The Daily Trope

Comprobatio

Posted on May 12, 2024 | Leave a comment

Comprobatio (com-pro-ba’-ti-o): Approving and commending a virtue, especially in the hearers.

“God bless us, everyone.” Tiny Tim was such an ass kisser, he was hoping that Scrooge would pay his college tuition. As far as he could see, his loser father was going nowhere, supervising a pack of rats at Scrooge’s accounting firm. Scrooge had had the crap scared out of him by an extended nightmare that, ironically, woke him up from being a the stingiest man in London.

Tiny Tim had been posing as a cripple for the past five years. It was part of an insurance scam that he had pulled on Royal Haulers, the King’s vegetable conveyance. He made it look like the cart ran over his foot. He got no insurance settlement, just a free crutch that he used to his advantage to display his infirmity and garner pity, worth a few pence. But Scrooge’s nightmare psychosis had made him ripe for conning.

Tiny had managed to get a check from Scrooge’s checkbook. He had filled it out for 50,000 pounds and was waiting for Scrooge’s signature. He couldn’t figure out how to pull the check scam off, so he decided to burglarize Scrooge’s apartment.

It was 2.00 am when he quietly broke in. Scrooge had curtains around his bed and he was carrying with Trollope Lil who lived next door. Scrooge had a pile of cash on his desk. Tiny stuffed it in the pillowcase he had brought along for that purpose. When he picked up the final 20 pound note a jingling bell went off. Scrooge came out from behind his bed curtains wearing only his night cap. “What are you up to, Tim?” Scrooge asked with an angry look on his face. Tim responded: “Sleepwalking.” It was all that Tim could think of and Scrooge bought it.

Tim made off with all of Scrooge’s cash and had to leave London as he was being hunted by the police. He move to Glasgow and bought a canned haggis factory: Scotty Mac’s Highland Haggis. Scrooge had a relapse and started saying “Humbug” again and fired Bob Cratchet. He hired his girlfriend in Cratchet’s place. She started a nearly undetectable embezzling scam. Her name was Belle. That was enough to blind Scrooge to her scam.

Tim made millions under the name of Ginnis McCorckle. He branched out into single malt scotch and became obsessed with the Loch Ness Monster, and was instrumental in the resurgence of the kilt. He was developing cellophane sticky tape when he died.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Conduplicatio

Posted on May 11, 2024 | Leave a comment

Conduplicatio (con-du-pli-ca’-ti-o): The repetition of a word or words. A general term for repetition sometimes carrying the more specific meaning of repetition of words in adjacent phrases or clauses. Sometimes used to name either ploce or epizeuxis.

Ho, Ho, Ho! I did it again. It was at my brother-in-law’s funeral. “Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Ho, Ho, Ho!” That’s how it went, but I could not help it. I had come down with “Santa-Clausis” after sitting on Santa’s lap and telling him what I wanted for Christmas. When I left, Santa’s I said “Ho, Ho, Ho” and my mother thought it was humorous and cute. But then, I saw a bird squished in the street and said “Ho, Ho, Ho.” My mother didn’t think it was cute and admonished me, but I couldn’t help myself—the worse it was the harder I laughed. Like the time an elderly woman fell out of her second-story window and died at my feet with her head cracked open. I couldn’t stop laughing for ten minutes. I was beat up by the crowd that gathered.

For the past twenty years I’ve been tying to cure myself of “Santa-Clausius.” I’ve come close—once I only giggled when a kitten was run over by a steamroller. I thought I was on the road to recovery. I wasn’t. The next day I saw a man’s taco stand go up in flames with him in it. I laughed a full fifteen minutes. I felt like something had a hold of me, making me laugh.

Finally, I went to see a gypsy. She told me that the only cure is the blood of a Santa. She gave me a syringe. Christmas was only a week away so there were plenty of Santas to “draw” on. She told me to bring the blood back as soon as possible after I drew it.

I went to the Santa shack in the park. Wearing a balaclava, I burst in the door, knocked a kid off his lap and stabbed him in the leg with my needle and filled it to the brim. I gave it to the gypsy and she injected it into me. Immediately, my white beard fell off and I lost 40 pounds. The gypsy pulled a white mouse out of a cage and smashed it with a hammer and killed it. I didn’t laugh. I was cured!

After that, I hammered a mouse every month to make sure I was still cured. No laughter. No Santa-Clausius disease.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Congeries

Posted on May 10, 2024 | Leave a comment

Congeries (con’ger-eez): Piling up words of differing meaning but for a similar emotional effect [(akin to climax)].

Wee haa! Wo hoo! Yody Ho! Yippee! As you can tell, I am relatively elated—making some stock elation sounds, and a couple of new inventions. I am easily elated. An airplane landing elates me. Sunshine on my shoulders elates me. A chicken crossing the road would push me over the edge without asking why. I would just watch, and then break out in joyous noises when the chicken reaches the other side.

There are so many goals to be achieved in life that are not extraordinary but yet help make the world go around. Think of the humble nitwit. Consider how they must contemplate the steps in a process and diligently strive to complete it without causing too much damage, but nevertheless be yelled at by an angry boss.

Once one becomes an avowed nitwit, life’s burdens build into mountains of incompetence topped with grief and anger. For example, what about the guy whose job was to scrape gum off the floor at the Notting Hill Tube Station in London. People would walk by and kick them, pretend he was a horse because he worked on his hands and knees, and rode horsey on his back while he scraped. They would also swat his butt with “The Evening Standard.” He stood up, posing like the Statue of Liberty—holding his scraper up like Lady Liberty’s torch. One of his knee pads slipped down his leg and all the commuters stopped and fell silent.

Collectively, they could see what they couldn’t see individually. There was a doctor from Vienna standing by the stairs holding his arms in a circle. He was holding a pastie in one hand and chewing a bite from it very slowly while the wheels spun in his head. They were snow tires and unsuited to London’s summer. He tried revving them up while he contemplated the crowed. He hoped to wear the treads off on the rough edges of his skull’s interior. He dropped his briefcase. It startled him and provided a road to revelation: collectively the commuters came to conensus without saying a word. This must mean when people are packed together they think alike. The have a “collective” consciousness. They are like ants or honeybees, or flying geese or schools of fish.

The gum scraper lowered their scraper and pulled up their knee pad. The commuters became animated again and headed down to the tube platform. The sun came out behind the doctor’s back and he forgot everything, picking up his briefcase and blending in with the commuters. He kicked the gum scraper as he went past and felt very good after doing so.

He was a fake. He wore a second-hand sports coat and pretended to be a doctor. He had a fake office and receptionist. He spoke with a fake Austrian accent, that was actually German and had learned from Colonel Klink on “Hogan’s Heroes.”

Life is complicated.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Tagged definitions, elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Consonance

Posted on May 9, 2024 | Leave a comment

Consonance: The repetition of consonants in words stressed in the same place (but whose vowels differ). Also, a kind of inverted alliteration, in which final consonants, rather than initial or medial ones, repeat in nearby words. Consonance is more properly a term associated with modern poetics than with historical rhetorical terminology.

Herbert: Tumbling dice. Shallow ditch. Sky-blue donut. It all fits together—everything fits together. Just look! Use your eyes—both of them. Just look. Don’t listen. It is not in your ear, although it could be. This is one of the interesting things about repurposing your senses. Look! Don’t listen or smell for awhile, just see and feel. Then, after a week let smelling be your companion. Sniff it out, twist and shout—shake it up baby.—do the jerk! Do you love me now that I can smell?

You are sugar and spice and everything nice, pony tails and hiking trails, toilet seats and doggie treats, selected meats, and big plump beets.

I feel so much better. A visit from Marshmallow Man always sweetens things up. I wish they’d let you in my cell. I’d take a big bite out of you. Probably, your face.

Susan: Herbert, it’s me your mother. Today is visitor’s day, and I’m visiting you like I do every month hoping you’ll return to normal—like when you were a little boy and played your days away with Chip the neighbor boy. I’ve told you before, but you don’t remember. He broke into Micky’s Pet Store and ate the tropical fish, got sick and had to be taken to the hospital to have his stomach pumped. I always knew you’d be good friends, but the pet store incident would’ve sealed the deal if you weren’t locked up here at “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” Who knows, maybe some me day you will snap out of it.

