Exergasia

Posted on September 2, 2026 | Leave a comment

Exergasia (ex-er-ga’-si-a): Repetition of the same idea, changing either its words, its delivery, or the general treatment it is given. A method for amplification, variation, and explanation. As such, exergasia compares to the progymnasmata exercises (rudimentary exercises intended to prepare students of rhetoric for the creation and performance of complete practice orations).

There would be no more “free lunches” for me. “The Ricky Nelson Homeless Shelter” had closed its doors, gone belly up, bit the big one, gone kaput. It had been my lunchtime life-line for 12 years. That’s a lot of lunches. Now, the only free lunch in town was the Hare Krishna Temple: free bowl of rice and two cups of tea, no meat ever—a far cry from “Ricky Nelson’s” sumptuous feasts—flat-iron steak, a raw bar, Chicken Kiev, Greek style cheese cake, broiled halibut, sushi, imported beer, goat cheese Caesar’s salad, calamari, and much, much more.

I was turning into a stick from my one meal of the day: rice. I decided to start stealing food from Cliff’s—a combination gas station and convenience store. I’d go into the store and stuff something good in my pants, and then, nonchalantly leave Cliff’s like nothing happened!

In my first attempt, I learned that stuffing a slice of pizza down your pants is a bad idea, but not all bad ideas lead to totally bad outcomes.

My pants got all stained and the warm pizza in my pants made me want to poop. I had to run behind Cliff’s to let the dump go, out of the public eye. As I squatted there going number-two and eating my pizza, I noticed there was a women’s purse in the bushes to my right. It probably had been misplaced or even stolen.

When I was done, I grabbed the purse. It was green and had a big dirt smudge on the side. I tried rubbing off the dirt smudge, and the purse glowed, got warm and said “Congratulations. Your wishes are my commands.”

I dropped it. I was initially scared by the talking purse. But then, I remembered the story of “Aladdin’s Lamp.”: This guy found a lamp and was polishing it when a genie popped out and granted his wishes. There was no genie here, but the purse had offered to grant my wishes, just like Aladdin’s lamp. I thought for a minute. I told the purse, “I want to win the ‘New York Take Five’ scratch-off lotto $5,000 jackpot. But first, I wish for one dollar so I can go back in Cliff’s and buy the ticket.” A dollar bill popped out of the purse. I grabbed it, slung the purse over my shoulder, and went back into Cliff’s, bought the ticket, scratched it off, and won $5,000. While I was still in Cliff’s I asked purse to pay for the chips, Red Bull, and sour cream dip I had grabbed. The purse complied.

Now that I was rich, I needed to upgrade my homeless situation. I had my refrigerator box weather proofed, bought two white plastic lounge chairs, a twin mattress, a hibachi, and a solar powered refrigerator and radio.

I had had my eye on Dirty Mary for nearly a year: she was my neighbor. She was more than pretty, beautiful, or gorgeous. She was angelic. Now, I could invite her to “my place” for dinner. I asked and she agreed. I grilled a couple of pigeons on my hibachi. We drank our muscatel from cups and feasted on the pigeons, with one raw carrot each on the side. We got drunk, crawled into “my place,” and went wild.

Now, I rarely use my magic purse. Dirty Mary and I are happy with what we’ve got: food, shelter, and clothing. The last time I used the purse, I asked for a Ducati and two helmets. When winter come’s, I’m asking for shed for the Ducati, heat, and a snow blower.

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Exouthenismos

Posted on September 1, 2026 | Leave a comment

Exouthenismos (ex-ou-then-is’-mos): An expression of contempt.

I hate you for everything you don’t do. You don’t compliment me. You don’t hold me tight. You don’t make me breakfast. You don’t text me back. You don’t visit me at “The Nervous Gorge Home for the Differently Wired.” Sure, you think I tried to drown you in my little brother’s fishbowl. But, it isn’t true. You are so mistaken. I was just trying to wash your dirty little face. You should be grateful you great big giant whore. (I learned that bad word here at “The Home.” I learned a ton of bad words from Wilbur the talking puffin. He comes from Iceland where he was a crazy old man’s pet. The old man taught him to talk in English after slitting his tongue in half.)

Most of the time Wilbur just sits on his perch and says “fu*k you” over and over until somebody swats him off the perch. I love taking my turn at giving him the swat! It makes me feel virile like I used to feel before I met you at the “Corn Town High School Senior Prom.” Neither of us had a date. We were a stag and a stagette, lonely, wandering lost in the festivities, when we bumped into each other. Your giant boobs cushioned our impact like a pair of rubber baby buggy bumpers. My skinny frame was awash in human contact as we embraced while looking into each other’s ears and dancing slowly and sensually to “Earth Angel” the prom’s final dance. Romance was in the air, so thick you couldn’t cut it with a bandsaw, or even a chainsaw. It was ROMANCE!!

