Workslop (noun) – The flood of low-quality, AI-generated work that looks polished on the surface but is hollow underneath. It clogs inboxes, reports, and project folders with half-baked writing, shallow analysis, and factual slush that others have to fix, rewrite, or ignore.
In short, workslop is the illusion of productivity without the substance of real work. It wastes time, erodes trust, and turns collaboration into a cleanup duty.
Every so often, I catch myself thinking about why I design my classes the way I do.
College is the real world. My students aren’t waiting for life to begin after graduation; they’re living it right now. Working jobs. Raising kids and balancing a million things.
So when I build assignments, I don’t pretend we’re in some academic bubble. I try to make my classes reflect what it’s actually like out there: teamwork, deadlines, problem-solving, communication, and showing up even when it’s hard.
It’s a reminder to myself: I’m not “preparing” students for the real world.
I’m teaching in it.
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A few weeks ago, I wrapped up the 2025 CS50 Educator Conference and received a certificate from Harvard University (yes, that Harvard).
Big thanks to David J. Malan, Kelly Ding, and all the incredible educators from around the world who showed up ready to share, question, and reimagine how we teach. The conversations were honest, the ideas were fresh, and yes, I took a lot of notes in Obsidian.
I’m already planning some updates to my CTEC 121 class at Clark College (based on CS50P), thanks to what I learned. Lifelong learning isn’t a slogan, it’s a commitment. A mindset. A refusal to phone it in.
And hey, if you don’t post the certificate photo, did it really happen?
Remember the big mission to teach every kid to code? We built the boot camps, launched the clubs, handed out laptops, and instilled hope. “Coding is the new literacy,” they said.
Fast-forward. Now, kids type a sentence into an AI, and boom, they have a fully functional app. No clue what a loop is. No idea why it works. But it runs. It passes. It’s done.
And I know. Debugging still matters. Reading the code still matters. Talking it out with the rubber duck still works wonders. That duck has been my co-teacher for years. Add some pizza to the mix and we’re cooking with logic.
But here’s the twist: AI is learning to be the duck. It’s patient. It listens. It suggests. It never gets pizza sauce on the keyboard. And it doesn’t care if the student skipped class.
So now I’m asking:
What does it mean to “learn to code” today?
Is it about the code itself, or the thinking behind it?
Are we still teaching kids how to build, or are we teaching them how to talk to the thing that builds?
If you teach, code, parent, or care about this space, talk to me. The duck and I are listening. We’ve got questions. And snacks, of course.
In 1994, I left Melville, Long Island, New York, and moved across the country to Camas, Washington. I did this to help open Underwriters Laboratories’ (UL) sprawling new office near Lacmas Lake. We were asked to create a new way for UL to do business, emphasizing technology and the reduction of paper.
It was a leap. New job. New coast. New everything. But it was one of the best decisions I ever made.
That move gave me a career full of purpose and challenges. But more than that, it led me to Gayle. This July, we’ll be celebrating our 19th wedding anniversary. That alone makes the move worth it a hundred times over.
Here’s to 31 years in Washington State and to the people and moments that have made it all unforgettable.
Every quarter, I watch something quietly powerful happen in my classrooms.
Students show up. Some are juggling multiple jobs, others are raising kids on their own, a few have health issues or disabilities, and many are just trying to keep it all together.
And you know what helps keep them moving forward? Government assistance.
Yep. That thing people love to yell about on talk radio and the media.
Food benefits, housing support, childcare subsidies, grants, and even access to healthcare, without that scaffolding, many of these students wouldn’t make it through the first week, let alone finish a degree, land a job, or change the trajectory of their lives.
Is there waste in the system? Sure, there’s waste in every system. But I see the human side of it. I see students using that support not to coast but to climb.
We must stop pretending that “getting help” is the same as “not trying.” Because I’ve got a front-row seat to the trying. And it’s gritty, exhausting, and often heroic.
