Do You Remember Talking Like This? 90s Slang vs Today’s TikTok Talk
Do you remember talking like this? From “rad” and “gnarly” to “rizz” and “no cap,” we break down 90s slang versus today’s wild TikTok talk in the funniest way possible. Nostalgia, culture, and pure humor collide.
By Ian Primmer — CommonX Podcast
If you ever shouted “Take a chill pill!” out a rolled-down car window while Stone Temple Pilots blasted from the stereo, congratulations — you survived an era where you could say “bogus,” “rad,” and “home skillet” in the same sentence and nobody questioned your grip on reality. Meanwhile, the youth today are apparently communicating through a combination of Fortnite dances, soundboard memes, and words that sound like rejected Pokémon names.
Language evolves. We evolved with it — usually with a beer in one hand and a look of deep confusion in the other.
Let’s break down the slang then vs. now, and laugh at how gloriously weird it all is.
THEN: The 80s/90s Slang That Raised Us
Rad
Translation: “I approve of this thing with my entire soul.”
Usage: “Those JNCOs are rad, bro.”
Bonus: Still acceptable — especially when spoken in the presence of a skateboard.
Gnarly
Translation: Could mean everything from “awesome” to “oh God, that was traumatic.”
Usage: “Dude, that fall was gnarly.”
“Dude, that wave was gnarly.”
Outcome: Confusion for anyone born after 2005.
Take a Chill Pill
Translation: You’re losing your mind and need to relax before someone calls your mom.
Usage: Every parent in 1994.
Talk to the Hand
Translation: “I no longer acknowledge your existence.”
Usage: Practically every teenage girl at least once.
Side effect: Nobody ever actually shut up because of this phrase.
As If!
Translation: A weaponized version of “Nope.”
Usage: Perfected by Alicia Silverstone. Forever iconic.
Bogus
Translation: “This situation is unacceptable and I blame the universe.”
Certified by Bill & Ted, therefore eternal.
NOW: The Slang That Makes Us Rub Our Eyes and Stare at the Ceiling
Rizz
Translation: “Charisma,” shortened for people too exhausted to say the full word.
Usage: “Dude has mad rizz.”
Reaction: Us: “Rizz? Riz? Risotto?”
No Cap
Translation: “I’m telling the truth.”
Usage: “Pizza is the best food, no cap.”
Reaction: Us: “Son… I am wearing a hat. What exactly do you mean?”
Bet
Translation: “Okay.”
Usage: “You coming over?” “Bet.”
Reaction: Us: “Bet WHAT? Money? Beer? Are we gambling?”
Ghosting
Translation: Disappearing without explanation.
Usage: Dating apps. Job interviews. Your cousin who said he’d help you move.
Our translation: “We just never called people back.”
Drip
Translation: Style. Fashion. Fit.
Usage: “His fit has drip.”
Reaction: Us: “Drip used to mean your roof had a problem.”
Skibidi
Translation: No one knows. Not even Gen Z.
Usage: Something involving a toilet-sound meme and dancing characters.
Reaction: Sliding down in a chair whispering, “Make it stop…”
WHY SLANG EVOLVES
Slang is culture. Slang is rebellion. Slang is evolution.
We perfected sarcasm, deadpan humor, and the ability to say “whatever” without moving a single facial muscle. The next generations added:
Internet speed
Viral memes
TikTok
Emojis
Sound effects
Entire languages made of abbreviations
We walked so the kids today could yeet.
THE COMMON-X TAKE
At Common-X, we celebrate language because it keeps conversations real, messy, human, and hilarious.
Whether you’re saying:
“Dope”
“No cap”
“Rad”
“Bet”
You’re speaking your generation’s truth — and honestly, it’s all ridiculous in the best possible way.
CLOSING
If you still say “sweet,” “killer,” or “awesome,” don’t worry — we do too.
We don’t age out.
We just get better playlists.
Crusty Demons of Dirt: When Gen-X Took Flight and Never Looked Back
Before GoPros and algorithms, there were the Crusty Demons — a dirt-fueled cult of chaos that taught Gen-X how to fly, fall, and live louder than ever.
By Ian Primmer
Before GoPros, before energy-drink deals, before social-media stunts and clickbait “fails,” there were the Crusty Demons of Dirt — a band of maniacs who didn’t just ride; they launched. If you grew up Gen-X, you remember it. Those grainy VHS tapes passed around like underground contraband, covered in dust, duct tape, and fire. Each one was a mixtape of speed, punk rock, blood, and glory. The Crusty Demons weren’t just motocross riders. They were a movement — a cultural combustion engine that redefined what “extreme” meant. They didn’t have sponsors, hashtags, or choreographers. They had balls, dirt, and soundtrack albums loud enough to rattle the gods of safety.
