November 25, 2025

HONG KONG—Calling it a “clear and present numerical threat,” the Hong Kong Cultural Bureau issued a formal advisory Monday urging the public not to chant the number 67, a Cantonese insult that recently became a global meme despite having no identifiable meaning or social value.

The number went viral after a TikTok creator screamed it over a drill beat for reasons still unknown. Since then, the “67 phenomenon” has spread worldwide, uniting millions in what experts describe as “pure, uncut confusion.”

Linguists confirm that in Cantonese, “67” (/luk-chat/) literally means a “limp penis”—an obscenity used to brand someone a complete f*ing idiot. “The Bureau strongly recommends avoiding spontaneous ‘67’ vocalizations,” said spokesperson Anita Lam, adding that tourists should be “emotionally prepared to be slapped” if they accidentally shout it at the wrong uncle.

Local social researchers explain that this danger comes mainly from the “Hong Kong Uncle,” a middle-aged male who converts minor inconveniences into instant rage. Commonly seen muttering at bus stops or glaring at strangers for existing, this demographic is a volatile byproduct of humidity, impossible rent, and dreams that didn’t make it.

Triggers such as a slow elevator, a child laughing too loudly, or a breakfast set arriving in the wrong order can cause an uncle to erupt like a malfunctioning rice cooker. Many are armed with the traditional rubber slipper—a well-aimed slipper throw can reach speeds high enough to knock over a full cup of milk tea at ten meters, and in rare instances, has achieved ricochet.

Naturally, the warning only made 67 trend faster. Authorities reported a spike in slipper-related incidents. Many residents promptly interpreted this surge not as anger-management failure but as a supernatural omen demanding spiritual explanation.

Seizing the moment, Temple Street fortune-teller Master So Gau—best known for misreading the almanac during SARS and insisting it was “close enough”—introduced a new “六七解籤” divination service.

“You see, every few decades humanity selects a number to express its deepest values,” So Gau said with total confidence and zero evidence. He explained that when these generational numbers are run through what he called “the oracle’s rotational overflow algorithm”—they collapse neatly into I Ching hexagrams that “explain with mathematical precision why each generation turned out useless.”

“Boomers’ beloved lucky 7 matches Hexagram 7 ䷆ — 師 — The Army,” he said. “Of course they’re obsessed with paperwork and mandatory training seminars.”

Gen X’s 69 reduces to Hexagram 5 ䷄ — 需 — Waiting. A whole generation trapped in eternal foreplay.

Millennials’ 420 collapses into Hexagram 36 ䷧ — 明夷 — Darkening of the Light. Hide your brilliance, hide the weed, and please stop having opinions.

Finally, he pointed to Gen Z’s chaotic 67, which snaps back to Hexagram 3 ䷂ — 屯 — Difficulty at the Beginning. Everything’s loading, everything’s buffering, everything’s profound — where confusion doubles as spirituality.

Together, the generations form one seamless cosmic cycle: marching, stalling, dimming, drifting—humanity’s proud tradition of going nowhere.

As the trend peaked, experts warned the next sacred meme number might be 68, Hexagram 4 ䷃ — 蒙 — “Meh,” the proudly stupid. The Cultural Bureau preemptively warns it also cannot guarantee public safety from 68, despite having no idea why.

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The early Chinese population in Boston was so small that their restaurants could not stay in business catering to the neighborhood alone. At the turn of the 20th century, the low-wage-earning Irish and Italian immigrants became the first non-Chinese people in Boston to begin eating Chinese food. It was affordable and something different for the immigrants to try. It's this relationship that gave Peking ravioli its name. PBS icon Joyce Chen opened her first restaurant in Cambridge, Massachusettes in 1958. She changed the name of the classic dumplings to Peking ravioli to appeal to her Italian clientele. The name stuck, which is why you're likely to see Peking ravioli on Boston Chinese food menus. It's a nice nod to the melting-pot immigrant community that defines Boston to this day.

[umassmedia.com]

However, Chinatown’s public perception, much like its infrastructure, has been historically torn between sympathy and scrutiny. Located near rapidly expanding medical facilities, local tenants were among the first casualties. Chinatown nearly lost one-third of its original size during this period of unconfined institutional expansion.

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Lee’s grandfather, Hee Chong Lee, then made his own journey to Canada in 1903, opening a laundromat in rural Quebec before moving to Montreal two years later. In 1905, he became a co-owner of Wing Lung, an import/export business dealing in Chinese goods started by his associates in 1897.

The venture allowed him to bring his wife and daughter to Canada without paying the head tax. To benefit from the exemption, “you had to be a merchant in the import/export business,” Lee explained.

[www.houstoniamag.com]

Chinese immigrants arrived in Houston via Galveston as early as the 1870s to help build the Houston and Central Texas Railroad. By the 1930s, a small Chinese business district had formed near today’s Alley Theatre, says Melody Li, an associate professor of UH’s Chinese Studies department, who maps the Old Chinatown district through archival and oral histories. Around 10 years later, Houston had more than 500 Chinese residents, many of whom opened businesses near East Downtown, where rent was cheaper.