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“Eighty-six” (or “86”) is an American English slang term widely used in restaurants, bars, and beyond to mean to refuse service, get rid of, or cancel something or someone. In diner and bartender lingo, “86” originally indicated an item was sold out or a customer should be ejected. Over the decades, it has entered general use with the broader sense of “throw out” or “eliminate”. Despite its popularity, the exact origin of “86” remains a subject of debate, spawning numerous folk etymologies. This report investigates the earliest documented uses of “86,” traces its emergence, examines all major origin theories (from soda-fountain codes to Prohibition-era lore, rhyming slang, military jargon, and more), and evaluates the credibility of each. It also provides historical and contemporary examples of “86” in use and discusses how its meaning has evolved, including modern extensions in politics and pop culture. Finally, the term’s spread (or lack thereof) outside the United States is addressed. The goal is a clear, evidence-based account of what we know (and don’t know) about this enigmatic number.

Earliest Documented Uses and Timeline of Emergence

The slang “86” began appearing in American usage in the early 1930s, particularly in the context of lunch counters and soda fountains. The first known print appearance was in columnist Walter Winchell’s “On Broadway” column on May 24, 1933. Winchell published a glossary of Hollywood soda-fountain slang contributed by a soda jerk, including the entry: “‘Eighty-six’ means all out of it.” In the same column, other numeric codes were listed (for example, “81” meant a glass of water, and “13” warned that the boss was around). This suggests “86” was part of a pre-existing numeric code system among service staff by 1933.

Year Development
1933 First known print appearance in Walter Winchell’s column as soda-fountain slang for “all out of it.”
1936 Documented in American Speech as diner slang for an item not available.
1942 Washington Post crime story confirms “86” as slang for throwing someone out or canceling something.
1950s–60s “86” becomes common in American slang, shifting from diners to mainstream usage.
1970s Acquires the meaning “to kill or destroy” in some contexts.
1980s–1990s Broadens into general idiomatic use: “86 that idea” or “86 the customer.”
2000s–2020s Remains common slang in restaurants, bars, and broader American English.

Theories About the Origin of “86”

Many colorful stories attempt to explain why “86” came to mean “throw out” or “none left.” Some theories focus on Prohibition-era New York, others on military jargon, rhyming slang, or various numeric coincidences.

Proposed Origin Explanation Credibility
Soda Fountain Code (1930s) “86” was diner/soda-jerk code for “all out of it.” Strong – Earliest documentation, most accepted by historians.
Rhyming Slang “Nix” “Eighty-six” rhymes with “nix,” meaning “nothing” or “cancel.” Plausible – Supported by linguists, but no direct documentation.
Chumley’s 86 Bedford St. Prohibition speakeasy allegedly used “86” as a warning for raids. Doubtful – No evidence of this use at the time.
Great Depression Soup Kitchens 86th person in line would not get served. Doubtful – No documentation found.
Military Article 86 (AWOL) Absence without leave. Unrelated – Coincidental numbering.
86th Street Subway/El End of the line for drunken passengers. Unsubstantiated – Urban legend.

Historical Usage and Evolution of Meaning

From its early days at lunch counters, “86” expanded from a narrow in-house code to a common American expression. It evolved from referring to menu items that were out of stock to the broader act of removing or ejecting someone. Over time, it transcended its food-service roots and became a part of mainstream American slang. This section will explore the timeline of its evolution, notable cultural references, and how it has been adapted in modern language.

Modern Extensions and Cultural Impact

The term “86” is still widely used in American restaurants and bars, but its application has broadened. It is now commonly used in political, social, and even technology contexts to signify cancellation or removal. The phrase has also found its way into pop culture, music, and literature, symbolizing exclusion or termination in a vivid, shorthand way.

International Spread and Usage

While common in American English, “86” has not spread widely outside the United States. However, in international hospitality sectors influenced by American restaurant chains, it is sometimes used as a professional term. Outside of this context, it is less understood and often requires explanation to non-American audiences.

Conclusion

“86” is a rare linguistic gem—a bit of diner slang that broke free of its original setting and became a vivid, punchy part of American English. Its mysterious origins only add to its charm, and its adaptability ensures it will likely endure for years to come.