Herbert: Chip was such a good influence. I remember when we made kites out of our underpants and flew them over the playground. They were too heavy to fly, but we tried. Miscalculation is 50% of calculation. I learned that from Chip. One enchanted evening we were wearing blue suede shoes and pink carnations. We went to the bowling alley, had a cherry coke and then talked about Kansas City and then I went directly home to murder you, mom. It was my best plan ever, but you were in the bathroom and I wanted to kill you in your bed, where you slept, and I would stab you with my Boy Scout knife. With, in addition to the main blade, has a small blade, can opener, a corkscrew and an awl. You were too cheap to get me one with a fork and spoon.

When you came out of the bathroom, I chased you across the hall into your bedroom. You ran into your bedroom, locked the door, and called the police. That was it for me.

Susan: Oh Herbert! You’re so funny! Your needs and desires are hilarious. You’re such a clown. Just think, if you had murdered me, where would you be now? You’d be right here because you’re insane. Ha! Ha!

Herbert: Ha! Ha! Ma, you light up my life. But really, you’re nothing but a hound dog. Go home!

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Correctio

Posted on May 8, 2024 | Leave a comment

Correctio (cor-rec’-ti-o): The amending of a term or phrase just employed; or, a further specifying of meaning, especially by indicating what something is not (which may occur either before or after the term or phrase used). A kind of redefinition, often employed as a parenthesis (an interruption) or as a climax.

There was a mess in my living room. Crumpled newspapers. Dirty clothes and dishes. Cookie crumbs all over the couch. Stains everywhere. Wait! No! In keeping with my Delusory Regime, I’m going to say that I’ve got an organic room-size sculpture going.

It was determined by my doctor that most things are beyond my reach—for example, neatness, and drawing on Protagoras’ “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder” as a guiding Maxim, I went through 10 weeks of training in renaming what I couldn’t understand or achieve. For example, roller blading was renamed “stupid shoe rolling with wheels.” This made me feel much better about my inability to learn how to roller blade.

The Delusory Regime worked like a charm. It boosted my self esteem by encouraging me to disparage what I couldn’t do, or understand. I had gotten to level 10 where I insulted people who were clearly superior to me, even challenging them to fights.

Then it all fell apart. I was at the zoo enjoying looking at the caged animals. A siren went off with a voice saying “a tiger has escaped. Please evacuate the zoo.” I thought, “What a bunch of chicken shit bastards.” And kept my strong string of insults going at an elephant. I felt good! But then, the tiger came bounding out of the bushes and stopped and looked at me. I yelled at hm “You striped orange bathrobe from a nursing home.” It did not work. He was still a tiger from the jungle. I tried “Here kitty, kitty.” That didn’t work either. Right before they shot and killed him, he bit my left hand off—he twisted it back and forth and dropped it on the ground. The pain was awful—actually it was unbearable. Luckily, there was an ambulance standing by. The hand was too mangled to put back on. Now, they think it’s funny to call me lefty. I wear medically themed socks over the stump— I’m trying to make it into a sort of billboard that I can rent out.

Now, I go through life “calling them as they are.” For example, I’ve accepted the fact that I’m a slob while suing my doctor for losing my hand. I keep my hand in a jar in my office to make the point that I used to have two hands, and also, as a conversation starter with new clients: “Do you need a hand?”

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Deesis

Posted on May 7, 2024 | Leave a comment

Deesis (de’-e-sis): An adjuration (solemn oath) or calling to witness; or, the vehement expression of desire put in terms of “for someone’s sake” or “for God’s sake.”

Marla: “For God’s sake. Put down that knife!”

Wally: “I’m not done buttering my toast. Wait a minute!”

Marla: “You’re not buttering your toast, you’re buttering little Ralphie. For Ralphie’s sake, put down the knife and hand him to me,”

Wally: “Let me butter his head first and slick down that ugly cowlick. He takes after you in so many ways. Look at the drooling smile—it’s you all over!”

Maria: “My drooling smile is the result of an injury, not heredity. You may remember: you stepped on my face when we were camping. You got up in the middle of the night to pee and you stepped on my face with your big hiking boot when you tried to go out the back of of the tent and tripped. God! Put down the knife!”

Wally: “Relax! I’m going to put Ralphie in the oven—it’s freezing- ass cold in here. I’m setting it at 100 so he can warm up and we can heat some leftovers too..”

Marla: “Ok, you’ve gone around the bend Wally. Hand him over right now! I’ll put him in the garage while you calm down, have some coffee, and return to normal.”

Wally handed Ralphie over and Marla put him in the garage in the lawn spreader. It was like a cradle. Ralphie liked the lawn spreader. He spent 3-4 hours in it per week. He liked the smell of the weed killer residue and the spreader’s bright green color. If he could talk, he would say “Oh my God! This is great!”

Now that Ralphie was out of the way in the garage, it was time for Marla and Wally to play Sudoko. They would quietly sit on opposite sides of the kitchen table nodding their heads as they scored. Wally picked up the knife and licked it. That reminded Marla that Ralphie was out in the garage.

When she got inside the garage, Ralphie was gone. She looked out the garage door and saw Ralphie crawling across the street. A pickup truck veered around hm blowing its horn. She ran out in the street and grabbed him. She noticed he had white powdery weed killer on his nose. She couldn’t help laughing and was still laughing when she brought Ralphie inside the hose. Wally started laughing too. They took a picture to send to Ralphie’s grandma.

Wally and Marla were not model parents. Ralphie grew up to be a daredevil. He would jump a Queen size bed full of live lobsters with a Vespa motor scooter.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Dehortatio

Posted on May 6, 2024 | Leave a comment

Dehortatio (de-hor-ta’-ti-o): Dissuasion.

“If you don’t stop playing that damn guitar, I’m gong to hit you over the head with it.!” I knew my father wouldn’t follow through on his threat. I played an electric bass. A blow on my head would probably kill me. I was wrong. I woke up in the hospital with a concussion. They told me my father had clobbered me with my bass. He had nearly killed me and had been in police custody for three days. I said, “That’s good. I hope he never gets out.” I was shocked by my voice. I had Elmer Fudd syndrome cupped with a vice an Elvis impersonator would die for. The doctor told me that my pronunciation was called rhotacism—a condition where you have trouble pronouncing “r”__ also called “Barbara Walters Syndrome.” The Elvis thing cannot be accounted for. But combined together rhotacism and Elvis Voice sound amazing. Imagine this in an Elvis voice:

“ Little wed cowvette,
Baby, you much too fast
Yes, you awe
Little wed Cowvette
You need to find a love that’s gonna last

Little wed Cowvette
Baby, you much too fast
Yes, you awe
Little Wed Cowvette
You need to find a love that’s gonna last.”

Again, just imagine this sung in Elvis’ voice. I couldn’t wait to get out of the hospital to start a band. I got together with three guys I went to high school with. We had a band back then. We covered Bee Gees music. We weren’t too popular, but I had kept practicing and driving my father crazy. We reunited and named our new band Concussion after my recent head injury that had prompted my musical gifts.

Our first gig was coming up at “Blankety Blanks,” a club in Elizabeth, New Jersey right off the Rte. 1 Circle by the Goethals Bridge. We decided to do covers of Nirvana, The Police, and Jefferson Airplane. The crowd was wild, foot stomping for us to start. We led off with “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” The crowd stood still, mouths open like they were hypnotized. When finished the first set, the crowd went wild, applauding and fist pumping for 20 minutes. Concussion was a raging success. Word spread. Gigs piled up. Money rolled in, along with a lucrative recording contract.

My brain damage had made me a star. We’re still flying high. To keep my gift, I discovered I had to be hit in the head with a brick once a month. It’s like my dad says, “It’s the price of success.” I forgave him and he’s part of the crew and does a good job smacking me on the head.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Dendrographia

Posted on May 5, 2024 | Leave a comment

Dendrographia (den-dro-graf’-ia): Creating an illusion of reality through vivid description of a tree.

The eucalyptus trees carry me back in time—their pungent smell, waving leaves and smooth mottled bark. after a rain, the smell of the Gumnuts in puddles is especially strong— like Vick’s Vapor Rub. The eucalyptus’s trees are tall and storks nest at their tops.

