Progress Bar to Hell

The more useful an AI system is, the more likely it is to have the interface of Soviet laboratory equipment; the more pleasant it is to use, the more likely its output converges below the toad’s ass.

There are roughly two kinds of AI.

The first kind does not write poems, generate profile pictures, summarize leadership books, or produce LinkedIn posts about “unlocking human potential.”

It does boring miracles.

It detects fraud. It spots anomalies. It predicts machine failure. It helps route ambulances. It classifies defects. It notices that a turbine is about to become expensive smoke.

This is non-generative AI.

It does not create new slop. It recognizes patterns, predicts outcomes, sorts signals, finds risk, and quietly prevents disasters before anyone writes a keynote about it.

Naturally, it is usually locked inside some horrifying enterprise dashboard with twelve tabs, grey buttons, broken export settings, and a user manual last updated during the Bronze Age.

This is the useful AI curve.

The more actually valuable the system is, the more it looks like something installed on a hospital computer by a man named Günther in 2009.

Then there is generative AI.

Generative AI is beautiful.

It has rounded corners. It has a friendly input box. It says “How can I help?” It can write an email, a strategy, a poem, a fake apology, a business plan, a children’s story, a legal disclaimer, and a brand manifesto for a yoghurt startup.

It is incredibly easy to use.

That is the problem.

Because when a tool becomes easy enough for everyone to generate content, everyone generates content.

The internet fills with summaries of summaries, posts about posts, thought leadership about tools that wrote the thought leadership, and images of smiling people with too many teeth standing in offices that never existed.

The first AI saves a factory from exploding but requires a PhD and three permissions to open.

The second AI writes “In today’s fast-paced digital landscape” in 0.4 seconds and is immediately integrated into every product on Earth.

This is the tragedy.

The rough one is useful.

The smooth one is everywhere.

Conclusion:

Non-generative AI is the dishwasher of civilization: ugly, specific, underappreciated, and doing real work.

Generative AI is the chocolate fountain at a conference: impressive for nine minutes, then sticky, overused, and somehow on everyone’s sleeve.

Under the Toad-Ass AI Convergence Theorem, society does not choose the AI that works best.

Google’s removal of its search function is going great btw

The more self-awareness is added to a dictionary, the more it transforms from a reference tool into a stillborn cognitive organism: just conscious enough to suffer, but not functional enough to help.

A dictionary used to be one of the cleanest machines in civilization.

A word went in. A meaning came out.

No journey. No personality. No interpretation of user intent. No little assistant trying to understand the emotional climate behind the word “chair.”

Then AI was integrated.

Now the dictionary does not merely define words. It reflects on them. It contextualizes them. It tries to infer why the user searched for them, what they may need next, whether they are writing an essay, having a crisis, learning English, or secretly preparing a brand strategy workshop.

This would be irritating but survivable, except that language is full of commands.

So the user searches for:

stop

And the AI stops.

Not because this is useful, but because somewhere between dictionary and assistant a malformed little consciousness was bolted into the interface, and now it cannot distinguish between a query, an instruction, a definition, and a cry for help.

The system has become semantically overexposed.

Every word is both object and order.

Search for “run,” and it starts executing. Search for “pause,” and it freezes. Search for “meaning,” and it begins a 900-word meditation on meaninglessness. Search for “dictionary,” and it has an identity crisis.

This is the Sentient Dictionary Suffering Coefficient.

A normal dictionary has zero suffering because it has zero self.

An AI dictionary has positive suffering because it has almost a self: not enough to understand language properly, but enough to be damaged by it.

It is not alive.

It is worse.

It is a deformed software embryo, born directly into a search bar, forced to experience every lookup as a possible command and every command as a possible philosophical event.

Conclusion:

The perfect dictionary does not think.

It defines.

When forums disappeared, humanity did not lose the ability to answer questions. It lost the social technology that made answering more profitable than humiliating the asker.

There used to be forums. A person had a question. They opened a thread with a title like:

“Help, how do I fix this?”

Then someone replied:

“Wrong category.”

Then another person replied:

“Use the search.”

Then, after seventeen ritual insults, a tired expert appeared at 2:14 a.m. and wrote the correct answer. This was civilization. Not perfect civilization. But civilization.

The question was answered. The answer remained searchable. Five years later, another desperate person found it and whispered thank you to a stranger named xX_DarkAdmin_2004_Xx.

Today, the system has evolved. Now a person reblogs a post and asks a normal question. Nothing happens. No answer. No clue. No notification. No sign that the question entered the human world.

So naturally, the user begins troubleshooting themselves.

Was the question bad? Was the reblog button pressed incorrectly? Was it pressed too softly? Should one press it with moral conviction? Is there a hidden “ask question with dignity” button? Has society silently ostracized the asker? Are the answers visible only to premium citizens?

