Today is the perfect day, perhaps the only day, to discuss the single most annoying thing about the last 10 years: the inelegant way we have all mangled the date. Two Thousand and Three. Two Thousand Six. Two Thousand and Nine. Ugh! It has driven me to distraction for nine long years.
The best representation of the decade I've found yet
Do eras pick their leaders, represent them, or simply deserve them? The unnamable Naughts are perhaps best symbolized by their ineloquent cowboy president. Is it a coincidence terms such a “Strategery” and “Misunderestimate” were devised in an age where we can’t even say the date correctly, or agree on a name for our misbegotten epoch? The current President of the silver tongue has been in office less than a year – his accomplishments will be thought of in the far more efficient Teens, when we learned to say the date correctly again. Coincidence?
Arthur C. Clarke infamously always said the title of his novel was “Twenty oh One.” But that never caught on, in 1968 when he wrote it, or in Two Thousand and One when we lived through it. That was the year we devolved into religious fanaticism instead of evolving in Star Children. But I digress. Clarke had the date right, and now we can finally say it right.
Twenty Ten, here we come.
Attempted mass murderer 
James O’Keefe and Hannah Giles 