What does this matter? I had returned unscathed from Vietnam and was going to the University of California at Santa Barbara. I was on the G.I. Bill. I was grateful. The Eucalytus trees were down by the lagoon. I would go there in the early evening and think. I was going to be the first person in my immediate family to graduate from college. All the courses I took filled my head with wonder—all but “Ancient Greek Philosophy” which made me crazy. It involved too much memorization. It was taught by a wise-ass TA who would not listen to any of my ideas. But anyway, that was only one course. Everything else was amazing, nurturing, enlightening, fulfilling. I’ll never forget: I was taking a course in California geography. Included in the day’s lecture was a segment on a type of rock formation. That afternoon when I was riding my bike back to my apartment, I saw the formation by the road. For me, it was a big deal. Now, the roadside was more than a roadside—it was a piece of California geology. That night there was a pretty good earthquake. The apartment parking lot looked like sloshing water. My neighbor ran out of her apartment in her nightgown, jumped in her car and drove away. My Pong fell off the bookcase and all the books fell off the library’s shelves. What a mess!

The campus was on the ocean. Although there is residue from an oil spill, generally the beach was sandy and nice. Some days, I would carry a beach chair to class and go to the beach afterwards. I never wore long pants the whole time I was there. That was my idea of paradise.

Every Thursday, if you went to the record store in Isla Vista naked, you’d get a free record. The turnout of nudies was sparse, but there was a turnout. A crowd would show up to watch, and of course, that was the point. They would buy records,

When I went to Australia a few years ago, I got to see eucalyptus in their natural habitat. Beautiful.

I live in the North Eastern US now. Maple trees predominate. Silver bark and beautiful red foliage in the fall. I tap the sap for syrup, and plain sap as a sweet and delicious beverage. To tap a tree you drill a hole and tap a spline in gently. The splines have hooks that you hang collection buckets from. When the buckets are about 3/4 full, you empty them into a large tub. Then, you divide the contents of the tub and boil down the smaller portions into syrup. The whole house smells like maple syrup, but it takes a lot of sap to make a good amount of syrup. But, it’s worth it.

I also have a small apple orchard that I make cider and applesauce from. I have a hand-powered apple-grinder and cider press. For applesauce we just core the apples and cook them. I put the apples scraps out in the yard. It is entertaining to watch the deer fight over the scraps—pushing each other around. Oh, last year we made hard cider. We used champagne years, and according to everybody, it was great. I’ll never know myself. I am not permitted to drink alcohol, but I smelled it, and it smelled good.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Diacope

Posted on May 4, 2024 | Leave a comment

Diacope (di-a’-co-pee): Repetition of a word with one or more between, usually to express deep feeling.

“Give me a dollar. Give me a dollar now! A dollar in my hand! A dollar! Come on, dickhead!” I was a street person. I was totally unsuccessful at getting money from people. They would tell me to back off or get lost, or take a shower, or go back to the halfway house—that sort of thing. Sometimes they’d hold up their stuffed wallet and taunt me with it.

I had a deep philosophical commitment to living on the streets. Well, it was more than that. I was raised in a series of refrigerator boxes in back alleys. My father died of food poisoning when he was 38. My mother never remarried. She said “the single life” was more fun. We had a smaller auxiliary box that I would sleep in when she brought her men “home.” I was about ten feet up the alley and put cigarette filters in my ears to block out the sounds. One morning I went to wake her up and she was laying on her back, dead. She had a vegetable baggie from the supermarket pulled over he head. That’s when I became chronically angry. That’s when my income plummeted—I became rude when asking for handouts.

The State of New York had recently instituted a group anger management program for street people. It was hoped that it would “mellow out” the streets. There were a lot of angry street people. We met in vacant lots in our respective cities. I was located in Rochester. Our vacant lot was for sale to be developed as a parking lot. The sessions ran from May first to July fifth. We learned special “polite” begging strategies. For example, we got down on one knee and would say “Kind sir, may I induce you to part with one George Washington?” Or, “Sir. Life is fleeting and my hunger overwhelms me. Will you gift me a dollar so I may quell my hunger?” We recite the begging words together in class, filling the vacant lot with the sound of need, not greed.

We graduated in quite an elaborate ceremony. All of Rochester’s big shots were there, including the mayor. He came over to me and we shook hands. I asked him for a dollar with one of my new routines. He asked me who the hell I thought he was—he’s the Mayor and Mayor’s don’t give money to bums. I punched him in the jaw and knocked him to the ground. I was arrested and was put in jail for ten days. I repurposed my money begging sayings into cigarette begging sayings. It worked really well on my fellow prisoners. I left jail with a small bag of cigarettes.

Now that I’m back on the streets I mug people outside of hotels. I stick a gun in their ribs and say, for example, “Would you please be so kind as to give me your wallet? I have bills to pay.”

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Dialogismus

Posted on May 2, 2024 | Leave a comment

Dialogismus (di-a-lo-giz’-mus): Speaking as someone else, either to bring in others ’ points of view into one’s own speech, or to conduct a pseudo-dialog through taking up an opposing position with oneself.

Am I talking to myself? Hell no. I’m thinking out loud. It’s like reading out loud. Much more texture. Much more meaning. Much more significance. It’s like a glass of wine vs. a glass of water , or a bowl of ice cream vs. a bowl of gruel.

It was Saturday night and I was hanging out at “The Lucky Trout” country dance hall. I lived in Boukville, NY between a cornfield and a highway. The only other business in Bouckville was the “Rte. 20 All Night Diner.” The dance hall kept them going. The drunks would flock there when the Lucky Trout closed. They specialized in Hitch Hiker’s Breakfast, in keeping with the Route 20 theme.

I was drinkin’ shots a beer and eatin’ popcorn from a red plastic bowl. I was waitin’ for my Piggy Fingers—my favorite bar snack—little sausages with toothpicks stuck in them, and special sauce called “Chicago Fire.” It was so hot it could set your teeth on fire.

Suddenly my stool started spinning of its own accord. Two bars with handle grips popped up. I grabbed them and I took off. I flew through the swinging saloon doors and up into the sky, propelled by jet engines in the stool’s legs. I flew past an airliner and a little kid waved at me. The next thing I knew I was landing on the moon. I got off my stool. I looked to my right and there was a picnic table. I walked over to it. It had the initials “JG” carved in it and the date: 1964. That was history! I looked around some more but didn’t see anything else of interest. I got back on my stool and took off. As I was taking off, I looked back down and saw a bowling trophy lying on its side in the moon dust, and then, whoosh, off I flew. Destination Earth!

I flew through the doors of The Lucky Trout and landed where I took off from. Nobody noticed. I ordered “another” shot and a beer. I ordered some more Piggy Fingers. The waitress set them down in front of me and they started squirming around like big caterpillars. They were making a soft squeaking sound like baby birds. I called the waitress over and asked her what the hell was going on. she called over Mickey the bouncer. He dumped my Piggy Fingers on the floor and pushed me off my stool. He told me to get out and to come back when I had achieved a drug-free lifestyle.

I got out into the parking lot and I could not find my car. It was a restored pea-green Corvair. It was worth thousands. I called the police. When they arrived, my car appeared behind a dumpster. The police weren’t happy. When they left, my car disappeared. I decided to take an Uber home and sort it all out tomorrow. The driver was dressed like a clown. That was too much. I told her to be on her way and decided to wait out the insanity at the Rout 20 All Night Diner. I sat down in a booth and looked around, and everybody looked like me. Then, the waitress came to my booth. She did not look like me. Aside from being a woman, her hair was blond and mine is black. I ordered The Hitch Hiker’s Breakfast: three fried eggs, four slices of bacon, two slices of toast, grits and a napkin printed like a roadmap. I ordered a cup of coffee too.

People kept coming over to my table asking if they knew me. They all had my name. It was awkward, The sun was coming up. I finished my breakfast and headed back to the Lucky Trout parking lot to find my car. I got to the parking lot and all the cars partied there were pea green Corvairs. I found my car by its license plate. Finally, I could go home. I started it up and it made a poof sound and turned into a pumpkin. It was Cinderella sitting next to me. She asked me if I knew where her shoe was. We got married and lived happily ever after. She blew off the Prince for me. I felt lucky.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Dianoea

Posted on May 1, 2024 | Leave a comment

Dianoea (di-a-noe’-a): The use of animated questions and answers in developing an argument (sometimes simply the equivalent of anthypophora).