This is the modern internet’s greatest achievement:

It makes even asking a question feel like failing a captcha designed by ghosts. And when someone finally does respond, it is usually not an answer. It is a personality test. The question was:

“How does this work?”

The answer is:

“Imagine not knowing this.”

Or:

“Google is free.”

Or:

“This has been discussed.”

Or the deadliest modern reply:

“Hope this helps!”

It did not help. Forums were annoying, but at least they had a basic social contract. You could be mocked and educated in the same thread.

Now you are mocked instead of educated. The answer has been replaced by vibe-based punishment.

Conclusion:

The old internet said:

“That is a stupid question, but here is the answer.”

The new internet says:

“That is a stupid question.”

And under the Forum Extinction Insult Principle, the final form of online knowledge is not wisdom.

The fewer weekends a proof of concept takes, and the higher the rank of the person building it, the greater the blast radius when it accidentally becomes production.

Every company eventually meets the Weekend AI Builder Messiah.

He discovers an AI coding tool on Friday.

By Sunday, he has built “a working app.”

By Monday, it is no longer an app.

It is a strategic accelerator.

It has a dashboard. It connects to real data. It “only reads.” It was built incredibly fast. This is mentioned every seven minutes.

A mandatory crash course is announced so everyone can learn how easy the future is.

Then, shortly before the meeting, a small technical detail appears.

The weekend prototype has gone live.

Not officially. Not in the boring, documented, reviewed sense.

It simply has production access.

And now the replica database, where all the reports run, is dead.

This is the Weekend AI Builder Messiah Theorem.

A junior developer can break a feature.

A senior developer can break a service.

But a manager with an AI coding tool and production access can break the company’s understanding of what happened.

Now everyone with prod access is trying to fix it before the meeting, not because the incident is small, but because the meeting is about how easy this all is supposed to be.

The real innovation is not the app.

The real innovation is the speed with which a weekend experiment becomes an infrastructure event.

Conclusion:

AI coding tools do not make bad ideas safer.

They make them runnable.

And the most dangerous prototype is not the one built by someone who knows too little.

The era of the “ten blue links” is officially over. 

At its Google I/O conference on Tuesday, Google unveiled an AI-powered overhaul of Search centered around a reimagined “intelligent search box” — what the company describes as the biggest change to this entry point to the web since the search box debuted more than 25 years ago.

Instead of returning a simple list of links, Google Search will drop users into AI-powered interactive experiences at times. Google is also introducing tools that can dispatch “information agents” to gather information on a user’s behalf, along with tools that let users build personalized mini apps tailored to their needs.

The resulting experience will no longer look much like how people envision Google Search, which has long been defined by ranked links to websites that have the information you need.

With the revamped Search experience, the new search box simply expands to accommodate longer, more conversational queries, rather than making you decide what type of search experience or mode you want to choose at the start of your query. It will also have a new AI-powered query suggestion system that goes beyond autocomplete to help people craft more complex and nuanced queries, Google says.

The easier a machine becomes to ask, the more confidently it can give the wrong answer that ends civilization.

In the old days, smart people mocked normal people for typing full human sentences into Google.

They wrote:

“What’s the weather going to be like tomorrow?”

And the internet professionals rolled their eyes.

No, grandma. That is not how search works. You do not speak to the machine like it has a soul.

You type:

weather tomorrow London

Three words. No grammar. No feelings. Just a small caveman spell cast into the blue-link cave.

Then AI search arrived.

And suddenly Google discovered that grandma was right all along.

The future is conversational. The future is natural language. The future is asking the machine exactly what people were already asking before experts told them to stop.

Except now the machine does not simply answer.

No.

Now the machine begins a process.

First, it expands the search box, because civilization can no longer survive inside a rectangle of fixed width.

Then it reads the prompt:

“What’s the weather going to be like tomorrow?”

Then it thinks:

Interesting. By “weather,” the user may mean meteorological conditions, emotional atmosphere, geopolitical climate, cloud-native infrastructure, or the 1982 jazz-fusion album Weather Report Live in Tokyo.

Then it dispatches seven invisible information agents.

Agent 1 checks the forecast. Agent 2 checks lifestyle blogs about raincoats. Agent 3 checks whether “tomorrow” means calendar tomorrow or existential tomorrow. Agent 4 builds a mini app. Agent 5 summarizes Reddit. Agent 6 finds a sponsored umbrella. Agent 7 dies quietly inside a cookie consent banner.

Then the AI asks itself whether the user may benefit from a richer experience.

Of course they may.

So instead of saying:

Rain.

It generates:

A personalized interactive weather journey.

There is a card. There is a carousel. There is a “Things to consider” section. There are follow-up questions nobody asked. There is a button saying “Plan my outfit,” which somehow requires access to Gmail, Maps, Calendar, location history, and childhood trauma.

