She Could Commit 🤧💫!

Remember when everyone used "master" before the great renaming to "main"? Yeah, those legacy repos are still out there, lurking in production like ancient artifacts. You're working on your feature branch, everything's modern and clean, then someone asks you to check something on master and suddenly you're transported back to 2019. The branch still works perfectly fine, but saying "git checkout master" feels like you're about to get cancelled by your CI/CD pipeline. It's like finding a working floppy disk drive in 2024—technically functional, but you feel weird using it.

You know that feeling when you refactor a single variable name and suddenly Git thinks you've rewritten the entire codebase? Yeah, 34 files changed because you decided to update some import paths or tweak a shared constant. Smooth sailing, quick review, merge it and move on. But then there's that OTHER pull request. The one where you fix a critical bug by changing literally two lines of actual logic. Maybe you added a null check or fixed an off-by-one error. And suddenly your PR has 12 comments dissecting your life choices, questioning your understanding of computer science fundamentals, and suggesting you read a 400-page book on design patterns before touching production code again. The code review gods have a twisted sense of humor. Large diffs? "LGTM." Small, surgical changes? Time for a philosophical debate about whether your variable should be called isValid or valid .

Reddit programming subs in a nutshell: GitHub Copilot adding over a million lines of code while removing just 332. Then there's the "vibe coders" adding 153K lines but deleting 9K. This is the digital equivalent of that coworker who writes 500 lines to do what could be done in 10. Sure, the git stats look impressive, but someone's gonna have to maintain that monstrosity after they move on to their next "10x developer" gig. The real heroes are the ones who commit -5000 lines that make everything run twice as fast. But they don't get Reddit karma, do they?

Ah, the ancient hieroglyphics of code written before the holiday break. You stare at it like an archaeologist trying to decipher a dead language. "Who wrote this?" you wonder, before checking git blame and realizing it was you... three weeks ago. The coffee isn't strong enough for this level of amnesia. Your brain has completely purged all context about what the hell you were thinking when you wrote that nested ternary operator. Just approve it and type "LGTM" (Looks Good To Me), because honestly, who even remembers how this codebase works anymore?

That suspicious side-eye moment when your coworker who normally submits PRs titled "fixed stuff" with zero comments suddenly delivers a masterpiece of documentation. Either they've been replaced by an AI, they're interviewing elsewhere, or management finally threatened to fire them. Nobody transforms into a model contributor overnight without ulterior motives. Trust issues activated.

Ah, the sacred GitHub contribution graph—where the greenness of your squares matters more than your actual skills! This marketing person just proved that tech hiring is basically a casino where the house edge is "having a pretty heat map." Forget degrees, experience, or actual coding ability—just make sure your contribution graph looks like a well-maintained lawn. $900k for a pretty pattern of green squares? Meanwhile, actual developers are frantically pushing commits to empty repos at 11:59 PM just to keep their streaks alive. The ultimate tech industry cheat code: don't learn to code, just learn to look like you code. Absolutely brilliant.