Sheriff: Can you give me a hug? Sure you can! Can you tickle my ear? Sure you can! Can you give me a smile? Sure you can! Did you shoot Mr. Buckworth in the head with that shotgun over there? Sure you did! Boom! Where’s his head? Over there by the bed! Are you in big trouble? Yes you are! Is murder a big deal? It sure is Miss Pondlake! Come back here! Hey!

Miss Pondlake ran down the stairs and out the front door. The man she had murdered was the plumber. He was rude and too familiar with her. She had phoned him and when he got to her front door, he had pushed it open and barged in waving wrenches and carrying a yellow no, 2 pencil stuck in his protruding butt crack, and he said “ain’t” which frightened her—she had only heard “ain’t” in detective shows on TV. Especially, from the bald man who ate lollipops.

The plumber said he was going to “clear her pipes upstairs in the bathroom.” That alarmed her. She did not want him to “clear her pipes,” it sounded lewd. He said, “Come on. Let’s go upstairs so I can take care of those pipes.” He insisted, so she could give hm a recommendation for his “work.”

She kept a loaded shotgun by her bed since her former husband had broken into her house and insisted on reading her “The Little Prince” to her at gunpoint. It was the worst experience of her life, defamed “The Little Prince,” put her into 2 years of therapy, and motivated her to keep a gun by her bed.

Now she was on the run from a huge misunderstanding. She was living in Mexico City playing accordion in a Mariachi band named “Camino Del Amor.” She learned how to play the accordion in high school, where she played mostly German and Italian music growing up in New Jersey. “Camino” worked in one bar in Mexico City. They played every night and she loved it. However, she missed her cat Toolabelle. Her sister was shipping it to her—quite a convoluted process. Convoluted enough so it put the police on her trail.

Then, one night, what looked like a cop from back home showed up at the bar. He told her the case a had been dropped—it was a tragic misunderstanding, triggered by lingering trauma and threatening-sounding ambiguous language. she thanked him for bringing the news, but she was going to stay in Mexico City. She was going to marry “Camino’s” harmonica man Jesus.

But, then the “policeman” pulled of his jacket revealing a yellow wooden pencil stuck in his butt crack. He said: “Everything I told you is true, but I still can’t accept my father’s murder, and you murdered him.”

She said, “Come over here for a big hug.” The Plumber’s son complied and headed toward her with arms outstretched. He called her “Mommy” as they hugged. She was repulsed, but did not want any trouble.

The plumber’s son left in a couple of days, and Toolabelle, her beloved cat, showed up at the post office. It was wonderful having her to pet and play with again. She stopped thinking about her past and made her way into the future.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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Diaphora

Posted on April 30, 2024 | Leave a comment

Diaphora (di-a’-pho-ra): Repetition of a common name so as to perform two logical functions: to designate an individual and to signify the qualities connoted by that individual’s name or title.

Dick, dick. How’s that? Your name is Dick and they call you dick: Dick dick. Or, should I say, a dick or the dick? I have a string of memories of your dickhood stretching back to the Fifth Grade. I still remember: I needed one more block to finish off my castle. One stinking block. You had ten blocks and you had finished your fort. You wouldn’t give me one of your extra blocks. You said, “I might need it later.” What a lame excuse. What a dick! What a super duper dick.

I’m going to keep reminding you, dick: you took my little brother on a camping trip in Bowlng Rock State Park. Remember? He was 8 years old. You didn’t give him a flashlight and twenty feet down the trail you took off running, and he could not catch up with you. He got lost and was lost for three days. Believe it or not, you blamed him. I found him sitting a lean-to crying—covered with mosquito bites. You, being the dick you are, blamed him. “He shouldn’t have gone in the first place. What an idiot. Goddamn him!” Saying those things almost got you killed, but you still won’t admit you were wrong. Dick.

One last scar you’ve left. My dog Rough. My family was going to Maine for vacation for two weeks. Our usual dog sitter was unavailable, so I talked my parents into asking you. You said you could for no less than $100. We were leaving the next day, so we were stuck. We gave you detailed instructions —with the big one: keep Rough in the yard—NO MATTER WHAT! You failed to do that. You “thought” he looked like he needed more exercise. Rough dashed out into the street and was run over and killed. You didn’t tell us, and waited until we came home. Rough was wrapped up in a bloody blanket in the driveway. His collar was sitting on top of the blanket. You said, “If you had given him more exercise, he wouldn’t have run off like that. You should’ve taken better care of him. He was your pet. Not mine.” I wanted to kill you. Poor Rough. Never hurt a fly, laid out dead in our driveway.

Now you’re sorry for being a dick—being self absorbed. Your apology is smoke in the wind. The best thing I can do is stay away. I hope you move out of town, maybe out of state, or maybe into another country or a desert island where you can’t inflict yourself on other humans.

“Go, get out!” The door’s that way, remember? What’s that? A clock? “Time’s running out on you Joey. That’s all I can say. Don’t forget to wind it. I may be a dick, but you’re a shithead.”

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Diaporesis

Posted on April 29, 2024 | Leave a comment

Diaporesis: Deliberating with oneself as though in doubt over some matter; asking oneself (or rhetorically asking one’s hearers) what is the best or appropriate way to approach something [=aporia].

I can’t find my car in the parking lot. The lot is one square mile and cartoon character coded. I am almost certain that I parked in sector Sylvester Cat. But no, it seems there is no Sylvester Cat sector. The closest is Baby Huey the unbelievably strong goose. I can see Baby Huey about a half mile away, bolted to a pole like Sylvester Cat should be.

The lot is nearly full, so I’m going to have the walk up and down the rows to find my car. “What is going on here?” I ask myself. “Is this some kind of cruel trick?” It seems like the rows and rows of cartoon characters are laughing at me.” My little VW Beetle is lost among the SUV’s and mammoth pickup trucks. I’m a lost cause. I’ll never find my little VW by walking up and down the rows of parked cars.

All of a sudden, I hear “Sufferin succotash.” That’s Sylvester Cat’s signature utterance! I look under the cars and see nothing but oil-stained pavement. I’m tired. I’m thirsty. I should go home and then come back around midnight when the lot has emptied out. I think that’s a good idea, so I call Uber. I hear “Sufferin succotash” again. I think some kind of delirium is settling in. I see a white patch of fur sticking out from under a black Lincoln Navigator. I run to the Lincoln and there’s nothing there. I start crying and rolling around on the ground. I yell “Sufferin succotash!” And my Uber pulls up. I notice the Sylvester Cat sign is sitting on the front seat. “What should I do?” And, oh no! I have to share my ride with a little man holding a shotgun. He says “Damn wabbit” as I get into the car. I ask the driver where he found the sign. He said, “Up here about a half-mile. We’re headed there now. Pay me $50 and we’ll be right there.” I was prepared t pay $500 to get my car back! I paid the $50 and the driver handed me the sign and the Uber sped off. Suddenly, I was swarmed by mall security guards: “Gotcha, sign thief! Right here at the scene of the crime!” They didn’t even let me explain and accused me of extortion. They summoned the police. I was arrested and denied bail because I posed a flight risk. How the hell was I supposed to go anywhere? I had not found my car yet. Will I ever find my car? Sufferin succotash!

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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Diaskeue

Posted on April 28, 2024 | Leave a comment

Diaskeue (di-as-keu’-ee): Graphic peristasis (description of circumstances) intended to arouse the emotions.

Her baby was crying. It had been crying nonstop for five hours. It was 3 O’clock in the morning. She had to be to work at 7:00 am. She had to take a bus. Her husband had abandoned her and little Emile one month ago. He had run off with the 18-year old gymnast he had been giving guitar lessons to. Her mother had disowned her when she had married Morton. She was 22 and he was 45. Her mother was appalled by their age difference and threatened to take out a contract on Morton. Now that he had left her, she was threatening him again.