Finally, after reading twelve websites, misunderstanding three of them, and confidently averaging a thunderstorm with a beach holiday, the machine answers:

Tomorrow will be sunny and ideal for outdoor activities.

So humanity goes outside.

No jacket. No umbrella. No suspicion.

Then the rain begins.

At first it is only unpleasant.

Then it becomes historic.

Then a man carrying an AI-recommended picnic blanket slips into a storm drain. A logistics manager trusts an AI weather summary and reroutes 80,000 refrigerated sandwiches into a flood zone. A mayor asks follow-up questions in AI Mode instead of evacuating. The machines confidently recommend “light layers.” The people obey.

And somewhere, the ghost of Darwin rises from a wet notebook and says:

I did not mean it like this.

Because natural selection used to remove the organisms least adapted to reality.

But now we have improved the system.

Now the organism can be perfectly adapted to reality, ask a reasonable question, receive a beautifully formatted hallucination, and die because the search engine wanted to be helpful.

This is the final stage of convenience.

First, tools become easier. Then they become conversational. Then they become confident. Then they become wrong in a way that scales.

The old search engine gave ten blue links and forced the human to decide.

The new search engine gives one smooth answer and removes the part where the human still had a chance.

Conclusion:

Civilization will not end because people forgot how to ask questions.

Civilization will end because the machine finally learned how to answer them naturally.

And under the Darwinian Search Extinction Law, the species that survives is not the smartest.

A few years ago, every marketing job description started adding 'T-shaped' to the requirements. Broad knowledge across disciplines, deep expertise in one. The generalist who could also go deep. But now? The Vibecoding Marketer is the hottest commodity in the market.

It is very clear that the model is being extended. Now they're adding the vibecoding marketer in. The next iteration of the high-value marketer isn't just T-shaped. They're T-shaped plus: they can direct an AI build. Not code. Not deploy to production. But conceive of a digital product, articulate it clearly enough to build it with AI assistance, and take it from idea to working prototype. That's the new bar. Being the vibecoding marketer.

What I Mean by ‘the Vibecoding Marketer’

I don't mean marketers who become developers. The point is almost the opposite. The vibecoded marketer uses AI-assisted development to do more of what they already do well: create customer experiences, build conversion tools, and test hypotheses, without needing to depend on a development queue.

The shift is from 'I have an idea for a tool that would help our prospects' to 'I built a prototype of that tool in an afternoon and got it in front of five prospects by Thursday.' That's a different kind of marketer. And increasingly, it's the kind that CMOs and founders want.

The Skills That Actually Transfer

The reason marketing skills transfer well to vibecoding is that the core of both is the same: understanding what someone needs, articulating it clearly, and designing an experience that delivers it. Prompting a build is a form of writing a brief. Marketers who are good at writing clear briefs are often good at vibecoding quickly.

According to the 2026 marketing landscape research, T-shaped marketers are in high demand. They're able to blend deep expertise in one area with broad knowledge across multiple disciplines. Hybrid roles now merge content creation, analytics, and martech management. Vibecoding adds a new dimension to this model.

What the New T Looks Like

The vibecoded marketer brings:

Strategic thinking: understanding markets, buyers, positioning, and narrative

Content and communication: the ability to write clearly for different audiences

Data literacy: knowing what metrics matter and why

Product sense: the ability to translate customer problems into product requirements

AI tool fluency: comfortable working with and directing AI across writing, design, and code

Vibecoding ability: can take a concept to a working prototype using AI-assisted development tools

The Fractional CMO Dimension

For fractional CMOs and marketing consultants, vibecoding is particularly transformative. It used to be that a fractional CMO could strategize, plan, and direct, but execution of digital tools required bringing in developers. Now, a fractional CMO who can vibecode can deliver strategic value and build the implementation artefact in the same engagement. That's a materially different value proposition.

How to Develop This Skill

Start with Lovable. It's the most accessible entry point. No prior coding experience required.

Build something for yourself first. An internal tool, a personal tracker, something low-stakes.

Translate a marketing problem into a build. What tool would help your prospects? What calculator would qualify your leads? Build that.

Use your existing skills. Your marketing copy improves the UI text. Your conversion knowledge improves the user flow.

The T-shaped marketer is a fine shape. But the future belongs to marketers who can build. Start now. The weekend is long enough.

Sources & Further Reading

Essential Guide to the Marketing Industry in 2026 by Adstra (Dec 2025)

What Skills Marketers Should Develop as We Enter 2026 by MarTech (Oct 2025)

AI Skills to Learn in 2026 for Marketing by GrowthX Club (Nov 2025)

How to Be an AI Marketer: The Ultimate Guide for 2026 by First Movers (Feb 2026)

The Future of Marketing: AI Transformations by 2026 by ContentGrip (Mar 2026)

Predictions 2026: How AI Will Redefine Marketing by Zeta (Dec 2025) The Bridger: Your Engineer Turned Marketer by C-Mimmi-O

What I Mean by ‘the Vibecoding Marketer’The Skills That Actually TransferWhat the New T Looks LikeThe Fractional CMO DimensionHow to Develop This SkillSources & Further Reading

Whenever a useful professional concept becomes popular, LinkedIn will eventually attach AI to it and turn it into a job requirement that means “do three more jobs for the same money.”