When the dance ended, you told me to hold out my hands as you deftly zip tied them together. You dragged me into the bushes by the parking lot and stuck your tongue in my ear. This was my first time, and it stoked my fever for you. In return, I held my restrained hands around your head and blew real hard in your face. You cut my zip ties with the scissors you had stolen from art class and we went our separate ways, and I hate you more than whatever you hate the most. When and if I see you again, I will push you down, bitch (another bad word I learned from the bird).

POSTSCRIPT

Bobbie will never be released from “The Home.” As you can see from what he’s written above his thoughts are deranged in such a way that they can’t be rearranged. He is what we call a bearer of “Vivid Experience Error.” All of the above never happened or doesn’t exist. Robbie lives in a world of his own making that intersects the real world in dangerous ways. In Bobbie’s case it involves trying to push anybody down who gets within three feet of him.

His “cell” floor is cushioned with memory foam mattresses so he can safely receive visitors.

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Expeditio

Posted on August 31, 2026 | Leave a comment

Expeditio (ex-pe-di’-ti-o): After enumerating all possibilities by which something could have occurred, the speaker eliminates all but one (=apophasis). Although the Ad Herennium author lists expeditio as a figure, it is more properly considered a method of argument [and pattern of organization] (sometimes known as the “Method of Residues” when employed in refutation), and “Elimination Order” when employed to organize a speech. [The reference to ‘method’ hearkens back to the Ramist connection between organizational patterns of discourses and organizational pattern of arguments]).

It wasn’t an apple. It wasn’t an orange. In logic’s lore comparing them to each other is a grave error. But maybe, just maybe, today would flesh out the possibility. But, we can’t dwell on that now with gargantuan possibilities breathing down my neck, staining my undershirt with sweet smelling puffs of soapy air. Could it be done?

Could we make it on foot through the car wash?

There were five stages. First, was the huge rolling brush. Second, the swirling side brushes. Third, the undercarriage rust proofing. Fourth, the clear spring water rinse. Fifth, and last, the blow dry—hurricane-force winds to dry us off.

Me and my Airedale Binky had taken “The Car Wash Challenge” from Lars Dinwaller, the Swedish exchange student and class bully. As he fed my $3.00 into the car wash’s dollar bill validator he said “Haw haw, haw to you American loser and stupid dog. This is the end. Haw, haw, haw!”

We had no fear. We had practiced in my lawn sprinkler and we were ready.

Stage one, the huge rolling brush was in front of us. Binky whined. It was poised above our heads. We dashed under it. Stage One, done! Next up was Stage Two—the side brushes. Twirling and spewing suds, they came toward us from both sides. Binky growled. He was hit by a brush. He went down. I had soap in eyes, but I scooped Binky up and ran forward, almost blindly. Nevertheless, Stage Two was conquered. On to Stage Three: the undercarriage rust proofing. I laid Binky over one the nozzles. The cold spraying chemicals revived him. He jumped up and ran toward the spring-water rinse. We had beaten Stage Three. But Lars had cheated. Before reached Stage Four, we were pummeled by the Hot Wax option. We were sticky and could barely make it to the next stage. Under the cold spring water rinse the wax began to harden. I did a little jig and Binky chased his tail and the wax cracked and fell away. We emerged from the rinse, clean and clear. Looking forward to being buffeted by the hurricane drying winds, we had “beaten” the wax, thwarted Lars, and knocked off the rinse at Stage Four. I yelled, in keeping with my Viking heritage, “Odin, bring on the wind” and Binky howled like a tree-toppling microburst. We ran into the wind and were spit out onto the pavement on the other side. Stage Five bested. That, was it. One to five—all obstacles conquered one by one, leaving us only the nickname name that was our due: “Car Wash Kings.”

We had done it. Now, according to the rules, since we beat the car wash, our challenger was required to take the challenge.

Lars just stood there dumbfounded, looking at the two of us—our shiny clean hair and fur glinting in the afternoon sun. He screamed something in Swedish and ran into the wrong end of the car wash, never to be seen again. It is said that, since Lars disappeared, whenever the car wash’s hot wax squirts, it sounds like “Haw, haw, haw!”

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Exuscitatio

Posted on August 30, 2026 | Leave a comment

Exuscitatio (ex-us-ci-ta’-ti-o): Stirring others by one’s own vehement feeling (sometimes by means of a rhetorical question, and often for the sake of exciting anger).

“This one’s for Mary, may she rest in peace. She risked everything (including her life) to save our zucchini plants from the herd of marauding groundhogs. They overwhelmed her and pushed her into the hole they had dug in the garden box, and clubbed her to death with our prized 2.5 foot zucchini.”

This was Arnold’s attempt to rally us to hire an exterminator to rid us of the groundhog family wreaking havoc on our garden boxes. Mary was there standing alongside him while he tried to rally the The Darnsville co-op to the aid of his cause. The groundhogs had burrowed under the toolshed, spending their winters there, and roaming free range during the warmer seasons destroying our small gardens.

We had to hit them and hit them hard.

