Small Commits Are For Cowards

Ah, the classic GitHub existential crisis! Someone created a repo with the self-aware name "This project has no meaningful contribution to society" and then someone else opened an issue with the most dramatic comment possible: "We are in dire and immediate need of innovation." It's like showing up to a kid's lemonade stand and demanding they solve the global water crisis. The best part? The issue got 19 reactions and was promptly closed. Nothing says "welcome to open source" like passionate debates about projects that openly admit their uselessness. This is basically every developer's side project that started with "I'll change the world" and ended with "please don't look at my code."

That fleeting moment of glory when your code doesn't immediately set the servers on fire. You're strutting around like a superhero while your Slack blows up with messages. Just wait until they find that one edge case you didn't test for. Enjoy the dopamine while it lasts, friend.

The classic Friday evening developer nightmare: You're shutting your laptop at 16:55, ready to start the weekend, when suddenly your colleague decides it's the perfect time to test your latest commit. And what do they find? Bugs. Bugs everywhere. Like a soldier screaming in the heat of battle, they're frantically alerting everyone while you silently contemplate whether to pretend your Slack notifications stopped working or just accept that your weekend plans now include emergency hotfixes from your couch.

GitHub's homepage has become a masterclass in corporate bloat. You land there and it's just... marketing fluff, hero images, and calls-to-action that nobody who actually uses GitHub needs. We all just type "github.com/username/repo" directly into the address bar or have it bookmarked anyway. The red striped overlay here is doing the lord's work—showing us what we already knew but were too polite to say. That entire beautiful, carefully designed homepage? Useless pixels. The only thing developers actually need is the search bar and maybe the profile dropdown. Everything else is just there to impress investors and confuse new users. Real developers skip the homepage entirely and go straight to their repos, issues, or PRs. The homepage is basically the LinkedIn feed of code hosting—technically exists, but nobody's there by choice.

The heroic tale of saving an entire company from certain doom... by hitting git reset --hard HEAD~1 and pretending you're a genius. The corporate equivalent of turning it off and on again, but with more dramatic flair and a significantly larger bonus check.

GitHub sits there looking all professional and composed with its version control and CI/CD pipelines. StackOverflow is giving you that knowing smirk because it's seen every cursed question you've ever asked at 3 AM. And then there's your actual code—a beautiful disaster that somehow combines the worst parts of both copy-pasted solutions from SO and those "temporary" commits you swore you'd clean up before pushing to main. The real horror is that your codebase is literally a Frankenstein's monster stitched together from Stack Overflow answers, each solving one specific problem but creating three new ones when combined. GitHub hosts it with a straight face while StackOverflow keeps providing the organs for your creation. Meanwhile, your code is just vibing in production, held together by duct tape, prayer, and that one function nobody dares to refactor because "if it works, don't touch it."