I just attended Language Camp. It was one of those high-intensity workshop environments whereby you are thrown into the polyglot ring, everyone speaks aggressively and unforgivingly in whatever language is being taught. Your only way out, peel open your brain and let the sunshine in. Just go for it.
This Camp was a spontaneous post-wedding gathering of my Gen Z nieces and nephews. I love these guys. I think they love me, especially since whenever they see me, they flash this little grin that reads, “I want to hear more about that time you didn’t get arrested and that my parents won’t talk about in front of kids or old people.”
They were chatting back and forth and throwing out vocab that was a foreign language to me. “But you got to learn to speak it, Uncle,” they said. “Don’t go all Bigelow on it and slip back to the A-cad Regs.”
During a conversation, one of them made a statement along the lines of, “The dude was so rizz he was mogging. It was delulu.”
I asked for translation.
“Don’tcha know what ‘rizz’ is?” one said.
“You never heard of ‘moggin’?” said another, who turned to her cousin and added, “He’s never heard of ‘mogging’.”
“I know what mugging is,” I said.
“No Uncle,” a niece said. “Mogging, M-O-Gging. Not M-U. Moggin has roots in status-comparison and appearance-comparison internet spaces, so use it carefully.”
Like that was really going to help me.
“Dude’s gotta get into Monk Mode if he’s gonna stand on business,” a nephew said. I assumed they were speaking about me.
I call the language Vibeonics. (Vibeonics because the vocab is all about the Vibe.) It’s one of those generational Slanguages unique to specific age brackets.
The next day I threw some Vibe on The Beloved when she asked how things at The Paper were.
“Babe, no cap,” I said in Vibeonicize. “Today was giving full side quest with a little bit of Ohio on top. It started strong. I was locked in. Full main character energy. Inbox was mid, and I was standing on business before 9 a.m.”
She said, “I have no idea —”
“I was cracked. Absolutely goated,” I said. “I was mogging. But then one email had big ‘the math ain’t mathing’ energy.”
She said, “Are you okay?” You don’t seem okay. You don’t look okay. Your eyes are all cockeyed. Need to sit down?”
“I’m good. I clocked it. I did not crash out, even though I entered goblin mode,” I said.
The Beloved said, “Maybe I should call your primary doctor. No, maybe a psychologist. You’ve lost your marbles OVERNIGHT!”
“Grown,” I said. “Cutting some Rizzlish and reaching for Brainrotese.”
“Sweet husband,” she said. “Your face is making this weird grin. You sure you’re okay? Wait. You’re not drooling are you? You are!”
“Yo Babesake,” I said, wiping the drool with my sleeve. “You have to admire the secret code of Gen Z’s Vibeonics.”
I asked if she wanted to go out for dinner. “What say we highkey pull up for dinner tonight, no cap,” I said. “I heard the food is bussin, the service is giving five-star auraface. And your company? Absolutely goated. Like, not mid. Full W. Might even be a certified main-character situation. It’s going into the CoreMem.”
“I’m going to the bookstore,” she said. “Let me know when it’s safe to come back.”
My problem is not that young people have slang. Every generation has had its own secret verbal handshake. Mine had something akin to “Don’t get busted WITH THAT!”
Today, when a teenager says, “Bro, that’s lowkey fire but also kinda mid,” I need a folding chair, a cold glass of ice water, and perhaps a court-certified interpreter.
The great danger is using the right word at the wrong time. Context, apparently, is the final boss.
Consider “mogging,” a word that sounds like something a raccoon does to a trash can at 2 a.m. As I understand it, to mog someone is to outshine them, outstyle them, outpresence them, or otherwise walk into a room and reduce everyone else to background shrubbery. I have never mogged anyone. At my age, I am thrilled if I enter a room and remember why.
Still, I admire the creativity. Young people are not ruining language. They are doing what every generation does. They are grabbing words, flipping them upside down, spray-painting them neon, and using them to confuse their elders. That is not decline. That is tradition.
So, I will keep trying. I may never be fluent. I may say “slay” at a board meeting and accidentally end a nonprofit. I may describe a city budget as “delulu” and be escorted gently from the room.
But I am standing on business. I am locked in. I am, against all available evidence, determined not to be mid.
No cap.