I interrupted Arnold to say, “Although Arnold is full of shit, we do need to address the groundhog problem. These little fat bastards are tearing our gardens to hell—leaving us with empty uprooted tomato vines, half-eaten zucchini’s and eggplants and small holes in the ground where our yellow squash used to be. This can’t go on. This can’t continue. They are evil. We must kill them—kill, kill, kill them by the ruthless hand of the exterminator man.”

Co-op members began yelling “kill, kill, kill” and searching their smartphones for exterminators specializing in groundhogs.

We settled on “Dead Grounhog,” clearly specializing in groundhog extermination. “Bomber McPhee,” the proprietor, showed up the next morning. We hired him on the spot after he gave us his pitch. He would mount 11 AR16’s in a motion-actived crossfire positioned to blanket the garden boxes in “hot lead.”

We were all set. We retreated to the clubhouse to await the sound of gunfire as the groundhogs were sliced and diced by “hot lead.” Suddenly the guns began firing. Over the din we heard the occasional squeal as a groundhog was fatally wounded and crawled off to die.

The gunfire died down and stopped and Bomber knocked on the clubhouse door. He came in and told us “three KIA and three took shelter under the toolshed.” He asked if he could blow up the tool shed and “finish the job.” The toolshed had come prefabricated from Lowe’s for $650. That was a small price to pay to end the groundhogs’ rampage..

Bomber rigged the toolshed with four sticks of dynamite and blew it up. We observed groundhog chunks flying into sky as the remains of the toolshed flew in all directions.

“Mission accomplished,” yelled Bomber. We paid him in cash. We give him 5 stars on the “Extermination Nation” website for his flashy uniform, courtesy, pathological desire to kill groundhogs, and his cleanup crew leaving our co-op gardens “like nothing ever happened.”

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Gnome

Posted on August 29, 2026 | Leave a comment

Gnome (nome or no’-mee): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegm, maxim, paroemia, proverb, and sententia.

“If the sandal fits, wear it.”

This saying is from the “Compiled Quotes of Papootse Maximus: Wisdom of the Foot.” At first glance one wonders how feet could be wise—then upon reading the quotation above, you may say to yourself, “Why did I think that?”

For starters, let’s take a look at that quote. “If the sandal fits, wear it” probably means something about feeling comfortable with yourself. As papootse says, “Properly fitting footwear will take you where you need to go, blister-free,”

Using the foot as a metaphor or the self, Maximus taps an almost endless litany of sayings germane to one’s “walk” through life. It can, by the way, be attached to running or hopping. It can also be referenced to standing still, either voluntarily or being constrained by features in your environment, like walls or fences, or by the people in your life who impede your metaphorical “movement,” either for your own good, or in fulfillment of their selfish, controlling, motives.

These “footaphors“ are but one example of the figurative stretch of body parts as they are used to concoct sayings. For example: “Your future is in your hands.” This may motivate a person to “get going” and quit waiting for luck, or something else, to cause their goals’ achievement. In fact, “handaphors” are quite prevelant in sayings, given their importance as a body part in their own right as in “Get a grip” with both useful literal and figurative significance. Get a grip could literally refer to clutching an object (like a golf club) or regaining one’s self control (like quelling your fear).

What about “The nose knows?” Clever indeed. I leave it to you the reader to plumb the saying’s depths. But let me just say, it may be an admonition not to depend solely on reason as a necessary warrant for your insights.

In a similar vein, my favorite gnome is “The TRUTH does NOT speak for itself.” I coined it after my second divorce.

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Graecismus

Posted on August 28, 2026 | Leave a comment

Graecismus (gree-kis’-mus): Using Greek words, examples, or grammatical structures. Sometimes considered an affectation of erudition.

“The pathos was oozing dieresis, as the invisible confabulating man utilized the λαμπερός red spray paint to make himself visible. He said: ‘If you read my book, you have read red—a verbal juxtaposition that can only be readily understood in the medium of print where only the color red can be read at the time of reading and be hermeneutically colored in black ink transported to the destination of the bifurcated logos.’ This is the ultimate sign—weaving medium and message together in a McLuhanesque whole of intertextuality, freed by the ethos of trustworthiness, competence and eunoia, it may stimulate the warm flow of lacrimal fluid.”

This passage comes from “Incense and Nonsense: slow Return to Woodstock,” It is a 3,227 page wasteland of pixels and paper, feigned erudition, and puerile prose prized only for its weight and length as the heaviest and longest known novel in human history, in the English language. It was written over the course of its author Bill Bailey’s life. He began writing it at the age of 11 and completed it at the age of 85, two weeks before he was frozen to death in a “Jack Frost” freezer at the famous string bean processing plant in South Jersey, where he and his beloved Beatrice resided. Beatrice supervised the plant, named “Cool Beans” after the plant’s dependence on refrigeration and its clever motto “Frozen Vegetables: Stiff and Cold, They Never Get Old.”