If we’re serious about opportunity, we must ensure the ladder stays in place. Otherwise, we’ll blame people for falling while we kick the rungs out.
In my JavaScript class at Clark College, students learn not just how to build for the web but also how to apply their skills to related technologies like Google Apps Script.
Today, we reworked a web app we built earlier this quarter into a Google Sheets-based tool. The logic is the same, but the platform is different. Students got real experience adapting their code to automate and enhance spreadsheets using Apps Script.
Two years ago, I became familiar with Apps Script when I created an app for teachers teaching CS50 at Harvard University courses that makes it easy to collect, submit50, and style50 scores into a Google Sheet.
It was one of those great teaching days, where students are engaged, asking the right questions, and making the leap from knowing how to code to understanding where and how to use it.
I teach web development at a community college, and my students use AI.
In CTEC 121, our intro to programming class, students work with the CS50 Duck Debugger. It’s an AI tutor available 24/7. No appointment is needed, and there are no weird vibes. Just help when they need it. The Duck shows up more reliably than most people do for Student Hours.
In my more advanced classes, AI becomes a pair programmer. It asks questions, challenges ideas, and helps students actually think about their code instead of staring at error messages like they’re written in ancient Greek.
But AI isn’t a replacement for real understanding. Soon, I’ll be bringing back in-person assessments. Nothing fancy. Just me, the student, a computer, and a problem to solve. One-on-one. No hiding behind copied code or clever prompts. Just a chance to show what they really know and get some honest feedback in the moment.
Meanwhile, some professors still ban AI, as if it were a cheat engine. They ignore it, trash it, and pretend students aren’t already using it.
Let’s get real. AI is already part of how modern developers work. Ignoring it doesn’t make you rigorous. It makes you irrelevant.
We can teach students how to use today’s tools or keep grading like 2009.
I’ll be over here building the future with a duck, a slice of pizza, and a cup of Dunkin’ coffee.
On speaking at conferences and other events:
I’ve spoken at more conferences than I can count, from corporate ballrooms to college lecture halls, from events that ran like symphonies to ones that felt more like garage bands missing a drummer.
Some events treat speakers like respected guests. Others treat them like content cattle, herded in and out without a word.
I just wanted to tell you about the good ones.
There was Lotusphere, back in the day. If you know, you know. Rocky Oliver, Susan Bulloch, and the team made it feel like home. You showed up, and everything worked: travel, tech, timing, etc. You weren’t a slot on the agenda. You were part of a living, breathing community. And you left knowing your work mattered.
Fast-forward to the CS50 Educators Conference at Harvard University, and the magic was still alive. Bernie Longboy? A total rock star. Thoughtful, organized, deeply human. She ensured that sessions ran smoothly and that you felt welcome.
And here’s the kicker: it was my 60th birthday while there. You know what they did? They surprised me by singing Happy Birthday. They gave out cupcakes to all of the attendees. Mine even had a candle. I’ve never forgotten it. Because it wasn’t performative. It was personal. It was real.
Compare that with another event I spoke at in May 2024, a gathering of Washington State 911 leaders. The audience? Fantastic. Truly engaged and gracious. But the person who booked me? Not a word before, not a thank-you after, no acknowledgment. I gave a personal talk, shared vulnerable stories, and left the room without a nod. It didn’t just feel awkward. It felt like I didn’t exist.
Thank goodness for Municon 2025, which I spoke at last week. They knew how to do it right. Communication was clear. Support was solid. And they treated me with genuine warmth and respect. It doesn’t take a parade. Just a little consideration.
Because here’s the truth: speaking takes effort. You step away from your day job, your students, and your family. You rehearse. You prepare. You give a piece of yourself.
We only ask to be treated like humans, not placeholders or PowerPoint operators. Say hello, thank you, and offer a pizza or a rubber duck if you’re feeling extra generous. 🤣
Because we’re not here to be grilled. We’re here to bring the fire.
Bruce Elgort 