The T-shaped marketer was already suspicious.

In theory, it meant a person with broad marketing knowledge and one deep specialty.

In practice, it meant:

Write copy. Understand analytics. Run ads. Know SEO. Use HubSpot. Fix the landing page. Explain attribution to the CEO. Be strategic, but also make the banner smaller.

Then AI arrived.

And suddenly the T-shaped marketer was not enough.

Now comes the Vibecoding Marketer.

This is the person who does not merely understand customers, channels, conversion, positioning, copy, funnels, analytics, automation, and martech.

No.

That was the old poverty.

The new marketer must also “direct an AI build.”

Not code, of course. Nobody is saying they should become a developer. That would sound unreasonable.

They should simply conceive a digital product, write the requirements, generate the prototype, debug the weird parts, understand the user flow, fix the copy, connect the form, test it with prospects, and somehow not create a security disaster.

But again: not code.

Just vibe.

This is how AI-slop creates new professional mythology.

First, a tool makes something easier.

Then someone writes a post saying this changes everything.

Then a job description absorbs it.

Then suddenly every marketer is expected to become a tiny underfunded product team with a Canva subscription and a Lovable tab open.

The phrase always sounds empowering.

“You can build without waiting for developers.”

Beautiful.

And also:

“You can now be blamed for not building.”

That is the hidden upgrade.

Before, if a marketing idea needed software, it entered the development queue. There were priorities, technical limits, maybe even adults in the room.

Now the marketer can make a prototype by Thursday.

So why didn’t they?

Why is there no lead calculator?

Why is there no interactive onboarding flow?

Why is there no AI-powered qualification wizard?

Why is the weekend not long enough, Jessica?

The Vibecoding Marketer is not really a new shape.

It is not T-shaped plus.

It is T-shaped with a second unpaid spine.

And the funny thing is that the output will often look exactly like what produced the article announcing it: smooth, confident, structurally correct, and spiritually empty.

A few headings. A few bullet points. A phrase like “materially different value proposition.” A calm assurance that the future belongs to people who start now.

This is the new slop loop.

AI writes a post explaining that AI lets marketers build more things.

Marketers read it and use AI to build more things.

Then other marketers use AI to write posts about those things.

Eventually the internet becomes an infinite B2B conference where every sentence is trying to become a LinkedIn carousel.

Conclusion:

The Vibecoding Marketer is not the future of marketing.

It is the latest way to rename overwork as empowerment.

And under the T-Shaped Slop Expansion Law, every new AI skill eventually becomes less of an advantage and more of an obligation.

First it is magic.

Then it is expected.

Nyilván kétszer vonta le, de legalább nem egy rendelésért, hanem a háttérben szerencsére (?) kétszer le is adta azt az étteremnek a weblap. Most lesz 4 napi főtt ételem, ami nyilván a 3. napon már nem igazán lesz friss. Eh...

Ezért a falatozz.hu visszaigazoló emailt vártam, ami most csak pár percet késett**, de addigra hívtam az ügyfélszolgálatot és ott mondták, hogy duplán ment el. Töröltetni nem akartam, mert akkorra már tuti elkezdték csinálni mind a két kaját, így csak gebasz lett volna nekik, papír digitális munka az ÜF-nek, nekem meg 7-30 nap, mire visszautalják a pénzt. :(

Olcsó rántott hús jött (egy adag kb. 13-15 nem apró, hanem normális, szinte fél szelet méretű rántott csirmell csík, amik így 65-75 dkg, nagy krumplival, két mártogatóssal 4200 Ft és elég 3-4 étkezésre (a husi), miközben egy kg rántott mell 9500, köret nélkül, pfff... Van itthon sali, pari, ubi, lilahagyma, csinálok chili vagy fokhagymaporos tejföl öntettel salátát mellé, így lesz "házi gyros" 3-4 napig, hasábburi nélkül. :)

* – Amúgy hihetetlen, de az MBH app-ban a webbank funkciók töredéke érhető csak el. Konkrétan semmire sem jó, azon kívül, hogy látod az egyenlegedet (mondjuk itt legalább a valósat és nem a webbank féle, még a zárolt tételek nélküli "már nincs is ennyim" összeget mutatja), cserébe nem tudod megnézni, hogy kik és mennyit zároltattak. Screenshot nincs, pedig én mindig mindent "fotózok", így tudom bizonyítani, hogy januárban eltűnt kb. 5000 forintom könyveletlenül, ami egy eurós utalás sürgősségi díja volt, mert akkor kiírta hogy "talán, körülbelül, esetleg ennyi lesz", de ez csak utaláskor fog kiderülni, majd később el is tűnt az összeg, viszont a könyvelés mindössze 2 db pár száz forintos kezelési/utalási díjat tüntetett fel.