Bill was taking his daily 3 O’clock cool down when the freezer’s time clock latch malfunctioned, along with its failsafe mechanism. The freezer couldn’t be turned off or exited. Bill spent six hours in the freezer before the door could be opened. He was found standing up clutching a spray of string beans with a painful look on his face, accented by closed eyes, indicating that he was near death when he struck his pose.

Beatrice dragged him to a waiting ambulance to be whisked away to the morgue. The autopsy revealed he froze to death (no surprise), but Beatrice discovered the freezer had been tampered with, indicating that Bill Bailey was probably murdered. This finding opened up an opportunity for Beatrice to write a murder mystery with no solution. The first of its kind. The novel was so bad that Beatrice could not find a publisher, so she self-published and sold nine copies over the course of as many years. While the novel failed while “Cool Beans” flourished.

Eventually, the book was made into the movie “Who Froze Bill?” Beatrice payed for it with profits from “Cool Beans” and by traveling around the world lecturing on “The Fruits of Failure.” The movie flopped and Beatrice died in luxury at the overripe age of 103 in the “Weehawken Home for the Aged.”

Nobody came to her funeral and this meager entry you’re reading is the only thing ever written about her, aside from her death certificate, which consisted of a filled-in form, which, aside from her name, and age, and cause of death, consisted of check boxes.

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Hendiadys

Posted on August 27, 2026 | Leave a comment

Hendiadys (hen-di’-a-dis): Expressing a single idea by two nouns [joined by a conjunction] instead of a noun and its qualifier. A method of amplification that adds force.

“The meal and repast may grant you satisfaction and substance to chew upon. What’s right for you is somewhere between too much and not enough— just right, but by your own lights. This is eating’s golden mean—not mean mean, but the the balance point between—in between excess and dearth, the set spot we should all aim for and adore: the middle way.”

The passage above is from AI Blarney’s nonsensically bad 600-page novel, “The Merchant of Los Angles.” The Merchant is AI Romeo, a throwback to the nineteen-fifties who wears a bow tie, blue suede shoes and a grey flannel suit. He scours 2050 Hollywood Boulevard for unclaimed, under-appreciated talent. His latest find is Donner Blitzen who is named after two of Santa’s reindeer, and plays the electric comb. Tissue paper is wrapped around the comb and it is played like a kazoo. Donner plays “Three Blind Mice,” “Free Bird,” “Flight of the Bumblebees,” “Blue Moon,” and “Stairway to Heaven.” The eclectic blend, and Donner’s virtuoso performance on the comb, leave audiences almost permanently spellbound and subject to AI Romeo’s scams, the most prevalent of which is extracting passcodes from stunned audience members’ smartphones—mainly passcodes to internet shopping sites, spas, and credit cards.

Donner and AI share the ill-gotten gains. Donner uses his caches of passcodes to shop on Amazon for dietary supplements, ointments, knives, mittens, air filters, and paint sprayers—painting his Rolls limo a different color every month—he’s three months into the scam, and already, his limo’s been black, and white, and red all over. He is delighted.

For AI Romeo, the passcodes are a sort of food, nourishing his cyber techno electric frame with numbered stolen secrets, to be digested and displayed on screens made from glass and twisted wires. His favorite theme is “Armageddon” featuring his visage hovering above the ending world consisting of burning passcodes and melting smartphones. He sells his “screen-paintings” to “Everyday People” longing for a change from better to worse, hedging their bets and betting their hedges on the End of the World. He also uses the passcodes to “tickle his fancy” as a made- up entity in control of his own makeup. This is beyond weird and nobody understands it, or wants to understand it YET—but they will when the whiplash comes down at the end of time, cruelly orchestrated by the algorithmic consensus of the AI culture and cadre populating the world.

So far, “The Merchant of Los Angeles” has received only blistering negative reviews as “garbage, “”self-contradictory,” “insane,” “implausible,” and every other negative adjective in the English language. AI Blarney claims the reviews are exactly what he was hoping for: he wanted to successfully fail in an oxymoronic blaze of primal figments—figments grounding the reviews in his intention to make art for the sake of art, making his book a non-profit venture—a tax-free entity vindicated by his ultimate charitable intent: a gift horse to all literate beings.

POSTSCRIPT

I’ve tried my best to provide a coherent review/synopsis, but “Merchant of Los Angeles” won’t allow it. All I can say is this book takes a risk that goes beyond success and failure.

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Heterogenium

Posted on August 26, 2026 | Leave a comment

Heterogenium (he’-ter-o-gen-i-um): Avoiding an issue by changing the subject to something different. Sometimes considered a vice.

Teddy: “I like a good salsa made with fresh ingredients. You should try some of mine.”

Ronald: “Let’s go to the track today and play the ponies.”

Teddy: “What about my salsa?”

Ronald: “I’m betting on the long shots.”

Teddy: “Ok ok, forget about the salsa. What time do we leave for the track?”

