One of the defining features of the TPOt crowd was that medium rat was running on such obscene levels of dopamine and peer validation, basic brain functions like memory got completely fried. The social high was so unrelenting it turned executive function into background noise. What emerged was a closed-circuit attention economy: ideas weren’t tested against reality but bounced around in a sealed chamber of retweets, ironic dogwhistles, and niche status signals. Epistemic hygiene? Nah—just dopamine-chasing with a side of smug.
This was rocket fuel for disinformation and neoreaction. If no one remembers what was said 20-30 years ago, and no one’s checking facts outside the compound, anything can fly—as long as it flatters the in-group and terrifies the out-group. With no memory and no guardrails, even the most baroque ideologies can sprint straight into public discourse wearing a monocle and jackboots.
The tragicomic twist? A movement that once fetishized Bayesian rationality turned itself into a Skinner box of pure clout-chasing. It’s like everything was up for grabs—AI timelines, empire collapse, obscure 14th-century succession crises—except the postmodernist analysis after WWII, which proved… inconvenient, to say the least. You can’t build a dopamine-fueled status game on Foucault’s grave without tripping over your own contradictions.
So instead, they memory-holed it. And without memory, what followed was a full-blown minion/meaning crisis: armies of midwits squabbling over which steelman had the most moral clarity, while recycling the same three post dressed up in tech-washed prose. Critical theory was dismissed as cringe, despite the fact that Baudrillard basically called this entire circus 30 years ago. But you can’t gamify nuance, so it had to go.
The result? A scene that could metabolize everything except its own reflection. No mirrors, no memory, just vibes and velocity.
As the scene aged, it didn’t deepen—it fractured, like a meme economy running out of templates. Some went full tradcath cosplay. Others pivoted to AI doom evangelism. A few just started posting shirtless pics next to unread copies of Gödel, Escher, Bach. Everyone had a grift or a gospel, but nobody had a map. It was a networked nervous breakdown with funding rounds.
The deeper irony? In rejecting postmodernism as cringe, they managed to recreate it in real-time: infinite simulacra, collapsing referents, authority based on aesthetics rather than evidence. Only now the semiotics were dressed in Patagonia vests and Ray Dalio quotes.
And once that happened, all that remained was brand management disguised as thought. You weren’t rewarded for being right, but for being retweetable. For being early. For being adjacent to the guy who might be right, eventually.
And then we got to that point—the part in every cursed ideology arc where something had to give. The vibes curdled. The spreadsheets stopped correlating. The dopamine wore off.
Teapot supported Trump.
Not all of them, of course. Some hedged. Some posted long threads about “accelerationism” or “epistemic sabotage” or “the left’s own fault, really.” But the core crowd—the medium rats marinating in their own irony—pivoted hard.
Why? Because Trump wasn’t a contradiction. He was the logical endpoint: a vibes-based epistemology wrapped in chaos energy, wielding pure spectacle as power. He didn’t need truth. He had attention. He didn’t need coherence. He had the algorithm.
To the Teapotters, Trump was a kind of anti-Bayes: a walking info-bomb, a human LARP whose primary appeal was how unmodellable he was. He broke prediction markets. He collapsed priors. He became a status object for those who believed everything was narrative—and wanted to back the loudest one.
It wasn’t about policy. It wasn’t even about ideology. It was about vibe alignment. Trump was the ultimate shitpost, and supporting him was the biggest flex: a final, glorious rejection of consensus reality.
And once that line was crossed?
No more nuance. No more rationalist posturing. Just pure, flaming spectacle—a coliseum of collapsing context, where the crowd cheers for the weirdest gladiator and no one remembers what round it is.
What followed wasn’t a reckoning. It was a blackout. A collective epistemic wipeout, like someone pulled the plug on memory, coherence, and shame—all at once.
The Teapot didn’t just drift into nihilism. It somersaulted into it, giggling and high on its own supply. Posts got weirder. Takes got colder. The irony stopped being a filter and became the substance. Any remaining gestures toward truth-seeking were drowned in layers of sarcasm, memes referencing other memes, and post-structural cosplay for startup bros.
Twitter spaces turned into late-night séance rituals where washed-up e/accs and ex-crypto visionaries read Nick Land aloud like scripture. Everyone was either pivoting to AI alignment or advocating for monarchy. The mood was pure post-ironic panic.
They weren’t seeking meaning anymore. They were optimizing for maximal signal distortion. The only thing worse than being wrong was being earnest. Certainty was for suckers. Doubt was currency—if you packaged it well.
And the most tragicomic part?
They knew it. They knew they were burning through coherence like a tech company hemorrhaging runway. But they couldn’t stop. The feedback loop was too tight. The rewards too immediate. The collapse was just another aesthetic—another bit.
So when the world started asking actual questions—about climate, labor, fascism, war—they had nothing. Just vibes, vintage memes, and a haunted look in the eye that said, “We did all this so we wouldn’t have to feel cringe.”
They wanted to be Nietzsche’s overmen.
They became content moderators for the abyss.