Notes on TPOT/RATS

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.

The Great American Firewall

San Francisco, 2025. Up in the Hills, the Masters of the Universe are slumped in Herman Miller chairs, IV-dripping horse tranquilizers straight into their overclocked nervous systems. Ketamine—the official drug of the techno-aristocracy—keeps the existential dread at bay, smooths out the jagged edges of a collapsing world. One minute they’re at a fireside chat mumbling about “democratizing innovation,” the next they’re drooling into a Patagonia fleece while their brains take a scenic detour through the void. Every other venture fund has a “longevity” startup now, some new-age alchemy promising to stretch their miserable existences past the point of relevance. Not that it matters—there’s no product roadmap for obsolescence. A hundred AI startups fighting to replace each other, a thousand identical crypto schemes still chasing last decade’s dragon. It’s all just another bubble, another high, another illusion that reality can be patched with a software update.

Elsewhere, in the corridors of Washington, the air reeks of bourbon, burning money, and the desperate sweat of bureaucracy watching their golden age circle the drain. In D.C., the suits are cackling like hyenas on a mescaline binge, slashing corporate taxes while waving the Stars and Stripes like a bloody matador’s cape. “Freedom! Markets! Democracy!” they scream, as Apple stashes billions offshore and Amazon dodges the IRS like a tweaker evading a court summons. In between horse tranquiliser microdosing the Tech Edgelords are drunk on their own supply, cheering on the deregulation stampede without realizing that everything making their global empires possible is now on the chopping block. Trade agreements, diplomatic muscle, military-backed stability—all those tedious “big government” interventions they love to hate are the only reason they can ship iPhones to Jakarta and sell ad data in Frankfurt.

The Horse tranquilizer is having its effects. Meanwhile, the real play is happening in the shadows—where a new breed of Edgelords, crypto-fascists, and hollow-eyed libertarian cultists are busy laying the foundation for America’s own Great Firewall. They won’t call it that, of course. They’ll dress it up in the usual flag-waving bullshit—“Protecting American innovation!” “Fighting foreign influence!” “Defending free speech by banning the bad guys!”—but the result will be the same. The land of the free is about to seal itself off from the world like a dying animal crawling under the porch to rot in peace. First, it was TikTok—too much data heading to Beijing, too many kids dancing in ways that made the Heritage Foundation nervous. Then came the crackdowns on foreign semiconductors, software, financial exchanges. “National security!” they shrieked, as if the real danger to America wasn’t its own leaders strip-mining the country like it was a liquidation sale.

The Roman Empire Retvrn LARP morphing into Andrew Jackson Americana LARP is pure schizophrenia. It’s like trying to cosplay both Caesar and the barefoot, mud-streaked rebel fighting imperial overreach—two contradictory fantasies jammed into the same national hard drive. One exalts global dominance, military expansion, and an iron grip on trade routes. The other spits on foreign entanglements, shrieks about sovereignty, and fetishizes an America that never actually existed. You can’t be both the empire and the plucky underdog at the same time, but that doesn’t stop the system from trying to execute mutually exclusive political processes in parallel while sharing the same memory space. No amount of error handling can resolve this architectural contradiction—it’s a corrupted program running a loop until the hardware melts down.

And now? The walls are going up. Trade barriers disguised as patriotism. Visa restrictions under the banner of sovereignty. Silicon Valley, once a global hub of innovation, now reduced to a gated community where failing startups suckle at defense contracts and pretend they still run the world. The same Edgelords who built their fortunes on open markets, open networks, open access are now welding the gates shut, convinced they can lock the rest of the world out and still keep raking in cash. But that’s not how this works.

The United States is about to do something truly remarkable—it’s going to disappear behind its own Great Wall, just like China did centuries ago when it decided it had nothing left to learn from the world. Once upon a time, the Middle Kingdom was the global superpower, sitting on an economy so vast and advanced that it saw no need to trade with the barbarians beyond its borders. And then? The world moved on without it. The British showed up with steamships, opium, and gunboat diplomacy, and suddenly the empire that thought it could wall itself off was being forcibly reopened at cannon-point.

The same thing is happening now, but slower. Instead of gunboats, it’ll be supply chains shifting, economies decoupling, the slow but inevitable realization that the rest of the world doesn’t need America nearly as much as America needs the rest of the world. Europe won’t ditch the U.S. overnight—they’ll still wear Levi’s and drink Starbucks—but little by little, they’ll start buying EVs from BYD, shopping on Temu, and hedging their bets with a global market that doesn’t begin and end with Wall Street. The tech trade will fragment. The dollar’s grip will loosen. And one day, America will wake up behind its firewall and realize it’s been left out of the future, reduced to a decaying theme park of its former self, hooting about sovereignty while the real economic action happens somewhere else. The U.S. could stop this, of course. Fix the tax racket. Reinvest in alliances. Play the long game. But that requires a government that still believes in strategy rather than short-term stock bumps. If the spiral continues, don’t be surprised when the U.S. slips behind China, Europe, and—just to rub it in—California, the world’s fourth-largest economy, watching the rest of the country from across a firewall of its own design. Buy the ticket, take the ride.

The Great American Firewall is coming. And when the last fiber optic cable is cut, when the last backdoor is sealed, when the last dollar of foreign investment shrugs and moves on, the final joke will be revealed: the so-called defenders of “economic freedom” will have walled themselves off from the only thing keeping them alive. The rest of the world will watch, shake their heads, and move on. Buy the ticket, take the ride.

Iterative Adaptation

The Sage of the Eastern Mountain spoke:

In the garden of ten thousand possibilities, he who takes a seedling from the emperor’s own thief may find his name written in gold for a hundred generations. Yet what appears as theft to the morning eye becomes wisdom to the evening mind.

Consider the humble water beetle who, seeing the lotus leaf float, made its own vessel. Did it steal the lotus’s secret, or did it honor the flower’s teaching by carrying new life across still waters? The merchants of the southern shores cry “Thief!” while the northern kingdoms celebrate innovation.

As the ancient text reminds us: “The river does not apologize to the cloud for borrowing its water, if it returns it to the sky with interest.”

Thus the wise one knows: When the student surpasses the master’s technique, adding his own brush strokes to make the painting greater, is this theft or tribute? The answer lies not in the taking, but in what new gifts are returned to the world.

Remember: The falcon who first stole fire from the sun was cursed by day, but blessed by night – for though he took one flame, he gave warmth to all humanity.

So it is in the marketplace of ideas: Yesterday’s forbidden knowledge becomes tomorrow’s shared wisdom. The distinction between piracy and progress is written not in stone, but in water – flowing, changing, ever-moving with time’s own tide.

Let he who would judge first count not what was taken, but what was created anew.