Ronald: “Three. I’m driving.“

Teddy: “Ok.“

See how Ronald successfully averted a conflict by changing the subject? Ronald hated salsa and had hundreds of reasons for doing so. His most pointed reason circled around his chronic xenophobia. He secretly worked for DHS as an “Illegal Immigrant Snagger” (IMS). He had recently been issued a pair of electric-shock gloves and as was itching to try them out on some unsuspecting Mexican or other illegal alien working in one of the burrito vans parked down by the city park.

He believed that, just like Jesus, it was his divine duty to inflict as much pain as possible on people in the U.S. illegally. He was a part of a cult that bent the Bible to their baseless prejudiced views. They argued that “illegals” were only neighbors when they stayed in their own countries, as in our “Canadian neighbors” to the North, or “Mexican neighbors” to the South. Once they “crossed the line” they were no longer neighbors and should not be treated as such under the command “Love thy neighbor.” Rather, they should be captured and deported back to being neighbors, beloved so long as they stayed on their side of the line and didn’t trespass on the U.S.A.’s sacred soil.

Of course, this was insane and genuinely evil, but so was the President who issued a flurry of executive orders every day outlining different ways of inflicting hardships on the “interloping, seditious, disease-carrying illegals who are eating dogs and cats and hamsters and bunny rabbits and parakeets—their pets—in Michigan and are to be choked with electrical bully shocker gloves until they leave our shiny city on a hill.”

The executive orders are all unconstitutional and they are consequently blocked by the courts, and the so-called pet- eating aliens are allowed to stay on the “sacred soil” and appeal their deportations. This infuriates people like Ronald who held Trump in high esteem who was “only” trying to make America great again, by means of alienating the entire world with wars, tariffs, and childish insults of other national leaders—Prime Ministers, Presidents, and Royalty.

Ronald was a racist bigoted pig and proud of it. His immigrant deportation “tally” was the highest of any DHS goon, and he was proud of it. Nevertheless, he concealed his DHS affiliation from his friend Teddy who was a Democratic Socialist hell bent on bringing Trump down. Ronald had befriended Teddy to gather intelligence, hoping to get a promotion. He was going to put “likes Salsa” on the list he was compiling that would implicate Teddy in treason, and hopefully lead to him being hanged.

So, the lesson here: beware of people who change the subject. They may be aspiring spies like Ronald, taking notes on your unpatriotic motives and preferences, and treasonous intention to contribute to the overthrow of the U.S. government to make America democratic again.

Do not trust subject-changers. They are your enemy, like Ronald was Teddy’s enemy.

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Homoeopropophoron

Posted on August 25, 2026 | Leave a comment

Homoeopropophoron: Alliteration taken to an extreme where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant. Sometimes, simply a synonym for alliteration or paroemion [a stylistic vice].

The gilded grapes glistened glamorously. They were a part of the decoration I was making for my wine vine float. “Drunken Hell Week” was about to begin, and I wanted the coveted “Number One Float Prize.” Our small town of “New Delirium” was the number one producer of cheap fortified flavored wines in the USA.

Dating back to the Dutch “Apple Brain Flipper” (appel hersen flipper) first produced in the then-named village of Schneerhoppen, it caught on immediately. When the Dutch were pushed out, Scheerhoppen became New Delirium, named after the hamlet of “Delirium” on the outskirts of London, England.

After the success of “Apple Brain Flipper,” the residents of New Delirium turned solely to cheap fortified flavored wines for their livelihoods. Using Concord grapes as the base and adding grain alcohol and flavors to the base, they provided drunks and everyday people with a beverage that “took them somewhere else.”

Their skid row was nearly 1 mile long, almost reaching New York City. It was replete with drunks, panhandlers, trappers, mimes, grifters of all kinds, barbershop quartets, and fortune tellers, all whom predicted opulent, successful futures for all of their clients. This made them extremely popular. Most of the futures had to do with cows or corn, the two most prevalent means of earning a living—herding or farming.

After “Apple Brain Flipper,” the most popular wine was “Peach Lay-U-Out.” It was nearly 100% alcohol and had a wonderful peachy aroma and flavor. Many a young man became an alcoholic after only drinking half a bottle on a Saturday night at “The Holy Wreck Tavern” located at the very start of skid row. Their motto was: “Drink, Drank, Drunk, Deteriorate, Degenerate, and Drive.” Half the hamlet had a pile of unpaid DUIs tucked in their sock drawers.

The third most popular wine was “Elderberry Knuckle.” It was called “Knuckle” because drinking it was like getting punched in the face. It was 100% alcohol, with a drop of mescaline. Drinkers just sat and started and said “wow” after drinking five shots. It was rumored that Washington Irving was high on three shots when he wrote “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” This probably isn’t true, but it induced many unsuccessful writers to give it a “shot” before giving up and starting a barbershop quartet or fortune telling set-up.