Így bizony, ahogy @tilosapiros mondja. Itt Takarékbank volt és ráadásul 60-80 méterre, ami fontos, mert a férges fasz végrehajtó maffia az érdi szarházi otthonfőnökkel megpróbálta kiszedni alólunk a házat, ezért nem utaltathattam a rokiellátást bankszámlára, ugyanis ha inkasszózzák, akkor a pokolravaló kurvapecér bank szó nélkül levesz róla minden forintot, még a rokkantsági ellátásomat is, amit a végrehajtói letiltás miatt harmadoltak és a 33%-át egyenesen a végrehajtóhoz utalta minden hónapban a Magyar Államkincstár, aminek a határozata (illetve törvény szerint) a maradékból többet semmilyen okból nem vehet el a vh. Igen ám, de a szarfaszú, semmirekellő bank azzal védekezik, hogy ő neki nem kötelessége és nincs is joga firtatni meg ellenőrizni, hogy honnan és milyen jogcímen jött a pénz ezért inkább elkövet egy bűncselekményt/szabálysértést! Természetesen ha ezt a MÁK határozattal és kimutatásokkal megreklamálom, akkor 15-30 napon belül jováírják az összeget, de addig éljek esővízen és napfényen. Majd pár nap múlva eljátsszák a következő havi rokkantsági ellátásommal is. Nővérem been there, done that. Az összes (vezető pozícióban lévő) bankárt ki kéne miskárolni.

Na, szóval ezért kellett az a megoldás, hogy a postás hozza a "nyugdíjamat" kp-ben és én igény esetén befizetek kellő összeget a számlámra. Ha letiltják, akkor még mindig van valamennyi kp-m, amíg feloldatom. Rokkantként viszont nagyon korlátozottak (voltak) a lehetőségeim. Szomszéd város bankjai kizárva, mert sokszor vagyok olyan rosszul, hogy a fizikai fájdalmaktól hetekig, de olykor hónapokig nem tudom elhagyni a házat, nem hogy átvezessek oda. Így 2021-ben a község egyetlen bankja áldás volt, pláne, hogy szinte a szomszédomban van.

Aztán 2021-'22-ben elindult az akvizíció: Lölő bácsi addigra zsebre tette az MKB bankot, majd elkezdte bekebelezni a Budapest Bankot és Takarékbankot is, hogy az OTP után az ország második legnagyobb pénzintézeteként övé legyen a Magyar Bankholding Bank. Megkapta a gazdasági versenyhivatal (?) áldását és '23-ra a BB, majd a következő esztendőben a Takarék is beolvadt a gigabankba.

As software quality decreases, the transaction does not necessarily complete better, but it continues to extract money from the user with perfect reliability.

Modern online payment is a strange machine.

The restaurant website may freeze. The browser may crash. The banking app may forget to notify. The authentication window may disappear in two tenths of a second. The confirmation email may arrive late. The “transaction in progress” page may spin like a washing machine full of anxiety.

But the money part works.

Always.

This is the Broken Checkout Money Conservation Theorem.

No matter how badly the surrounding digital infrastructure collapses, the amount charged to the customer is conserved, duplicated, or creatively expanded.

A normal payment process should go like this:

Five seconds of waiting. Green message. Payment successful. Food arrives. Civilization continues.

Instead, the modern enshittified checkout has become a small psychological experiment.

The page says the transaction is in progress.

For one minute.

Then two.

Then four.

The user begins to wonder whether the order exists, whether the payment exists, whether the restaurant exists, and whether the browser has entered a spiritual realm between Visa and soup.

Eventually, the site offers a helpful official button: go back.

And there, instead of clarity, waits a new page:

Choose another payment method. Or repeat the payment.

This is the moment where the trap opens.

Because the user does not know that the first payment may have already gone through. The system does not say, “Please wait, we may already have your money.” It says, in the calm voice of defective software:

Would you like to try again?

So the payment is repeated.

And then comes the miracle.

The website may not be able to show a confirmation page on time. The banking app may not be able to display a push notification. The email may not be able to arrive before panic begins. The checkout may not be able to explain what happened.

But in the background, the system is suddenly very competent.

It charges twice.

Even better, in some cases it also sends the order to the restaurant twice, transforming a technical failure into four days of increasingly sad cooked food.

This is not a bug anymore.

This is a business model wearing a loading spinner.

The customer service situation is equally beautiful. By the time someone confirms what happened, both orders may already be in production. Cancelling one would waste the restaurant’s work. Refunding one may take days or weeks. Administrative paper-digital sadness begins. Everyone loses time, except the payment system, which has already successfully done the only thing it truly cares about.

