<grisom> I can't tell yous how disappointed I am that "gideous" is not a word.
<tezcatlipoca> Hey, umu, why can't we simply make gideous a word? What would such a word mean, in English?
* umunmutamku arrives in a puff of faggy smoke
<umunmutamku> Well! Let's start from our model-word.
<umunmutamku> It would appear that 'hideous' started out as ME hidous < Old French hidos < hisdos (the further Latin affinities are very unlikely-sounding); the changeover to -eous is owed to some 16th-century wave of analogical refashionings that produced unetymological words like 'courteous' (for curteis < OF curteis < L -ēnsem), 'righteous' (for the phonological outcome of rightwise), etc.
<umunmutamku> So all we really need here is a plausible source of the root gid-, be it native English or French.
<umunmutamku> Luckily, we seem to have a good candidate in OE gidiʒ 'giddy', apparently etymologically *gudīgo- 'possessed by a god'. So we should be imagining a pretentious 16th-century refashioning to gideous, which, given the semantics of the word around that time, would have to mean 'intoxicated, vertiginous, insane'.
<tezcatlipoca> huzzah! You 'intoxicated, vertiginous, insane' prostitute!

Historia Francorum

Bishop Namatius: You gideous prostitute, is it not enough that you infect other places with every imaginable sort of foulness, without your defiling the throne consecrated to the Lord by sitting your revolting body down on it? Leave the house of God this instant and stop polluting it with your presence! Satan: Since you give me the title of prostitute, I will see that you yourself are constantly harassed with sexual desire.

Last night's unpleasant dreams included: the Smashing Pumpkins were playing in Edmonton, but for some reason they completely bailed out, and the Dangereus had to pretend to be them in performance. At least that's how it seemed in retrospect. At the time, it was just like: shit, for some reason they've got me playing James Iha's guitar parts. I've never even listened to the Smashing Pumpkins. I sure don't know how to play the guitar. I bumbled through one song playing a bunch of random notes really quietly, and then I and [Tezcatlipoca] (yeah, you were there too) went backstage to confer about something before the next one. I had a microphone that I was nervously fiddling with, not realizing it was connected to the sound system, so the entire audience heard my nervous heavy breathing and mumbled complaints. We came back out and the entire audience had left except for a bunch of naïvely smiling grannies sitting in the front few rows (who clearly had no idea that this is not what a rock concert was supposed to sound like). I looked around in dismay. Then I decided to propose to the rest of the band: to hell with this Smashing Pumpkins shit! We could either play a really godawful SP concert or a really *awesome* Dangereus show. Strangely, boys, you were pretty hard to convince. Somehow before we played I ended up answering a question from a woman in one of the front rows: she wanted to know whether our music was "dangerous" because we were just sort of making it up and thus at great personal risk of fucking it up or something. Disturbed that she seemed to be familiar with our band's appellation and debut album, I asked her why she chose that particular word—but then I noticed it was [the ex-girlfriend of former Dangereu Garga Wash].

Some ways to write The Knowledge in Arabic script

WAY BEST WAY

I have never been able to quite get the hang of the laam+meem ligature. But this is the general idea.

FOREIGNERS ARE VERY CAREFUL

careful careful not to use ligatures if they do not have to.

Serialization

The following is a selection from the unpublished work, "The Hope Hammer (The Hammer of Hope" (n.b. if you want the footnotes, you'll have to buy the damn book) *** This is an aggressive neighbor bash, this is a knapsack full of hash, this is a fortune million dollar ring, this fortune will a million dollars bring, this subject will verb the object[1], and noun will adjective verb, all over my face, in the plainest English in the place. We are all just like new parishioners, will will we will pray for here, will will stay we will stay, for here. Humidity, glass, clear water, falling water, cross the moonlit sky, across the polish city guy, through the mud, and on the sidewalks, and all the time like the present, this is for all the birthdays I missed. This is for a year of lost pre-valentines. I was staring at the mailbox, sitting on the corner across the street. It’s the same colour as the newspaper stand, the mailbox, I often wondering what the future, if anyone has ever, or ever wanted to just “accidently” think the mailbox was a newspaper stand, and place their stories, and money, into the newspapers… no one will get your letter Fernando. I don’t mean to pick at or on or at him, but he is always there. Screeching out his name with this fingernails along a chalkboard, his future of stock-residing, will surely account to nothing to account with his food-service career. Where people come, and pay him to fuck like a banana would fuck, and come on him for pesos of oh precious pesos, pesos and iron. It’s all back to land again isn’t it Fernando? I know your plans you are watching this white-bred world, waiting for the debt to crush the society, for it’s back to break, and you will be the new nobility now, wont you? But the world isn’t ending Fernando, and you just bought the wrong paper. It’s an easy enough mistake to make, the illegal hashbarns across the streets, the brightly lit café, like of my dreams, is lost inside the street corner, where only my ears, and eyes, and my mailboxes and flies, can discern you, throughout the hubbub, through the cometwebs of feet, and crawling critters all up their legs, these feet, accorded so much space, but travelling so far. Making love with the dust, as it settles in their moisturized cracks in their feetsies, and treatsies, and to adorn this sweet tenor, this nectar is all that is awaiting for you, on this bloomy street corner, of my minds eye. I pray for quiet and solitude, and multi-generational somber dues. A trample wire, of legitimacy, a cracked corrupt and crazy walk in the part, this sparky little end of sin, this mushroom blood, this sonic, this bandaid, this true structured tomb, I guard you with my eyes, my ears, my mailbox and my tears (a newspaper stand—I named her tears, after my sister) a true zealot if ever there one was. So much for this crane bow of good insurance,[2] a liquid, liquay, liquay, liquaqa, period staple. A lost of pinfulal painful in my nevers nerves in my lefts, legs, Transistor failing, reception required. This is not a TV Scramble. Over and out.

thankz and hugs

Apply within

Reject drəguuātā and all the spurious old father figures. Fear not 𒉺𒀊𒊏𒀀𒋫𒅈 in service to Tlaelcuani and 𒀸 𒀭𒌓 shining nocturnally in Hell. All those unafraid of the silence are invited to join us behind the veil.