Once completed, my float was sure to win the grand prize. In addition to the golden grape-laden vines, the float had passengers depicting wealth and fame while guzzling fortified wine directly from their bottles. My favorite was the banker dressed in a black topcoat with tails, gray striped trousers, shiny brogues, a white vest with a fake gold watch chain strung across ir, and a top hat. He was really the epitome of success—displaying inebriation as a fast- track to the top. He was barely 18 years old, drunk, and wealthy.

I loved everything about New Delirium. I was half-drunk most of the time. The rest of the time I was passed out somewhere along skid row: an exemplary citizen. I had a 200-year old small family business—a liquor store: “Bindle Bob’s Bliss Bottled Beverages.” My boozes made many men maximally merry, muddled, and meandering, much to their many-splendored good fortune.

I was following in my anscestors’ footsteps—providing a cheap escape to willing customers.

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Homoioptoton

Posted on August 24, 2026 | Leave a comment

Homoioptoton (ho-mee-op-to’-ton): The repetition of similar case endings in adjacent words or in words in parallel position.

Note: Since this figure only works with inflected languages, it has often been conflated with homoioteleuton and (at least in English) has sometimes become equivalent to simple rhyme: “To no avail, I ate a snail.”

I was growing old. I looked like I was growing mold. I was purple, red, yellow and navy blue. Navy blue was the dominant color. I shimmered like a peacock’s tail, to no avail. That’s all I did.

I was 87 and I didn’t care whether I did anything at all. Then, one day I was taking a wheelchair ride down my driveway and a Rolls Royce pulled up. It was Gnome Chompsy, the billionaire entrepreneur,

He got out of his limo with a guy in a uniform holding the door. I just sat there slack-jawed almost in shock. “”What can he possibly want with me?” I thought. Basically, I was stunned that he had pulled up here in front of my house.

He said, “I’m starting a freak show. Your peacock skin qualifies you as a legitimate freak. Your colorful freakishness will complement the other freaks nicely, especially the Kool Aide Kid, who you will partner with.. He’s a single strawberry color and translucent. You can sit behind him and between the two of you make a beautiful display that people will pay to see.” I told him I could make my colors swirl when I pooped. He said we could discuss that later.

The only sticking point, that almost killed the deal, was what to do with my wheelchair pusher. She was super conscientious and had been pushing me around for the past five years. We went together like clouds and bad weather. Shelly would be a deal- breaker if she wasn’t allowed to roll me along in my new life.

Gnome capitulated on the condition that she wear Michael Jackson gloves and a metallic gold bikini when we performed. Shelly was in great shape and didn’t mind showing it off. She readily agreed, and the deal was cut. We worked Shelly into our routine. I would sit behind the Kool Aide Kid while Shelly go-go danced in a cage suspended above my head. She featured the Rolling Stones’ music catalogue with her favorite being “Honky Tonk Woman.”

We became the “Top Freaks Trio” in “Gnome’s Traveling Freak Show.” We traveled around the world to Asia, Europe, Africa and Australia. We made a documentary movie titled “True Colors” and eventually Shelly and I got married. We have five children. Only one has my gift. We call him “Swirly” because he can make his colors swirl without pooping. He’s part of the show and replaced the Kool Aide Kid when he died a couple of years ago. One of our daughters has taken Shelly’s place in the go-go cage. I’m looking forward to retiring soon. Our son will take my place with wheelchair tricks, with his “special” son behind him. All in the family!

Being a freak among freaks has its ups and downs, like the time a wheel fell off my wheelchair. I was able to spin on one wheel as Shelly let go and we brought the curtain down with me spinning. Shelly quickly replaced the wheel behind the curtain. When we raised the curtain again, we got a standing ovation. We integrated the one wheel spin into the act and the rest is history.

Everybody has a special gift. Find yours, and find your niche.

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Homoioteleuton

Posted on August 23, 2026 | Leave a comment

Homoioteleuton (ho-mee-o-te-loot’-on): Similarity of endings of adjacent or parallel words.

He was plucky. He was lucky. He was cocky. He was crazy.

Graham Wanker was a professional daredevil. He came straight from hell and would do anything anytime he was challenged to do it. Women flocked to partake of his legendary virility. My wife Henny had disappeared into the bushes with him twenty-times—twice a day for 10 days straight. I asked her what they did in the bushes. She said they made things come together every time. She found the reliability refreshing—repetitive achievement was deeply rewarding, like money, or candy, or having a prayer repeatedly answered by God Himself.

I knew differently. Graham was slowly turning Henny against me, trading me in for the Dare Devil—the famous, untouchable, unlimited daredevil. I was blind-eyed jealous. I was so jealous that I came up with a plan to eliminate him—his shiny gel-slicked hair and all. Gone!

I would commit murder by dare. After all, he billed himself as taking any dare. I teamed up with the other town cuckolds to come up with a dare that would kill him. Yes, kill him.