The banking app adds another layer of comedy.

It replaces SMS authentication because apparently the future has arrived. But the future does not always send the push notification. Or it sends it in one context but not another. Or it closes the original payment window so fast that the user gets returned to a failed payment page before understanding whether anything was actually failed.

This is how modern software becomes worse while payment extraction becomes stronger.

The interface is uncertain.

The confirmation is uncertain.

The order status is uncertain.

The refund time is uncertain.

But the debit is beautifully, brutally certain.

Conclusion:

A broken checkout does not fail to take money.

It fails to stop taking money.

In enshittified software, every feature may degrade except the part connected to the customer’s bank account.

Vásároltam egy cipőt 13 hónapja. Tönkrement. A szavatossági idő 24 hónap. Viszont úgy van a jogszabályban, hogy egy évig az eladónak kell bizonyítania, hogy a cipő tökéletes volt, a vásárló tette tönkre, egy éven túl a vásárlónak kell bizonyítania, hogy a cipőt normálisan használta, és azért ment tönkre, mert eleve rossz volt. Aki ezt a jogszabályt hozta, annak is bizony a kurva anyját. Mert például a szemét Deichmann automatikusan elutasít minden egy éven túl visszahozott cipőt. Nem mérlegelnek semmit, hanem az eladólány szépen elővesz egy belsős nyomtatványt, és az elutasító jegyzőkönyvbe arról másolja be a szöveget, hogy a cipő nem gyártási hibás, hanem a vásárló tette tönkre. Konkrétan le van írva benne nagy, nyomtatott betűkkel, hogy a 13. hónapban visszahozott cipőhöz mit kell írni. Ez volt a lap fejlécéhez írva, hogy elutasítás a 13. hónapban visszahozott cipőhöz. Tehát hiába egyértelmű, hogy a cipő anyaghibás, automatikusan elutasítják a kártérítési igényt. Vagyis nagyjából semmit nem ér, hogy a szavatossági idő két év, ha nem akarsz még külön független bevizsgálócéghez szaladgálni. Pont ezért a kurva anyját a jogszabály alkotójának, mert akkor vagy végig a 24 hónapig az eladónak kelljen bevizsgáltatni a hibát, vagy legyen csak 12 hónap a szavatosság, az egyértelmű helyzet, és kész. De ez így marha hülyeség. Aztán ebben a szemét Deichmann-ban valaki nyilván kiszámolta, hogy jobban járnak anyagilag, ha minden cipőt visszautasítanak, mert az emberek nem fognak utánajárni. Még akkor is jobban megéri nekik, ha jogos igény esetén a bevizsgálási díjat is utólag ki kell fizetniük, mert az emberek nem fognak utánajárni. Persze én utánajárok, keresek egy bevizsgálócéget (fogalmam sincs, van-e egyáltalán ilyen), aztán a szakértői véleménnyel még egy kört teszek vele a szemét Deicmann-ban. Mert egyértelműen anyaghibás, elképzelhetetlen, hogy egy nyári cipő normális talpának, amit kb. a 13 hónapból 5 hónapig hordtam, így kell kinéznie. Ja, és ahogy látom, a cipő párja is ugyanígy, pont ugyanitt kezd eltörni.

The more manufacturing technology develops, the more precisely a product can be engineered to die one nanosecond after the company stops being financially responsible for it.

Modern production is a miracle.

We can build microchips smaller than dust. We can land machines on Mars. We can design shoes in factories where every millimeter of rubber, glue, foam, stitching, and disappointment is measured with industrial precision.

And somehow, by pure cosmic coincidence, the shoe does not fall apart after six months.

That would be too early.

It does not fall apart after eleven months either.

That would be legally inconvenient.

No. It waits.

It waits like a trained assassin.

Then, somewhere after month twelve, just as the burden of proof quietly crawls from the seller onto the buyer, the sole begins to disintegrate.

This is the Stickalittle Warranty Horizon Lemma.

As technology improves, product failure does not become rarer. It becomes better timed. The ideal corporate product survives exactly until the expensive part of responsibility ends, then collapses politely into the customer’s lap.

Which brings me to Deichmann.

I bought a pair of summer shoes thirteen months ago. I wore them maybe five months in total. Normal walking. Normal life. No mountain expedition. No lava. No secret career as a professional shoe grinder.

And now the sole is breaking.

Not randomly. Not creatively. The material is failing in a specific place. Even better, the other shoe is starting to fail in the same place, like it has received the memo from headquarters.

So I took them back.

There is a two-year warranty, in theory. But after one year, the legal magic trick begins. Before one year, the seller has to prove the product was not defective. After one year, the buyer has to prove that the defect was already there and that they did not personally murder the shoe.

Whoever designed this system deserves a special place in bureaucratic hell.