Donald Trump has never had a drink in his life, or so he says. He’s been very vocal about it, tying his sobriety directly to the alcoholism and death of his older brother, Fred Trump Jr. It’s one of those rare personal principles he’s managed to keep consistent, a testament to the grim lesson he learned watching Fred struggle with alcoholism before his death in 1981. Trump was 35 when his brother died—not exactly an impressionable kid, but apparently enough for it to stick. His choice to abstain from alcohol, even during his party-laden days in the ’80s, is a point of personal discipline—maybe even one of the few areas where his actions match his rhetoric.

But the influence didn’t just come from Fred. Donald’s father, Fred Trump Sr., was famously strict and disciplined, drilling into his children the importance of self-control and image. Alcohol was seen as a sign of weakness—something unworthy of the Trump name. That legacy of control, mixed with the grim example of his brother’s struggle, likely reinforced Donald’s public abstinence. Sobriety, for Trump, wasn’t just a choice; it was a brand.

But here’s where the narrative gets murky. Trump has always marketed himself as the disciplined businessman who steered clear of the excesses that ensnared so many of his contemporaries. Yet, accounts from the late 1980s and 1990s paint a picture of a man regularly on the nightlife circuit, rubbing shoulders with models, actors, and Wall Street hotshots. Spy Bar, Wax, and Chaos—small, exclusive nightclubs in SoHo—were favorite haunts for Trump and his pal John Casablancas, founder of Elite Model Management. Trump was no recluse; he was right there in the middle of Manhattan’s nightlife, spinning stories for gossip columns while supposedly staying stone-cold sober. It’s the sort of cognitive dissonance that’s vintage Trump: party like a rockstar but claim the high ground of sobriety.

And then there’s Trump Vodka. In 2006, Trump launched his own vodka brand, marketed as “Success Distilled.” Trump Vodka was pitched as the premier luxury spirit, designed to sit on the top shelf next to Grey Goose and Belvedere. This wasn’t just some half-hearted licensing deal either; Trump promoted it like he was hawking real estate, boasting that it would be the most successful vodka in the world. The irony was thick—how does a man who’s never touched a drop of alcohol know anything about what makes a good vodka? His pitch was pure Trump: all bravado, no basis. Predictably, Trump Vodka fizzled out, disappearing from U.S. shelves by 2011.

The contradiction is staggering. Trump cites Fred’s death as the reason he’s never touched alcohol, claiming his brother’s struggle profoundly shaped his life. Yet that same tragedy didn’t stop him from cashing in on the very substance that killed his brother. Maybe it was just business, a cynical cash grab on the back of a global spirits market. Or maybe it’s another example of Trump’s unique ability to compartmentalize principle and profit. After all, the same man who promised to “drain the swamp” ended up neck-deep in it.

Trump Vodka’s failure is just a footnote in his business career, but it’s a telling one. It’s emblematic of the broader hypocrisy that defines so much of his brand. He’s a man who knows the cost of alcohol firsthand yet sold it without hesitation. It’s just business, right? Principles are for press conferences. Profits are forever.

In 1999, Donald Trump, long before his rise to the presidency, floated an idea that now seems almost unfathomable given his political trajectory—a one-time, 14.25% wealth tax on individuals and trusts worth more than $10 million. The proposal, part of his flirtation with running for president under the Reform Party banner, was intended to wipe out the national debt in one bold swoop.

Trump’s rationale was simple, if not audacious. He argued that the wealthiest Americans, many of whom he undoubtedly rubbed shoulders with, could afford this one-time hit, and the country as a whole would benefit enormously. By his calculations, the tax would generate around $5.7 trillion—more than enough to eliminate the national debt at the time. Trump pitched it as a patriotic gesture, one where the nation’s billionaires and millionaires would step up for the greater good.

The plan was sweeping, populist, and completely at odds with the tax policies he would later champion. As president, Trump’s administration passed one of the most significant tax overhauls in decades—the Tax Cuts and Jobs Act of 2017. But instead of billionaires footing the bill, the legislation slashed corporate taxes from 35% to 21%, extended generous breaks for high-income earners, and ballooned the deficit by nearly $2 trillion.

It’s a curious pivot. In 1999, Trump framed himself as a man who would make the wealthy pay their fair share. His 2017 policy, however, did the opposite—creating a windfall for corporations and the super-rich while leaving the middle class with crumbs and a ticking debt time bomb. It’s the kind of ideological about-face that would make any seasoned politician blush, yet it was met with typical Trumpian bravado and a shrug.

