Legal Disclaimer: This is satire, profanity, and linguistics in equal measure. If you think “rizz” is Shakespearean, or “67” is a deep philosophical concept and not what your brain scores on a spelling test—buckle the fuck up.
Language, folks.
Our favorite bad habit. We keep making more of it like we’re running a verbal Ponzi scheme.
English especially—Jesus, English is the drunk raccoon of languages. It steals shiny words from every culture it meets, chews them up, and spits out something that half-rhymes with “influencer.” Shakespeare made up eyeball and bedazzled. We made up delulu and rizz.
You tell me who won that cultural arms race.
We used to invent words to describe poetry, passion, the human soul. Now we invent words to explain why we’re broken. Language evolves, sure—but lately it’s less evolution and more viral mutation. Half these new words come out of TikTok like linguistic COVID variants. “New strain discovered! Symptoms include irony, detachment, and unearned confidence!”
And every damn year, the dictionaries get together like smug little priests and decide what word “defined” us. The Oxford English Dictionary. Merriam-Webster. And now—fucking Dictionary.com, the Walmart of lexicons.
They don’t give us wisdom, they give us pathology reports. “This year’s Word of the Year: a term that best captures the public’s collective nervous breakdown.”
Last year? Oxford gave us rizz.
Charisma for people who don’t have any. And they said it proudly! “Rizz is the essence of charm!” Yeah, because apparently you can’t spell personality anymore without a Wi-Fi connection.
Before that, it was goblin mode. Before that, toxic. Before that, climate emergency. Every year, the English language files for a restraining order against humanity.
And now—October, mind you—Halloween’s still squatting on the shelves next to discounted candy corn, and Dictionary.com says, “Fuck it, we’re early!”
Word of the Year!
Finalists!
It’s like the Oscars of idiocy!
Let’s meet our contenders.
“Gen Z Stare.”
Oh, I love this one. The thousand-yard look of a generation watching civilization circle the drain. It’s the face you make when an adult says, “You should get a real job,” or, “Have you tried buying a house?” It’s not a stare—it’s emotional buffering. The Windows loading screen of empathy.
“Aura Farming.” Apparently that’s when you fake good vibes online for money. Used to be called bullshitting. Now it’s a career path with brand partnerships. You’re not farming an aura, sweetheart—you’re harvesting gullibility.
“Tradwife.” Oh, this one’s special. The idea that the height of feminism is quitting your job, baking bread, and posting it for likes. “Submissive, but make it sponsored!” We’ve gone so far forward we looped back to 1954. June Cleaver with a ring light.
“Overtourism.” That’s when there are too many tourists in one place. No shit! We noticed when half of Venice sank under the weight of matching T-shirts and selfie sticks. Maybe if billionaires didn’t own yachts bigger than Delaware, the planet wouldn’t need crowd control!
“Tariff.” Oh yeah, bring in the sexy economic terms. Because nothing says “word of the year” like a fucking import tax. Tariff’s not new—it’s just a polite way to say, “We’re measuring our dicks with trade deficits.”
And finally—our grand winner. The linguistic gold medalist in the race to the bottom:
“67.”
Not a word. A number. Technically, two numbers. Six. Seven. Apparently it means “maybe,” “sort of,” “ehhh close enough.”
You see where we are? Words are done. We’ve given up. We’ve gone from truth, honor, liberty, love—to a fucking number. Our language has achieved the final form of nihilism: apathy as arithmetic.
Imagine Shakespeare hearing this.
“Speak again, bright angel!”
“67.”
“Ah yes, the poetry of the void.”
But let’s not just laugh. This isn’t random.
These words—tradwife, aura farming, 67—they’re mirrors. They tell us exactly who we are.
We’re confused, exhausted, and posting through the pain.
We don’t use language anymore; we trend it.
We don’t talk to understand—we talk to go viral.
Words used to describe the world. Now they describe the algorithm’s mood.
You want a word of the year?
Here’s one: enough. Because holy hell, I think we’ve hit the point where language has stopped communicating and started hallucinating.
The dictionary’s not a record of culture anymore—it’s a crime scene report. And somewhere, Shakespeare, Orwell, and Carlin himself are looking down going, “Fuck it, maybe Latin wasn’t so bad.”
So congratulations, humanity.
Your Word of the Year is 67. Your vibe is confusion. Your language is on life support. And your spellcheck gave up three paragraphs ago.
Next year’s word?
Probably “shrug.” Because that’s all that’s left to say.
And remember—if words are the mirror of society…then baby, this year, the mirror cracked.