Born from Chaos
The Crusty saga started in the mid-’90s, when Jon Freeman and Dana Nicholson of Freeride Entertainment decided to film what motocross really looked like — not the sanitized, family-friendly ESPN clips, but the wild-eyed desert rides and bone-snapping wipeouts that no one else would touch. They strapped cameras to bikes, hung out of helicopters, and cranked Pennywise and Metallica until the footage felt alive. It wasn’t just a video. It was a sermon for the reckless. Every crash, every burn, every impossible jump became a statement: We’re not here to survive. We’re here to live. The first Crusty Demons of Dirt dropped in 1995 and detonated across skate shops, video stores, and garages everywhere. Within months, it was a cult. Within a year, it was a religion.
The Soundtrack of Adrenaline
You can’t talk about Crusty without talking about the sound. The music was the gasoline. The Offspring. Sublime. Metallica. NOFX. It wasn’t background noise — it was the manifesto. Crusty didn’t just showcase motocross — it fused two worlds that were never supposed to meet: punk-rock attitude and high-octane adrenaline. That combination shaped everything from Freestyle Motocross (FMX) to the look of early action-sports video games. The fast cuts, the soundtracks, the chaos — all of it traces back to Crusty.
The Church of Adrenaline
To the fans, Crusty was proof that we didn’t need permission. We didn’t need perfect hair, million-dollar gear, or safe contracts.
We needed a bike, a buddy, a ramp, and some guts. The Crusty riders — names like Seth Enslow, Carey Hart, and Mike Metzger — were the new rock stars. Covered in dirt, blood, and duct tape, they were the anti-MTV heroes. They weren’t chasing medals. They were chasing moments. Moments where gravity bowed out and instinct took over.
Legacy in the Dust
Nearly thirty years later, Crusty Demons still tour the world with live stunt shows, keeping that renegade DNA alive. You can find them on streaming services now, but nothing compares to holding one of those old tapes in your hands — stickers peeling, label smudged, rewound a hundred times. For a generation raised on DIY rebellion, Crusty Demons was more than dirt and danger — it was philosophy. It said: “We don’t fear the fall, because falling means we flew.” And maybe that’s why it still matters.
Because the world polished the edges off everything else, but Crusty stayed raw.
💥 The CommonX Take
Crusty Demons of Dirt wasn’t a film series — it was a time capsule. A reminder that Gen-X didn’t need filters or validation. We had throttle, distortion, and attitude. They built something from nothing — just like the garage bands, backyard skateboarders, and late-night dreamers that defined our era. And in that sense, Crusty Demons wasn’t just about motocross…
It was about life without training wheels.
When MTV Played Videos: A Love Letter to Late-Night Beavis and Butt-Head
Before algorithms, before influencers, there were two idiots on a couch who somehow spoke for a generation. This is a look back at when MTV still had guts, when Beavis and Butt-Head were our midnight philosophers, and when rock videos meant something.
Before algorithms, before influencers, there were two idiots on a couch who somehow spoke for a generation. This is a look back at when MTV still had guts, when Beavis and Butt-Head were our midnight philosophers, and when rock videos meant something.
In the ‘90s, MTV was still dangerous — a little unpredictable, a little punk. You never knew what you’d catch between “Headbangers Ball” and a commercial for JNCO jeans. Then these two idiots appeared: acne, Metallica shirts, and zero attention span. And somehow, that was the attention span of the decade.
Beavis and Butt-Head didn’t just mock music videos — they dissected the absurdity of pop culture without even trying. When they laughed at a Bon Jovi ballad or shredded some random alt-rock band you barely knew, it felt like the world was in on a private joke. And that’s what Gen X did best — laugh at the nonsense while secretly paying attention to the meaning underneath it all.
Those late-night viewings were a rite of passage. We weren’t just watching cartoons; we were learning the language of irony. MTV in that era wasn’t a network, it was a mirror — showing us our boredom, our rebellion, our desire for something real. It was chaos with a remote control, and Mike Judge’s duo gave us permission to laugh through it all.
And the music… man, the music was alive. Nirvana, Soundgarden, White Zombie, Smashing Pumpkins — even the pop garbage had an edge when filtered through Beavis and Butt-Head’s commentary. It was music television the way it was meant to be: unpolished, unpredictable, and soaked in teenage apathy.
Somewhere between then and now, we traded that chaos for “curation.” MTV became reality TV, music moved to the background, and the laughter got replaced with comment sections. But that late-night glow — that raw, dumb, brilliant humor — shaped how a whole generation sees the world today. We’re skeptical, sarcastic, self-aware… and still laughing at the system.
So yeah — this one’s for the night owls who kept the volume low so the folks wouldn’t wake up. For the ones who didn’t need a filter to find what was cool. For the ones who still hear “Breaking the Law” and crack up thinking of Beavis screaming, “Heh… fire!”
When MTV played videos, we didn’t just watch. We remembered.
Authored by Ian Primmer, Co-host — CommonX