Why isn’t this 1999 proposal discussed more often? Perhaps because it exposes a fundamental contradiction in Trump’s political evolution. His Reform Party pitch was bold populism—an economic hail Mary that sought to redistribute wealth in a way that even Bernie Sanders might nod at approvingly. But the Trump who campaigned in 2016 and governed for four years was a different beast: one that slashed taxes for the rich, deregulated at will, and bolstered the financial elite.

Was Trump’s 1999 wealth tax proposal just another marketing ploy? An empty promise to garner headlines and flirt with a third-party run? Or was it a glimpse into a version of Trump that never materialized—a populist billionaire willing to cut down his own to settle America’s debts?

Regardless of its intent, the 1999 proposal is a stark reminder that political ideologies, especially in Trump’s case, are often as malleable as the talking points of the day. And for those paying attention, it’s a testament to the sheer elasticity of political rhetoric when ambition outpaces principle.

Trump’s one-time wealth tax proposal is buried under the avalanche of contradictions that followed. It’s almost a relic of an alternate universe—a time when Trump, of all people, proposed to make the rich pay. The question isn’t just why he floated the idea, but why he buried it when he had the power to act on it.

Election Promise Not Kept

Ralph’s got that look—the one you get when campaign slogans finally collide with the checkout line. Prices up, promises down, and Walmart’s concrete façade standing there like a monument to broken pledges. The sign’s got it right for once: “Election Promise NOT KEPT.” Bold. Honest. Practically a confession.

His wallet’s practically weeping as he stares at the brick wall of everyday low expectations. “Economic growth,” they said. Looks more like economic shrinkage when you’re the one paying for it. Ralph’s just figuring out he’s been holding the tab for promises never intended to be kept.

But hey, at least the slogan’s still free.

In the latest act of executive bravado, Donald Trump’s attempt to undermine the 14th Amendment via executive order is a shot across the bow of constitutional precedent. This cartoon captures it perfectly—Trump laces up for a gloves-on brawl against the very foundations of birthright citizenship. It’s not just political theater; it’s a deliberate challenge to the core principles that have defined American citizenship since Reconstruction.

Let’s be clear: the 14th Amendment isn’t some loose suggestion scribbled in the margins of history. It’s a cornerstone, etched in blood and hard-won through battles against tyranny and exclusion. The very idea that one person’s signature could override generations of precedent is not just audacious—it’s authoritarian. Yet, here we are, with Trump swinging for the fences, cheered on by sycophants and opportunists who see democracy as a tool to be bent, not a principle to be upheld.

If executive orders can strip citizenship with the flick of a pen, what’s next? The 14th Amendment’s guarantees are not just words; they are the essence of American ideals. But ideals are only as strong as the people willing to defend them. This fight, as the cartoon brilliantly illustrates, is not just between Trump and the Constitution; it’s between authoritarian impulse and the very fabric of American democracy.

The judiciary will have its say, but let’s not pretend this is just a legal question. It’s a moral one. And it’s a test of whether we, as a nation, still believe in the principles that define us—or if we’re willing to trade them away for the whims of one man’s ambition.

51st State

So the Liberals win big in Canada, huh? Guess nothing lights a fire under voters like a neighbor banging on your door, waving tariffs around like eviction notices and hollering about you being the next star on their flag. Trump’s 51st state fantasy? Hell, that probably did more to get Canadians off their asses and into voting booths than any campaign slogan ever could.

Mark Carney’s crew practically waltzed into Parliament with a fresh coat of blue paint, courtesy of American-made anxiety. Nothing like a little economic warfare to remind folks who they don’t want running the show. Canada’s basically telling Trump, “Keep your damn tariffs and your manifest destiny nonsense. We’re not for sale.”

Funny thing is, Trump might’ve handed Carney the win without even crossing the border.

The Madness We Deserve

We built this collapse, lie by lie. The Capitol crumbles, a broken promise. The rabbit’s right on time—standing in the ashes of democracy’s myth.

She stands defiant, tattoos telling stories the world tried to erase. Beside her, an old man sketches hope in a place where everything else burns.

Welcome to Wonderland. No rabbit holes, just wreckage.

DEI: Two Steps Back, and the Door Slams Shut

Make America like it was before

Corporate America and the federal government are calling it a ‘realignment’—a shift back to so-called merit-based systems, all while they slam the door on DEI under the guise of ‘fairness.’ It’s nothing but a glossy repackaging of the same old barriers, built stronger and more resilient this time around. Opportunity, they say, is equal. But if you peek behind the door, you’ll see it’s been padlocked, rebranded, and tucked neatly out of sight. For every headline about ‘progress,’ there’s another about a rollback. For every corporate pledge, there’s a mass layoff of DEI professionals. The path to equity has always been uphill—now, they’ve added landmines.

