Deep Thrill @deeperthrill - Twitter Profile

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5 months ago

DESLOP YOUR CODE If you use Claude Code, you’ll want to use my /deslop command (GitHub link below). Just download the file and put it in your ~/.claude/commands Then, you can run /deslop or /deslop some_folder/some_subfolder or even /deslop my frontend typescript code. It has built-in a set of coding principles, patterns, and best practices that it will use to analyze your code and offer suggested improvements. It can then implement those changes for you. Read over the file yourself if you want to become a better coder, or just run it and don’t worry about it. I use it regularly, a few times a day, on various pieces of my code. Instead of worry about AI generating slop, deslop your code periodically! Check out the file below and copy it in your Claude commands directory (X deboosts posts with links so I put it in a reply). I also have a command to add a principle to your local deslop file. /addtodeslop (also linked below) will do a web search for good coding principles that are missing, and add them in. You can also give it a specific principle to add, such as “/addtodeslop loose coupling”. Anyway, use my deslopping commands in Claude Code, and enjoy high quality, clean, well-engineered code! GitHub link below👇

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DeeperThrill retweeted

NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依

@japan_nobunaga

1 day ago

USA. A backyard. One man guarding a grill for four hours. He never left it once. Everyone else drifted and drank and laughed. But one man stood alone before the flames, turning meat with a long fork, immovable. I knew him at once. The keeper of the sacred fire. I took my place beside him and said nothing. After a while, he spoke. "Low and slow," he said, eyes on the coals. "You can't rush it. Rush it, you ruin it." I bowed my head. A blade, a tea, a life. None can be rushed. I had crossed four thousand miles to hear my grandfather's words from a man in a "KISS THE COOK" apron. "Everything worth doing is slow," I agreed. He glanced at me. Something passed between us. "My wife says just use the oven." He shook his head at the fire. "She doesn't get it." "They never do," I said. And this is where it turned. For the first time in years, this man had been understood. And he rose to meet it. His back straightened. His voice dropped low. A teenager reached for the grill and the man lifted one hand without even looking. "Not yet." The boy retreated. He was becoming what I already believed him to be. A woman asked when the food would be done. "It's ready when it's ready," he told the flames. Three people approached. Three were turned away with a single word. By the fourth hour, no one questioned him. The whole party had arranged itself around the man and his fire, the way a village arranges itself around a shrine. Then he handed me the fork. "Watch it a sec. I gotta pee." I have been trusted with castles. I have never been more honored. He served everyone before himself, and ate last, standing, still watching the coals. We never traded names. We did not need to. He believed he had finally met a man who took his cooking seriously. I believed I had finally met America's last samurai. Neither of us will ever correct the other. So tell me, America. Who is the man at your gathering who will not leave the grill? Have you ever once asked him why? I think he is still standing there. Guarding the fire. Waiting for one person to understand.

japan_nobunaga's tweet photo. USA. A backyard. One man guarding a grill for four hours.

He never left it once.

Everyone else drifted and drank and laughed. But one man stood alone before the flames, turning meat with a long fork, immovable. I knew him at once. The keeper of the sacred fire.

I took my place beside him and said nothing. After a while, he spoke.

"Low and slow," he said, eyes on the coals. "You can't rush it. Rush it, you ruin it."

I bowed my head. A blade, a tea, a life. None can be rushed. I had crossed four thousand miles to hear my grandfather's words from a man in a "KISS THE COOK" apron.

"Everything worth doing is slow," I agreed.

He glanced at me. Something passed between us.

"My wife says just use the oven." He shook his head at the fire. "She doesn't get it."

"They never do," I said.

And this is where it turned.

For the first time in years, this man had been understood. And he rose to meet it. His back straightened. His voice dropped low. A teenager reached for the grill and the man lifted one hand without even looking. "Not yet." The boy retreated. He was becoming what I already believed him to be.

A woman asked when the food would be done. "It's ready when it's ready," he told the flames.

Three people approached. Three were turned away with a single word. By the fourth hour, no one questioned him. The whole party had arranged itself around the man and his fire, the way a village arranges itself around a shrine.

Then he handed me the fork.

"Watch it a sec. I gotta pee."

I have been trusted with castles.

I have never been more honored.

He served everyone before himself, and ate last, standing, still watching the coals. We never traded names. We did not need to.

He believed he had finally met a man who took his cooking seriously.

I believed I had finally met America's last samurai.

Neither of us will ever correct the other.

So tell me, America.

Who is the man at your gathering who will not leave the grill?

Have you ever once asked him why?

I think he is still standing there.

Guarding the fire.

Waiting for one person to understand.

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