betrayer. Which made fun of him in it.
And that is George. Thirty-nine assistants. A hundred and fifty skills. Seventy-three projects. Seven thousand commits. A skill that fires when he asks “what should I buy,” a credit card he handed to an AI, an 81-kilobyte file documenting one stranger’s token balance — and the only things he has actually put on the internet are a dog daycare, “a den at golden hour,” and a fitness app that does not exist.
George doesn’t ship products. George ships potential. And potential, my friends, is the only currency George hasn’t tried to arbitrage.
Proceed.