They might call it reform; I call it regression. And until those chains are broken—not just repainted—we’re still fighting the same damn fight.

The cartoon is blunt, almost painfully so. Donald Trump sits at a desk with a stamp bearing his face, slamming it down on blocks labeled Attorney General, DHS Secretary, Defense Secretary, and National Security Advisor. Above him, in bold, the words: Project 2025.

The message isn’t exactly subtle. It’s the kind of cartoon that smacks you over the head with its point, not because it’s too heavy-handed, but because the reality it’s depicting is just that stark. The imagery suggests consolidation—not just of power, but of identity. Everything stamped with the Trump brand. Every critical role in government, pressed with the same ironclad ideology. The seal of loyalty.

It’s like watching a brand expansion rather than a government being built. Think less ‘We the People’ and more ‘We the Brand.’ Project 2025 doesn’t even pretend to hide the agenda; it’s plastered right there in the open. The idea that each role—Attorney General, DHS Secretary, Defense Secretary, National Security Advisor—would not just be loyal to a policy or a platform, but loyal to a man.

It’s authoritarianism with a marketing plan.

If the cartoon is to be believed, Trump’s vision for 2025 is a slate wiped clean of dissent. It’s a series of rubber stamps where independent judgment is swapped for brand uniformity. A terrifying efficiency in governance where the only question that matters is: “Will this serve the boss?”

The implications of this are pretty clear. If every major security and justice position is handpicked and rubber-stamped, what checks remain? What balances are left when the only qualification is fealty?

Project 2025 isn’t just a slogan. It’s a blueprint. A plan to stamp out any last vestiges of resistance within the highest offices of American power. And that’s what makes the cartoon so chillingly effective. It’s not far-fetched; it’s a warning. One that’s been stamped, signed, and delivered.

The image hit my inbox early this morning, and I couldn’t look away. There he was, cloaked in Slytherin green, standing with that unmistakable scowl—a young Donald Trump flanked by Severus Snape and the Dark Lord himself. Hogwarts’ Great Hall stretched out behind them, candlelit and shadowed, the emblems of rival houses looming like sentinels.

For a moment, I just stared. Was this some kind of political satire? A fan artist’s fever dream? Maybe, but the longer I looked, the more it made sense.

There’s always been this unspoken understanding among Harry Potter fans that Slytherin represents more than just “evil.” It’s ambition, cunning, and the relentless pursuit of power—traits that are neither inherently good nor bad, but that hinge heavily on the wielder’s intent. I imagine the Sorting Hat would have had very little trouble with this decision. In fact, I think it might have barely brushed his head before shouting “Slytherin!” to the rafters.

It’s easy to demonize Slytherin House, to pin every act of malice and dark magic on its serpentine crest. But ambition in itself isn’t the villain. It’s what you do with that ambition that defines you. Think of Snape: someone who danced on the razor’s edge of darkness but still managed, in the end, to wield that ambition for something more profound than himself. Sacrifice. Protection. Even redemption.

But then, the figure in this portrait isn’t Snape. He’s something far more familiar—a figure driven by ambition, yes, but also by the trappings of ego, the obsession with dominance, and the refusal to accept any view but his own. It’s Voldemort’s shadow that looms over his shoulder, not Dumbledore’s.

The artist’s choice to place Trump in Slytherin robes isn’t just satire—it’s a statement on the nature of ambition untethered from humility or empathy. It’s Slytherin at its most dangerous: a drive for power for its own sake, without regard for the damage left in its wake.

I can almost imagine him at Hogwarts, sneering from the Slytherin table, hatching schemes not to master magic but to control it, to bend it to his will. For someone like him, the Room of Requirement wouldn’t be a place of need—it would be a vault for secrets, a hoard of power waiting to be leveraged.

If Hogwarts teaches anything, it’s that true strength doesn’t come from domination—it comes from unity, from the willingness to fight for something greater than yourself. The artist captured that contradiction perfectly: ambition without purpose, power without conscience, and loyalty that is always conditional.

And isn’t that the lesson Rowling wrote for us, hidden between enchanted pages and midnight book releases? That our choices—not our houses—define us. And some choices are darker than any magic could conjure.