We thought of hundreds of dares, among them: jumping off a cliff, jumping in front of a FedEx truck, lighting himself on fire, driving into a bridge abutment. But these and similar dares had been taken and survived by Graham. It was like he had magical powers. We thought, and argued, and discussed. We came up with a plan

We would assemble at Wedgies Bar and Grill and challenge him to swallow the eight ball from the pool table. When we challenged him he laughed and said “Piece of cake.” His confidence rattled us, but we went ahead with our plan anyway.

It was time. Wedgies was packed to the rafters. Graham appeared from the men’s room clad only in bright red boxer shorts and carrying a battery-powered circular saw. We protested when he started sawing the eight ball into bite-sized chunks and swallowing them piece by piece. Between chunks he said I’m invoking the “loophole clause” that is extant in every dare. If the daree can successfully concoct one, it becomes permissible as a way around the “letter” of the dare.

We were angry and distressed, at that point, Mel Turner urged us to just shoot him or poison him and call it a day. But, that would be cheating, so we nixed it and went back to the library to assemble for further conversation.

We decided to dare him not to take any more dares. It worked! Things have calmed and we town cuckolds are slowly regaining confidence that they are Number One in their love lives.

Graham has taken up landscape guarding and does “plantings” during the week when husbands are at work. He earns $100 per job, plus tips for his extra efforts with deep plantings.

Once again, husbands are wondering what’s going on in their wive’s gardens while they are at work.

Clearly, Graham, is thumbs up or thumbs down, the happiest man in town. The rest of us are meeting next week to reconsider Mel’s shoot or poison proposal.

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Horismus

Posted on August 21, 2026 | Leave a comment

Horismus (hor-is’-mus): Providing a clear, brief definition, especially by explaining differences between associated terms.

Time quells chaos by dividing its annoying presence into increments, giving us the welcome illusion of now. Without it we would have only “hum” which would be the actual now bearing no past or future. Being always, already the same, contrast would be obliterated and where we “are” would not register, as time became a singular circumstance, and meaning, contrast’s counterpart, would be reduced to “hum” mimicking the ever-omnipresence of the Big Blend, which what reality would be called for its lost differences and foundational similars—similars with no differences to hold them in check in an attitude of critical reasoning.

“No difference, no brainer” is the mantra of this already aways eclipsed site of possible disruption, that goes unnoticed in the Hum of Hum—the unsegmented One that can’t be divided, multiplied, added or subtracted, poised in something other than eternity that can’t even be conceptualized, but may be an eternal present, whose impossibility may be realized in a lengthening shadow moving across a rock wall. The motion—the movement—may pinion the mind drawing it away from the possible illusion of the eternal present in the sweeping shadow. The shadow is decorated with equidistant dots, numbers are made up and the “wall clock” is born—born of no special need other than delight in observing the shadow traversing the dots and contemplating what can happen between them—the “starting” and “stopping” and “beginning” and “ending” they may engender.

Awakened by the shadow, the world builds time as a movement between points proving a site of measure becoming ubiquitous that allows for the imputation of motive to the sum of all action—being “on time” sets an anxiety as the foundational ground of all accusation as the kairos (the timely) sets the agenda for praise and blame, heretofore impossible to conceive from the singular, unsegmented hum” of the eternal present: its truth-like substance of always, all the time, being the same, without the strife of difference—tranquil—strife-bound as more.

It took me ten minutes to write this. Time well spent. Don’t you agree?

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Hypallage

Posted on August 20, 2026 | Leave a comment

Hypallage (hy-pal’-la-ge): Shifting the application of words. Mixing the order of which words should correspond with which others. Also, sometimes, a synonym for metonymy (see Quintilian).

The truck laughed, and died, and coughed. I laughed and coughed but I didn’t die. I had the truck towed to “Mel’s Magical Garage” where it was determined there was no resurrecting “Bucko the Trucko.” We had ridden by ways sideways, rounded rainy bends, and brought home the bacon together for 20 years.

It was like losing a family member, like my wife or my son—“Big Nuts Billy.” He worked for an X-rated circus sideshow act—“All things great and small.” His balls weighed in at 11 pounds apiece (more or less). In his act he draped them over a chinning bar held up by two wiry naked women. Then, he would hug his balls and spin on the bar like he was doing somersaults. He would go faster and faster and let go landing in the audience to its great delight. Then, he would sit in a chair and autograph male fans’ ball sacs and women’s’ breasts.

When he goes out in public, he wears his “sac sock.” It’s kind of like a watch cap that he pulls over his balls to cover them. He has a specially designed walker that holds his balls and keeps him from falling forward on his face.

He makes a good living and his medical insurance is covered by his employer. He travels a lot and is quite lonely most of the time. If you’re looking for a big-balled man Big Nuts will be there for you. If his heart is as big as his balls, you’ll live happily ever after. All he asks is that you wash his balls after each performance. He believes it is a wifely duty that can only bring you closer together on life’s arduous journey from Point B (birth) to Point D (death), it sounds morbid, but try walking a mile with a knit cap pulled over your balls while pushing a walker.