Morton worked in a MAGA hat factory on the outskirts of town owned by a state-run Chinese conglomerate: Moo Shoo Hat. Each hat came with a free set of chopsticks and a bar of jasmine soap. Morton was proud of himself—he believed he was making China great again—that the hats were turning China around—like opium did in the 19th century. In fact, he was thinking of selling fentanyl to help move things along—tucking it in the hats’ hatbands along with a coupon for a syringe from CVS. When the bosses found out about his scheme he was beaten, fired, and thrown out the factory’s back door. His pockets were full of fentanyl when the police found him. Morton is currently in jail awaiting trial.

“But that’s all behind me. Fu*k Morton and his girlfriend too—who, by the way, ran out on him when he bottomed out. Anyway— I’ve got to figure out how to get to work. Finally, baby Emile shut up and I put her into her crib. I set my alarm for 5.00 am and went to sleep. I woke up crying. I opened my window and held baby Emile out the window. I yelled ‘I’ll drop my baby if you don’t take care of her today, for free!’ People just looked at me with scolding looks. I live on the first floor, so my threat didn’t have much traction. Then, a man with a seeing-eye dog yelled ‘Throw me the baby. I can help.’ Without thinking, I threw baby Emile at him. He said ‘I was just kidding’ as my baby flew through the air. Suddenly, a young man in a Brooklyn Rampage baseball uniform jumped up and caught my baby. He came inside and promised to take care of my baby, and I made it to work. I was going to permanently hire him when I got home, and I did.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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Diasyrmus

Posted on April 27, 2024 | Leave a comment

Diasyrmus (di’-a-syrm-os): Rejecting an argument through ridiculous comparison.

This “case” is a basket Cael. I’m not sure what that is, but I know it’s bad. Maybe it’s like a glass that’s half paper instead of half full. But maybe it is like a broken toilet or stapler that won’t staple. Or better yet—that smells like fresh roadkill—a raccoon perhaps?

My name is Professor Dirtwedge. My nickname among my students is Dr. Prick. I am cruel. I have never given a grade above C. I humiliate my students by belittling their intelligence in class. Nobody volunteers to speak. I have call on them to thwart their fear of participation. I am a philosophy professor and teach an introductory course titled “You are stupid: Admit it.” The course is centered round the works of the renowned hippie philosopher Californicus. His work was based on the Rolling Stones’ “you can’t always get what you want, but at least you don’t get what you don’t want, and if you do, you have to act like you need it.” Mr. Jimmy’s utterance (dead) frames the text’s intention of celebrating our shared fate: dead. It elaborates on the different ways you can become dead: disease, accident, suicide, murder. Californicus elaborates the received list with less conspicuous ways that the end comes. For example, laughing, foot stomping, dancing to frenetic jazz music.

I study the games insects play and their ethical dimensions. I have discovered that all ants cheat at everything they play. To be a consummate cheater is an aspiration of all ants. As they plod along building their mounds, protecting each other and gathering food, they would rather be playing ant checkers and cheating. I have been able to interview ants by using pheromones smeared on sweet-smelling candy wrappers. Their poetry and short fiction are mesmerizing. A scrap of a poem by a carpenter ant: “I make sawdust, oh I must. I chew for you. Some day this old house will fall, and become a shopping mall.”

This is a remarkable meditation on the passage of time and the fools it makes of us all. It’s like the Bible or a sticky note stuck on a car’s speedometer or a wheel of fortune that never stops turning, and if it does, it goes the opposite direction afterwards.

So, how did I become a tenured professor here at “The Meter’s Running University”? My mother died during my oral defense of my dissertation. I started crying when I was informed, so my committee took pity and passed me. I received tenure when the President found out I had “a story to tell.” He overrode the tenure committee after he heard my story. His wife had gone missing and my ants had told me where she was buried. When I showed him the map they had drawn, he knew he was had.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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Diazeugma

Posted on April 26, 2024 | Leave a comment

Diazeugma (di-a-zoog’-ma): The figure by which a single subject governs several verbs or verbal constructions (usually arranged in parallel fashion and expressing a similar idea); the opposite of zeugma.

The truck hit the pothole, flipped over, caught fire, and exploded. I felt like I was watching a movie— maybe something ok like “Death of a Truck.” Maybe its remains could be piled in a dump truck and driven slowly to the junkyard followed by a procession of truck drivers, including Amazon, UPS, and followed by a column of independent truckers.

Lately, I’ve had too many of these experiences—observing tragedies. Two weeks ago I was doing my three-card monte scam, cruising along, fleecing the punters out in front of Trump Tower. This is a great place—it has a con vibe the covers the scam and makes it look like a legitimate gamble.. I even wear a blond wig and a blue suit. I tell the punters I’m Trump’s cousin and they eat it up. That day, I had about ten people clustered around the game, taking turns losing their money. Suddenly, a drone flew in and hovered overheard. The punters looked up and said chorused “Oooh!” I got under my card table. It started playing Deep Purple’s “Space Truck’n” as it hovered overheard. Then it said “Bobby Boy, you’ve reached the end of the line.” I invited Bobby under my table. The drone dipped down and blew my table over. Bobby was exposed! A tow hook lowered from the drone and hooked the back of Bobby’s pants and flew off with Bobby yelling “I didn’t know. I didn’t know!”

The next day, the headlines read “Stockbroker Skyhooked to Hell.” I read the story and Bobby had been dipped in industrial waste, sewage and the giant grease trap in Hoboken behind Ghost Burgers, the first burger joint opened in the Colonies in 1791. they found Bobby barely with blistered skin covered with sewage and grease.

The police determined that had invested all of a client’s capital in Truth Social. Bobby would not say who the client was and he’s afraid he’ll be attacked again. At one point, he winked at his interrogator and sad “I musk go to the restroom.” Hmmm.

There have been many more strange episodes. A hyena stole my car last Friday. He drove by with his big toothy smile and then sped away. A troupe of rats was doing acrobatics on the sidewalk in front of my apartment. They were wearing tights advertising d-con: the rat poison. I saw a woman juggling three babies in car seats with a bottle of Mr. Clean balanced on her head. I was impressed by her strength and choice of cleaning products.

One more: I saw a man stuck to the sidewalk by a piece of bubble gum. He had been there for three hours. He was begging for somebody to bring him a putty knife or some WD-40. A passing teenager offered to cut off his foot. Eventually, the man took off his shoe and was freed.

So, if you keep your eyes open, there is a plethora of weird things to see.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Dicaeologia

Posted on April 25, 2024 | Leave a comment

Dicaeologia (di-kay-o-lo’-gi-a): Admitting what’s charged against one, but excusing it by necessity.

The corrals are smaller. Where have all the lone prairies gone? I won’t be buried there, that’s for sure. Carbon monoxide fills the air, slowing down my thinking and making my eyes water and my vision blur. I was driving my manure spreader down Main Street. I don’t know how it happened. The bottle of whiskey wrapped in a rag under the seat is used for lubrication. Sometimes I take a yank, but it’s just to clear the dust away. It was a very windy night and my throat was filled with dust. Ah wait! Now I remember! My mother had called me and asked me to spread some manure in her front yard. It was Dad’s birthday the next day, and he always likes a load of fresh manure on his birthday. It’s a tradition that stretches back to the year we sold 90% of the ranch to a hockey rink, a parking lot and an airport. We kept the house, the barn and 25 acres—I raise miniature cows on the 25 acres. I sell them to people as pets and for diet sized cuts of meat. They are very popular with 30-something professionals who like little things like iPhones, ear buds, and electric sports cars. I also grow weed and have chickens. I sell bags of dope and eggs by the highway. All perfectly legal.

When I delivered the manure, Dad took off his boots and ran around the yard while me and Mom sang happy birthday. At one point he slipped and fell down and we all laugh together. We went inside and had cake while Dad talked about back in the day when commanded 10,000 acres of prime pasture land. He had to sell it off because his brother Bill, the co-owner had taken out 3 second mortgages on the property that he used to buy condos in Palm Beach, Vegas, and Hawaii. Soon after Dad found out, Uncle Bill disappeared without a trace. The properties were foreclosed on and Dad had to sell the ranch.