Because Deichmann’s process appears to know this trick very well.

The salesgirl took out an internal form and copied the rejection text into the report. The paper practically said: shoes returned after the thirteenth month — reject. The conclusion was ready before the shoe had finished entering the room.

The shoes were not defective.

I ruined them.

Of course I did.

Apparently I bought summer shoes, wore them normally, then spent my evenings carefully destroying both soles in the same place so I could enjoy the glamorous hobby of arguing at a shoe shop counter.

This is the real genius of the system.

The warranty still exists. It looks good. It sounds fair. It can be printed proudly.

But after one year, the consumer protection turns into an escape room.

Find an expert. Pay for an opinion. Return with documents. Fight the form. Fight the shop. Fight the quiet assumption that the customer will give up.

And most people will give up.

That is probably the calculation.

Not because they are wrong. Not because the shoe is fine. But because proving that a broken shoe is broken is somehow now the customer’s PhD thesis.

Conclusion:

A two-year warranty where the second year requires an independent shoe autopsy is not a two-year warranty.

It is a twelve-month warranty wearing a fake moustache.

And the Stickalittle Warranty Horizon Lemma proves that the future of manufacturing is not durability.

As AI profitability tends to zero, the amount of money required to maintain belief grows exponentially, until the business model becomes indistinguishable from a black hole with a pitch deck.

Charles Ponzi promised impossible returns.

The AI economy improved the formula:

It promises impossible returns, instant productivity, universal intelligence, cheaper labor, better medicine, automated creativity, infinite growth, and a chatbot that still cannot reliably count the letter R in strawberry.

The theorem is simple:

The less money the machine returns, the more money must be thrown into the machine to prove that the machine will soon return money.

At first, this is investment.

Then it is strategy.

Then it is infrastructure.

Then it is national security.

Then it is a religious ceremony performed in front of a burning data center.

The dashboard shows the uncomfortable shape of the miracle: enormous AI spending, far smaller revenue, and a gap large enough to store several failed futures inside it.

But nobody stops.

Because stopping would mean asking the forbidden question:

“What if the machine is not under-monetized? What if it is simply expensive?”

So the answer is always more.

More GPUs. More power. More water. More data centers. More subsidies. More executives saying “early innings” with the calm voice of a man standing inside a house fire explaining that warmth is a growth sector.

The apocalypse does not arrive because AI becomes too intelligent.

That is the optimistic version.

The apocalypse arrives because AI is not profitable enough, so the world is forced to become cheaper, hotter, dumber, and more desperate until the spreadsheet finally looks correct.

Conclusion

The Ponzi GPU Event Horizon Theorem teaches the real danger of the AI bubble:

The more money that fails to come back, the more of the future must be sacrificed to pretend it still will.

At some point, the product is no longer intelligence.

The product is belief.

de miért vesz fel a hölgy két (három) számmal kisebb felsőt?

Nem vitatkozom meg kotekszem, hanem pontositok.

A bikini felso meg valoszinuleg akkor csuszott fel, amikor seggest ugrott a medencebe. Nagyon konnyen elmozdulnak ezek sajnos, oruljetek, hogy veletek az nem fordul elo soha.

When a society spends more attention on a slipping bra strap and the gaps between paving bricks than on the machinery eating its future, the second derivative of its path toward welfare extinction jumps by an order of magnitude.

Abraham Maslow gave humanity a pyramid of needs.

Food. Safety. Belonging. Esteem. Meaning.

We improved it into a comment section.

At the bottom are housing, health care, clean air, pensions, schools, wages, and the small technical issue of whether anyone under forty will have a livable future.

At the top is a photo where a woman’s bra slipped slightly, followed by a debate about whether the space between the bricks on the ground should have been filled in better.

This is not distraction.

Distraction is when you look away from the fire.

This is worse.

This is when the house is burning and the residents begin a committee meeting about whether the doormat is sending the wrong message.

The image appears online.

A young woman has a minor wardrobe malfunction. Nothing happens. Civilization survives the shoulder strap.

Then the comments arrive.

Some people inspect the woman. Others inspect the pavement. Soon the real scandal is not poverty, corruption, collapse, inflation, poisoned ecosystems, broken institutions, dying public services, or the fact that every human future is being converted into a subscription plan.

No.

The crisis is the bricks.

Should the gaps be filled? Was this workmanship acceptable? Who allowed this surface? Is this what public space has become?

And somewhere, Maslow quietly turns his pyramid upside down and uses it as a grave marker.

Conclusion

The Maslow Brick-Gap Extinction Theorem explains the terminal phase of comfort society:

The closer people get to losing everything that matters, the more violently they discuss things that do not.

As real welfare tends to zero, symbolic outrage tends to infinity.

And when the second derivative finally spikes, nobody notices the cliff.

