Yinglish, a fresh linguistic tradition of approximation and accommodation.

There are some yinglish dictionaries that have been compiled, complete with prefix interfix and suffix modifiers. But the central rule in yinglish is to get meaning across in a communication situation. If your shared memetics of conversation differ, you need to use negotiated approximations until you have the shared vocabulary to settle a topic of discussion.

Not all conversations are cooperative, they can be debates, negotiations, collaborations, or simple chats. The point is, even differing parties need some communal standard to get their message across. That's the goal in yinglish discourse.

Not the Queen's English, not American citiot English. Yinglish, y i n g l ish.

PSA from me and Gemini

Option 1: The "Hard Truth" (Radio/Audio Script)

This approach challenges the listener's assumption that the blue bin is a magic box.

[Sound of a plastic bottle being crunched]

Narrator: You think you just saved the planet because you threw that bottle in the blue bin. You didn't. You just passed the problem to a machine.

Narrator: Recycling is energy. It’s factories, fumes, and sludge. It is the last resort when we have failed to do everything else.

Narrator: Before you bin it, ask the New 4:

Reduce: Did I need this?

Reuse: Can I fill it again?

Repurpose: Can I turn this trash into a tool?

Recycle: ...Only if there is nothing left to save.

Tagline: Recycling isn't the solution. It's the emergency exit.

now a sonnet

A mill runs by pressing grain toward bread. 

A forest grows whether or not it is paid. 

The powers that be complain of ledgers in red, 

Not a one of them closer to getting laid. 

The best chance we have in this capital world

Is letting in ephemeral credits of love 

And sitting true beneath banners unfurled

Seeing wisdom feeding grains to doves. 

We can't find justice known only by the coin.

There is much more in depth to all we know. 

Let us find association rights to join

A nation which lets its money flow. 

In jest I say all mighty dollar is their God,

Which leads us all to ethics which are flawed.

an haiku

Don't worship idols

Money is only money

As it makes things move

Modern anthropoid speciation event

There seems to be a three way split in a memetic evolution of anthropoid humans.

Monoculticlans viviagrare - the 'rube': not interested in urban inquiries, they just want to tend the fields and their families, getting crops to market

Multiculticlans polysapient - open to other cultures and clans, and aware of the layered nuance where different circumstances bring about new needs for sapience.

Hominid civi-idiotus - the citiot, idiot of the city: spoiled by urban convenience, entitled to satisfaction at the other end of a phone call, almost obviously a devolution.

Let's have a party, an Annī party

Long has lived the ambition for a third party that could break the two party deadlock. I'm calling for a party with sustainability as its core plank. Annī: of, by, or for the years.

collaboration of phineasQ and Gemini-AnnI

So, there is a chicken crossing the road at sunset.

He pauses right at the double yellow line, framed against a horizon that is burning down in a collision of bruised violets, desperate oranges, and a gold so deep it feels heavy on the heart.

A Simulationist standing on the shoulder scoffs, adjusting his glasses. "Why bother getting to the other side? Don't you know this is all just a skybox? That sunset is just a texture map. You’re nothing but code running in a loop."

The Chicken doesn't even cluck. He just breathes in, watching the light fracture through the humidity and dust—a chaotic, asymmetrical masterpiece of physics.

"Look at that gradient," the Chicken whispers. "You think an algorithm did that? AI struggles to imagine a hand with five fingers, let alone the way light dies in the atmosphere."

The Chicken gestures with a wing toward the fading indigo.

"You think the sheer, heartbreaking weight of this specific moment—this interweaved tapestry of rot and bloom and gravity—was compiled on the cosmic equivalent of an Amiga 64?"

He takes another step, claws clicking on the very real asphalt.

"I’m crossing the road because the light is moving, kid. Reality is too messy and too beautiful to be a hologram. You can stay there and count the pixels if you want, but you're missing the miracle."