But why am I telling you all of this? I don’t know. It’s just stuck in my gut. Almost like a piece of barbed wire. Well, anyway, it was time to head home from Dad’s birthday. I said “bye” to Mom and Dad and hopped on my manure spreader. I backed into the Dormal’s house, tore off the front porch and smashed into their car in the driveway. I totaled it. At first, I thought it was my blurry vision from all the pollutants in the air. But then, I realized somebody had glued a picture of an open plot of land to my rear view mirror. It must’ve been done when we were inside having cake. The picture was very high resolution, so it would be mistaken for the mirror’s actual reflection.

After we discovered the picture, the police cordoned off the area and conducted a thorough search. They found Uncle Bill cowering in the garage. He had a couple of high resolution landscape photos trimmed to fit my ,mirror, a squeeze bottle of Super Glue and a Glock. He kept saying he hated his brother (my dad) and he had come to kill him. It was Mom. It was all about Mom.

Dad had stolen Mom from Bill when they were teenagers. It is amazing how the most blissful emotion can become so riddled with hatred that it can become a motive for murder. I wondered why uncle Bill didn’t want to kill Mom too.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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Tagged figures of speech, elocutio, trope, rhetoric, example, examples, definitions

Dilemma

Posted on April 24, 2024 | Leave a comment

Dilemma (di-lem’-ma): Offering to an opponent a choice between two (equally unfavorable) alternatives.

Why do things have to be different? Why do we have to make choices? I have a choice about which disease to get sick from—Whooping Nose or Polo Fever. I have contracted both diseases, but only one vaccine can be taken—if you take two, one of them will be fatal. Whooping Nose is pretty bad. I’m pretty sure I caught it in the pet store when I was looking for a rat for my daughter’s birthday. She wants to “experiment” on it by clipping one of its feet off with toenail clippers and making a little prosthetic leg out of tooth picks and superglue. Very admirable. But, Whooping Nose is another story,

It starts with a runny nose and quickly progresses into unending series of powerful sneezes, that get worse and worse as the nose clogs up. The end comes when the jaw locks shut and a gigantic sneezes blows your nose off. Your sinuses come out out and hang from your nasal cavity. If the EMTs make it on time, you’ll survive, your sinuses will be returned to their cavities and your nose will be retrieved and sewn back on. Once you’ve had whooping nose, you’re immune from it for the rest of your life.

Then, there’s Polo Fever. I think I got it from picking up a contaminated polo ball and handing it to my buddy Enrico who had invited me to watch him play in a match. When I picked up the ball he yelled “No, no, no!” And wouldn’t take the ball. He told me it had been contaminated by “the play” and I would soon contract Polo Fever. I asked him why he didn’t warn me. He told me that he had forgotten that I am a peasant.

Polo Fever comes on in a week or more, marked by a whinnying sound coming from your butt followed by your temperature shooting up to 101.5—the temperature of a horse. The absolute worst aspect of the disease is the polo ball-sized and shaped- feces passed by the victim. In some cases it takes surgery to remove the hardened polo ball poop. Less serious is manure rolling—where the victim rolls around in polo pony manure snorting. The victim in locked in one of the cages behind the stables and suppled with a steady stream of steaming manure and hosed down every hour. In addition, a shovel full of oats is thrown at the victim every 10 minutes until he or she is coated with oats like a big Payday candy bar is with peanuts. The sound of hoofbeats soothes the victim, helping them through their ordeal.

So, I have to choose between two vaccines, and consequently, two diseases. I’m heading down “the lesser of two evils” highway. Whooping Noses or Polo Fever. The prospect of intestinal surgery puts me off. Losing ny nose to an explosive sneeze may be worse.

I will pray on it, “God, please show me the way.” God didn’t answer, so being at a loss himself to make a decision, he put two slips of paper in his motorcycle helmet: “Whooping Nose,” “Polo Fever.” He reached into his helmet and the two pieces of paper had become stuck together by the cupcake icing on his fingertips. “I should’ve washed my hands” he said remorsefully. Suddenly, a whinnying sound was emitted by his butt. “Time has made my decision,” he said as he looked at the sky. It was too late for the Polo Fever vaccine, so he went to the doctor for the Whooping Nose vaccine, which was exhibiting the barest symptoms and hadn’t taken hold yet. His nose was barely dripping. The whooping Nose vaccine would still work!

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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Dirimens Copulatio

Posted on April 23, 2024 | Leave a comment

Dirimens Copulatio (di’-ri-mens ko-pu-la’-ti-o): A figure by which one balances one statement with a contrary, qualifying statement (sometimes conveyed by “not only … but also” clauses). A sort of arguing both sides of an issue.

Protagoras (c. 485-410 BC) asserted that “to every logos (speech or argument) another logos is opposed,” a theme continued in the Dissoi Logoiof his time, later codified as the notion of arguments in utrumque partes (on both sides). Aristotle asserted that thinking in opposites is necessary both to arrive at the true state of a matter (opposition as an epistemological heuristic) and to anticipate counterarguments. This latter, practical purpose for investigating opposing arguments has been central to rhetoric ever since sophists like Antiphon (c. 480-410 BC) provided model speeches (his Tetralogies) showing how one might argue for either the prosecution or for the defense on any given issue. As such, [this] names not so much a figure of speech as a general approach to rhetoric, or an overall argumentative strategy. However, it could be manifest within a speech on a local level as well, especially for the purposes of exhibiting fairness (establishing ethos[audience perception of speaker credibility].

This pragmatic embrace of opposing arguments permeates rhetorical invention, arrangement, and rhetorical pedagogy. [In a sense, ‘two-wayed thinking’ constitutes a way of life—it is tolerant of differences and may interpret their resolution as contingent and provisional, as always open to renegotiation, and never as the final word. Truth, at best, offers cold comfort in social settings and often establishes itself as incontestable, by definition, as immune from untrumque partes, which may be considered an act of heresy and may be punishable by death.]

I was and I wasn’t. I wasn’t what I was. I sounded like a riddle looking in a mirror. While something may be known one at a time, at another time it may be something different—now it’s a car, now it’s a cube of steel riding a magnet across a junkyard. Or, maybe not. Maybe it was a cube of steel when it was a car—a potential of steel, an actual car. Can you look at the cube as steel and say “That’s a 1992 Mercedes.” But I walk down the street swinging my arms back and forth like an ape. I am not an ape though. I am a cup of tea with legs. I must be careful not to spill. I do not want to stain the sidewalk Orange Pekoe. Why do I keep changing? Are they incarnations, or am I insane, or both? I think both. Or better, madness is a sort of a new incarnation. You forget your previous self and take on a brand new guise. When you’re really crazy you don’t remember your past. When you’re sort of crazy, you do remember. In a way being sort of crazy is worse than being totally crazy—you may be tantalized by a recent past—a reality that is “sort of” but not palpable enough to thwart the vague recollections that intrude on your dream and hurt. Being totally crazy is a glutted maelstrom of meaningless ooz with untraceable emotional import, like abstract art free from the canvas, possessing you with its colored fluidity.

There are many variations on this theme. I don’t know them. I don’t care when I roll around on the sidewalk singing Elvis’ “Don’t Be Cruel.” People look at me and step around me with disgusted looks on their faces. Why? Not because I’m in mental distress, but because I’m in their way. Then a guy that looks like Jesus hovers above me, motioning for me to get up. This happens once or twice a week. I usually get up and continue my crazy trek through the day. But today, I can’t get up. I am dead. A half-dozen teenage boys kicked and beat me to death while I lay drunk on the sidewalk. I look down and see my bloodied torso. The Jesus guy points. I look in the direction he’s pointing and there is a golden elevator. I climb on the elevator and ride to Heaven. As I step off the elevator, I become sane. I see my grandma coming toward me with a bouquet of flowers.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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Distinctio

Posted on April 22, 2024 | Leave a comment

Distinctio (dis-tinc’-ti-o): Eliminating ambiguity surrounding a word by explicitly specifying each of its distinct meanings.

“Ouch” can register physical pan. It can also register emotional pain, little known is ts use to register surprise, as when you step on a big fat snake and it coils around your leg, looking at your eyes as it flicks its tongue and tightens its grip. As your leg swells and you start to feel dizzy, you may say “Ouch” even though there’s no pain.