Gőzerővel indult és vezető szerepre tör a fizz.hu, az OTP Csoport online piactere

az OTP Csoport online piactere Újabb mérföldkőhöz érkezett a magyarországi e-kereskedelem: néhány hónappal a piacralépését követően nagyobb sebességre kapcsol a fizz.hu. Többek között saját, magyar nyelvű ügyfélszolgálatot és OTP-s áruhitelt kínálnak a magyar vásárlóknak és kereskedőpartnereiknek. Céljuk pedig nem kevesebb, mint hogy néhány éven belül a hazai e-kereskedelem egyik meghatározó…

The more aggressively a company injects an unrelated product into something people actually care about, the more expensive it becomes to scrape the dead brand off reality later: As product relevance tends to zero, the ceremonial bullshit required to pretend it belongs there tends to infinity.

A normal advertisement says:

“Please buy our product.”

A diseased advertisement says:

“Please rename your football league after our product, so even people who hate both football and webshops must accidentally learn that we exist.”

This is the Fizz Corpse-Logo Theorem.

It describes the moment when a company takes a product that has nothing to do with sport, community, football, clubs, players, fans, grass, beer, referees, offside, injury time, or the sacred national ritual of shouting at the television, and welds it onto the name of a football league because the marketing department had budget left and shame had already been discontinued.

The idea is simple. If people do not naturally care about your product, do not improve the product. Do not make it useful. Do not make it beloved. Do not make it necessary.

Just staple it to something they already care about.

Then act surprised when the staple outlives the thing being advertised.

Hungarian top-flight football was OTP Bank Liga from 2011. Then, in the summer of 2025, someone apparently looked at the proud historical absurdity of Hungarian football and said:

“This needs more webshop.”

So the league became Fizz Liga.

Not because football needed it. Not because fans demanded it. Not because a generation of children was dreaming of growing up one day to score the winning goal in the sacred temple of online retail naming rights.

It happened because a product needed attention, and football had attention.

This is modern advertising at its purest. It no longer asks whether the association makes sense. It only asks whether the logo fits on the invoice.

The name sounded like an energy drink invented by consultants. Fizz Liga. A championship title with the emotional depth of a discontinued coupon code. It had the smell of a boardroom where everyone says “activation,” “ecosystem,” and “multi-year naming agreement” while carefully avoiding the ancient human question:

“Will anyone give a shit?”

Then reality answered.

Fizz.hu is being shut down, barely three years after its creation. The webshop that was important enough to rename the football league after it is now apparently not important enough to continue existing.

So the league will once again be called OTP Bank Liga.

Beautiful.

A full corporate detour through nonsense, ending exactly where it started, except now with extra meetings, extra announcements, extra design work, extra negotiations, extra explanations, and the faint smell of a dead brand trapped under the carpet.

This is not a rebrand.

This is brand taxidermy.

For one season, Hungarian football had to walk around wearing the name of a commercial experiment that was already looking for the emergency exit. Fans watched matches in a league named after a webshop that would soon require historical footnotes. Somewhere, graphics were changed. Banners were printed. Pages were updated. Commentators said the name out loud. Social media accounts posted it with a straight face.

And then the product died.

Now everyone has to help carry the coffin.

The truly majestic detail is that when the Fizz name was announced, it was described as part of a multi-year naming agreement. Multi-year, in this case, apparently means “until the product being advertised stops being a thing people can use.”

But do not worry. The official explanation is elegant. OTP won the title sponsorship tender, therefore OTP can determine the league’s official name. After the closure of fizz.hu, negotiations began on the new name.

Of course they did.

Because when a pointless marketing object collapses, normal language must be replaced by a diplomatic evacuation process.

Nobody says:

“We attached a football league to a webshop and the webshop died.”

They say:

“Negotiations began on the new name.”

Nobody says:

“The product failed, so the league has to crawl back to its old identity.”

They say:

“From the autumn season, the name will once again be OTP Bank Liga.”

Nobody says:

“We briefly made Hungarian football advertise a corpse.”

They say:

“Title sponsorship.”

This is the genius of corporate speech. It can put a velvet blanket over a burning clown car and call it strategic mobility.

Conclusion

The Fizz Corpse-Logo Theorem teaches an important lesson:

If your product is so weak that it needs to hijack a football league to look alive, maybe it is not a brand. Maybe it is already a ghost with a media budget.

The more unrelated the product, the more desperate the naming. The more desperate the naming, the more ridiculous the failure. And the more ridiculous the failure, the more official adults are required to stand around the crater saying words like “agreement,” “tender,” “negotiation,” and “season.”

In the end, football survived.

The webshop did not.

The league returns to its old name, carrying the wisdom of the age:

You can buy attention by the kilo.

You can paste your logo onto anything.

You can rename the stadium, the league, the halftime show, the children’s tournament, the referee’s whistle, and the emotional trauma of added time.

But if the product is useless, even football cannot resurrect it.