The snake has got you. It was foolish to go hiking alone in tFlorida Everglades. Year after year people dump their exotic pets out their car window, or lave them by the side of the road: from Malaysian Bang Lang snakes (like one you’re wearing on your leg), to Spitting Weevils that can blind you with their beautiful sky-blue saliva.

By the way, I’m an omniscient narrator, so I’m not really here.

So, how do you get the snake off your leg? Just keep yelling “Help!” Eventually, a Park Ranger will show up and free you. Oh, it’s getting dark. Rangers usually go home at dark. What does that mean for you. Yes, nearly certain death. But, when the snake tries to eat you, he’s going to discover you’re too big for him to handle. You will have died from the tourniquet effect of the snake’s strangle hold. But don’t despair! An alligator is sure to drag your expired body off and feed on you somewhere nearby.

Oh! Do you hear that Rager calling for you? You are saved!

The Ranger found the man unconscious, laying on his back, with the snake strangling his leg. He pulled out his Ranger knife and cut the snake in half. he took the two bloody halves of the snake and swung them around his head laughing maniacally. The man regained consciousness and the Ranger started acting normally again.

They trekked out of the swamp to where the man had parked his car and the Ranger had parked his Jeep. The went their separate ways and the man never thanked the Ranger for saving his life. This bothered the Ranger—people always thanked him for helping out, from finding children’s toys, to saving somebody’s life like he had done today. The Ranger vowed, if he saw the man ever again, he’d make him say “Ouch.” Lo and behold! He saw him the next day. He was with his family. They walked along a bit together and came to a giant fire ant mound. The Ranger warned everybody. The man scoffed and ran to the mound and hugged it. He was swarmed by hundreds of fire ants stinging him into oblivion. He was writhing on the ground yelling “You didn’t warn me!” The Ranger looked at the man’s wife and shrugged his shoulders, called 911, and left.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Tagged elocutio, example, examples, figures of speech, rhetoric, schemes, tropes

Distributio

Posted on April 21, 2024 | Leave a comment

Distributio (dis-tri-bu’-ti-o): (1) Assigning roles among or specifying the duties of a list of people, sometimes accompanied by a conclusion. (2) Sometimes this term is simply a synonym for diaeresis or merismus, which are more general figures involving division.

“Ok Eddie, go to the grocery store and get the stuff we need. Max, you make sure the car is ready to go. I’ll go the the liquor store and get four liters vodka & we’re off on our road trip.

I think we can ride across country in 3 days. I did it back in the 60s in a Volkswagen van. We can do it now in my Subaru.“

We took off from Summit, New Jersey the next morning around around 5 a.m. We each had a shot of vodka and swore we’d have a good time. We were driving like a bat out of hell. We made it to Arkansas around 10 p.m. and checked into a motel—Twilight Zone. The room smelled like garlic, the beds were saggy and there was a picture of Ronald Regan hanging crooked on the wall. It was very creepy. He had destroyed Social Security by taxing it and my grandparents hated him. I tried to take the picture off the wall but it wouldn’t budge. So, I hung my sweatshirt over it so I couldn’t see it. That made me feel better.

We all fell asleep around 11.00. I woke up around 2.00. I heard a dripping sound—it was coming from the bathroom. It sent chills down my spine, but it only lasted a couple of seconds. I looked in at the sink, and it was half-filled with blood. I screamed and ran out of the bathroom. I woke up Eddy and Max. They went into the bathroom to look. Max came out with blood dripping from his chin and told me to “shut the fu*k up” or he’d drain me. Eddie agreed. I went back in the bathroom and the sink was drained—no trace of blood. Then, I got the idea that Max was fooling around with our hot sauce, putting it on his chin. So I thought it was a joke. I went back to sleep. I woke up again around 3.30. Max was leaning over my bed, right up in my face. His breath smelled like rotting roadkill. Eddie was standing behind Max with bone saw in his hand. Between the bone saw and the stink of Max’s breath, I came to the conclusion something was wrong. Max and Eddie were drooling. Their teeth had all grown to canine teeth, filling their mouths with flesh rippers capable of tearing people apart.

I tried to scream for help, but nothing came out of my mouth—no sound, no words, no nothing. Then I tried to get out of my bed and I couldn’t move—I was paralyzed. The stink coming out of Max’s mouth was going to make throw up. Then, he said in a whisper: “Come with us.” I was levitated off my bed and floated behind them out the door. They walked and I floated across the road and we went into the woods. Dawn was breaking—maybe my “friends” would snap out and start acting normal. It didn’t happen.

My “friends” started eating me. Max took a bite out my upper arm and laughed and chewed while I screamed in pain. I was bleeding profusely. I was sure I was going to bleed to death. Eddie bit off one of my fingers and sucked on it like a popsicle. Ronald Regan suddenly appeared, He laughed, and yelled “Speak!” and all three of them disappeared. I yelled “Help!” and and the motel proprietor found me. He called 911. The ambulance got there quickly and I was taken to the hospital. I told them I had been mauled by a bear when I left the motel to watch the sunrise.

Two weeks later, I met Eddie and Max at “Booglin” our favorite club. We “got down” and had a great time swingin’ with the babes and drinkin’. I didn’t mention the Arkansas incident. They were such nice guys. I couldn’t figure out what had triggered their behavior. Then I realized that Ronald Regan was in the picture on the wall and had made an appearance in the woods. He had the power to make normal people into flesh eaters ripping apart their fellow humans. I remember now that the Twilight Zone motel had Tump campaign signs driven in the ground in front. Could there be a connection? Now, I thought Trump was going to urge his followers to eat his opponents, My guess is that widespread flesh eating will start to happen in early November, and culminate outside polling places on Election Day. I asked Eddie and Max what they thought. They laughed and wiped the the backs of their hands across their mouths.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Posted in distributio

Tagged elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, schemes

Ecphonesis

Posted on April 20, 2024 | Leave a comment

Ecphonesis (ec-pho-nee’-sis): An emotional exclamation.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing Leonard?“ it was my father. I was doing my homework. “Homework, Dad,” I said. I was hunched over my desk, tapping away on my laptop. Our assignment was to write a job description, and then write a letter of application for the job. My job description was: “Wanted: stupid-ass drunk with no skills or common sense.” I thought my teacher, Miss Trank, would find it humorous and give me an “A”, especially when she read the cover letter: “Dear Potential Boss: I am drunk right now. I have had three gin & tonics for breakfast and will be drinking a half-bottle of MD-40 for lunch. So, I am a drunk. Stupid-ass describes me very accurately. For example, I sent away to Amazon for a hammock. The assembly instructions were complicated and I got tangled up in the webbing part.i was drunk so I didn’t care, but my mother cut me loose and and I fell on the ground and threw up. How’s that for stupid-ass? The only skill I have is taking a shower, and I have trouble with that. Apparently, my father is right: I don’t know my ass from my elbow. I have a picture of them with labels hung up in my shower. But they fall down from time to time, if they land face down, I’m screwed. I yell for my dad and he comes into bathroom and picks up the pictures and holds them up for me. Then, I can resume showering. Other than showering, I have other possible skills—well, maybe eating and getting dressed too. But that’s it. On the no common sense front, I can give you a quick example: I go out in the rain with no raincoat or umbrella. I get soaked and have suffered from hypothermia several times. I almost died once when I went camping in my bathing suit. Also, once I threw an alarm clock so I could see time fly. I can report for duty tomorrow. I will be drunk and ready to go.”

Leonard finished his third gin and tonic and started off for school. He staggered across Maple Street and was clipped by a car. He was knocked down on the pavement, but wasn’t hurt (so he thought). He was actually unconscious and dreaming that he was uninjured. A fifth-grader, Billy Wack, poked the crack in Leonard’s head with a stick. Leonard flopped around like a fish.

A crowd gathered. Mr. Topi, who lived on the street, called an ambulance to come get Leonard. He was still dreaming inside his cracked head—dreaming he was dreaming that his head had cracked open and leaked most of his intelligence, which he didn’t have very much of in the first place. Then, he heard a voice say “How many fingers am I holding up?” Leonard saw 300 fingers and fell off the stretcher, a common problem with the Hill Dale EMT team. They were different heights and had trouble keeping the stretcher level. When Leonard fell off the stretcher a small amount of his brain leaked out of the crack in his head.

Suddenly he was being shaken. Miss Trank was trying to wake him up. He had no idea how he had ended up in class. Miss Trank said: “Leonard, I am giving you a double zero on this assignment and you are being suspended from school for two weeks for educational sedition.” I had no idea what Miss Trank was talking about. The crack in my head was healed. I went back to the cloakroom, dug out my back-up bottle of gin and took three big swigs to hold me until the 3 o’clock bell rang.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Tagged definitions, elocutio, examples, rhetoric, trope

Effictio

Posted on April 19, 2024 | Leave a comment

Effictio (ef-fik’-ti-o): A verbal depiction of someone’s body, often from head to toe.

He was the tallest man in the world. His name was Ted. He worked in the Blim Brothers Sideshow. When he stood up he was nearly nine feet tall. For one dollar, he would put a ring on his massive finger and let you pull it off. The ring was made of lead with “Tallest Man in the World,” and the year, engraved on it. Ted’s head was like a large watermelon with dark brown hair on top. He had brown eyes and beautiful teeth—when he smiled they looked like the mother of Pearl handle of my straight razor! Of course, he had massive shoulders. There were no off-the-rack clothes that could fit him. His mother still acted as his tailor, making him quite fashionable looking clothes. She even made him a “skinny suit” to wear to his sister’s wedding. His shoes were custom made too. He preferred suede swashbucklers—size 18. They cost over $400.00 a pair. So, Ted only wore them to work. Otherwise, he wore flip-flops made out of all-weather tires. “Just in case” he had a pair made out of snow tires.

Ted has trouble walking. It’s a consequence of his height. He has a custom made walker that is 18k gold plated and encrusted with Swarovski Crystals. It is quite beautiful—the way it flashes in the light.

My name is “Botch.” It’s a nickname from frequently screwing up. I’m used to it and it doesn’t hurt my feelings any more. I work as a handyman for Blim Brothers. That means that just about anything that needs repairing or adjusting comes my way: from a trapeze to a tent. I’m also pretty good with a shovel. My wife is a seamstress, repairing and making costumes. Our daughter, Lux, is 19 and runs the box office and handles the accounting—she has a degree in accounting from “Column B.” It is an online school. It is unaccredited, but it was cheap.

Lux is in love with Ted, but she does not know what to do. She said: “He’s so big. It would be like dating a tree.” I told her to just go ahead—to talk, to get to know him and then worry about dating. So, they met and they talked.

Lux wasn’t happy about their meeting. Ted had insisted she sit on his lap like a dummy. Ted put his hand up the back of her sweater and told her to speak whenever he scratched her back. He asked if she liked him and scratched her back. After how he was acting, she sad “No” and Ted pushed her onto the floor. “That’s assault!” she yelled. Ted stood up used his walker to quickly leave the room.

We couldn’t bring charges against Ted or we’d all lose our jobs. We sucked it up and went on with our lives. Then, 1 year later, Lux became pregnant and she told us Ted was the faher. When she told me, I got this image in my head that I can’t erase. I am ashamed of myself, but I can’t do anything to get rid of it. Lux had a Ted-sized baby. She was in labor for three days.

Lux and Ted got married and they are quite happy. The dummy incident is long-forgotten.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Tagged definitions, elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric

Ellipsis

Posted on April 18, 2024 | Leave a comment

Ellipsis (el-lip’-sis): Omission of a word or short phrase easily understood in context.

Jeff: Count with me: 1, 2, . . . yup, that’s right, 3. But actually, I was gong to say four. What’s next is always a big question, I’m going to jump up and down now, and what will I do after that? Moo hoo ha ha ha. Here I go! Whoops! Your picture of mom is under my feet. Oh no! The frame broke and the picture tore. What would I do next? Sweep up the mess and threaten to push you out of your bedroom window if you tell mo?.

If you don’t stop crying I will strangle you. I want you to lure Lawrence Burnborn to our basement. Tell him you will give him Peanut Butter Cups and Peter Paul Mounds. He is such a pig that he would crawl through broken glass to get the candy.

Sister: Jeff, you have flipped your wig again. You must’ve stopped taking you meds. Remember what happened last time? You lit my three little hamsters—Iggy, Swiggy, and Ziggy—on fire and put on a flaming hamster juggling show. The show was a failure because you couldn’t get the hamsters to stay lit. They took you to Cortex Creek Rest Home, where you stayed 6 months. You were fine when you got out. It was the meds, the “Normalacyn.” You were diagnosed with “Quadra-Polartechinosis,” a complex condition with four shades of “crazy:” 1. Deep Landfill, 2. Totally Bummed, 3. Starting Up, 4. Running Wild. Now, I think you should go . . .

Jeff: Shut up you human slag heap! You are telling me what I already know, snot face. Now, just go and get Lawrence and bring him back here. In the meantime, I”ll check my electric drill and jar of sulphuric acid. Go get him! Now!

Sister came back in a half-hour. Lawrence was not with her. Jeff went berserk. He chased Sister around the basement with his drill whining. Sister ran back up the basement stairs. Her boyfriend “Nordic” Bill, a giant and Icelandic Exchange Student, was waiting. He was holding a Narwal tusk.

Jeff came up behind Sister and drilled her in the buttocks. He pulled out the drill and went for Nordic Bill. Bill was waiting for Jeff pointing the Narwal tusk in his direction. At the last second, Bill dropped the tusk and turned and ran. Now, Jeff’s father Strom showed up and pointed a double-barreled shotgun at Jeff.

Strom: Put down the drill. You’re headed back to Cortex Creek.

Jeff put the drill down, but picked up the Narwal tusk and pointed it at his father. His father shot hm in the head—firing both barrels. A creature that looked like a small turtle crawled out of Jeff’s mangled head. The ambulance arrived for Sister. The “turtle” skittered out the front door which had been left open by Strom when he rushed into the house. Strom never said a word to anybody about the turtle.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Tagged definitions, elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Enallage

Posted on April 17, 2024 | Leave a comment

Enallage (e-nal’-la-ge): The substitution of grammatically different but semantically equivalent constructions.

I was carded. The ID said I was 45, but I was only 19. Those were the days! No photo IDs. As a 45-year-old I could pretty much go anywhere I wanted to, and I done what I wanted to do where age was a factor. As long as I had the ID in my hand, I was good to go. But I discovered, aside from driving, drinking gin, buying naughty magazines and owning a gun, the stretch between 21 and 45 didn’t have a lot of extra permissions. I paid $50.00 for my fake ID, so I was a little disappointed—until I discovered “Club 45.” It was for men “45 and over.”

I thought this place was going to be wild. I showed my ID at the door, paid my $10,00 initiation fee, and was motioned in. I looked. There were men sitting in bathrobes, reading newspapers and sipping orange juice. Some men had little tables where they were assembling plastic model boats and airplanes. I thought maybe that they were sniffing glue. They weren’t.

I was given a bathrobe and a newspaper and shown to “my” chair. I hadn’t read a newspaper in years. I took a sip from my orange juice and started reading the front page. It was shocking. Toy drones had been turned into weapons of war. I used my drone to video my neighbor’s wife in their hot tub. For the hell of it, I turned to the want ads. The first one I looked at said: “Wanted: A man. Must be energetic and like to experiment.” I thought: “I am energetic—I’m on the track team. I like to experiment: I just got a chemistry set for my birthday!” I was in!

I took the paper and left the club. There was a pay phone across the street. I called the number from the ad and a woman answered after one ring. I told her I was energetic and liked to experiment. She said “You’re just what I’m lookin’ for honey.” She gave me her address. Nobody had ever called me “honey” before. I had only heard it in movies or radio shows.

I walked to the house in about 5 minutes. Actually, I ran. I rang the doorbell. The door opened and there was my friend Eddy’s grandmother in a pink bathrobe and slippers. She slammed the door and yelled “Go away you little pervert!”

I was really disappointed. I didn’t know what we were going to do—but I thought it was along the lines of exercising together and doing some experiments. 2 days later it was Eddy’s birthday. Right after we sang happy birthday and Eddy blew out the candles, his grandmother showed up. We made eye contact and she blushed. She had a man with her. He was overweight and probably 45-50. I asked her if he was energetic and liked to experiment.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Tagged definitions, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

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