Imagine, after a day’s work, you’re in the mall being taunted by greasy little teens. The degradation is so thick you could cut it with a baseball bat, but you know your little lady is waiting for you at home, steaming washcloth in her hand. The teenagers fade out as you dwell in anticipation of your evening after work cleansing. You confidently roll into Best Buy, pull down some ear buds, pay, and get set to drive. You pack your walker in the trunk, and slide your balls under the custom quarter-moon shaped steering wheel. You pull into your driveway, and there she is holding the bath towel/washcloth between her outstretched arms. Her freshly painted nails glisten bright red in the waning light of the setting sun.

You are home. We are home. Home is where the heart is. Love is all that matters, no matter how big your balls may be.

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Hyperbaton

Posted on August 19, 2026 | Leave a comment

Hyperbaton (hy-per’-ba-ton): 1. An inversion of normal word order. A generic term for a variety of figures involving transposition, it is sometimes synonymous with anastrophe. 2. Adding a word or thought to a sentence that is already semantically complete, thus drawing emphasis to the addition.

I was cold—freezing. I had misplaced my mittens and gone outside anyway on a typical Antarctic afternoon. It was ironic. I was a mitten tester working for “Arctic Hand” mitten company. As their name suggests, they specialized in mittens designed to keep your hands warm in Arctic climates.

They had made millions since the “Sun-Dip Catastrophe” had significantly lowered earth’s temperature. The “Antarctic” where I was located went as far south as Kingston, Ontario. The sun’s temperature had been negatively affected by a U.S. government initiative named “Burn, Baby, Burn.”

It was NASA that killed the sun. “Burn, Baby, Burn” was designed to incinerate growing piles of garbage accumulating in land fills which were flooding with the 22nd century’s trash. It was designed to eliminate the earth’s solid wastes by launching them in garbage rockets into the sun. Sadly, there was so much garbage worldwide, that it started to smother the sun, significantly cooling the surface of the earth— bringing it below freezing, even in formerly tropical zones.

The disaster’s author, Dr. Denomiter, was found guilty of using forged data to make it look like “Burn, Baby, Burn” was a no brainer. Of course, it wasn’t. He was tried and convicted of fraud and is serving a life prison sentence, making vanity plates for SUV’s and pickup trucks, while worldwide panic is being replaced by insurrection and goose down clothed miscreants stealing petrochemicals and firewood and running wild throughout the land. Geese have been made nearly extinct by the pressure put on them as clothiers slaughter them for their feathers and supermarkets overflow with their dressed-out carcasses, disgusting.

The end was in sight, but people still need durable, comfortable, cold proof mittens. Soon my “testers” will go on sale, making it possible for people to freeze to death more comfortably as sub-zero temperatures overtake the world, and it comes to an end. I want to call my tester mittens “Armageddon Minus 200s.” I figure it’ll be about 10 years until the end. If the sun ceases to be fed garbage, surely earth will be habitable longer, and may even recover.

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Hypozeuxis

Posted on August 18, 2026 | Leave a comment

Hypozeuxis (hyp-o-zook’-sis): Opposite of zeugma. Every clause has its own verb.

I was going somewhere. I had a destination. It was my destiny. It was tied to where I was coming from. But, I didn’t know where I was coming from. Accordingly, although it was my destiny, its location was unfathomable. But, I had a muse bouncing around in my unadorned mind. My mind was a polished mirror, reflecting reality, albeit backwards, to my consciousness where I was consumed with thoughts, relished by my mind’s inscrutable presence,

Given its incoherence, it afforded me freedom of thought. I made sense of nonsense, doting on the freedom afforded by purposeless gibberish. But, was it freedom or liberty I obtained? Or, is liberty simply a kind of freedom from constraints?

Still, liberty may pave its own pathways, calling its experiences “truth” because it is unconstrained by bias, because it makes no sense.

Was I experiencing mental whiplash, or just “whipping the lash” to appear to be lost in vines of delusion, as a display of its liberating promise. The “truth” may actually be a slave master. Far from setting you free, it puts you on a course through life dictated by its apparent infallibility.

But it may be possible that the direction and purpose it provides are spokes in a wheel, conveying you to where it sets your will’s course. Accordingly, it takes control. Accordingly, it becomes you as you assent to its substance and relinquish control, you are guided by trust in its authority and trust’s aptness to determine your feeling of knowing, which taken to an extreme is madness: the abrogation of YOUR foundation as a being borne to bear opinions about the past and future, secured by persuasion and avoiding certitude.

But, what can I say? More than I think, which is less than I know and more than I believe. 

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Hysterologia

Posted on August 16, 2026 | Leave a comment

Hysterologia (his-ter-o-lo’-gi-a): A form of hyperbaton or parenthesis in which one interposes a phrase between a preposition and its object. Also, a synonym for hysteron proteron.

I was hovering, a frozen pizza pie over, without a worry, the microwave oven. I was piloting a pizza with a mission, with a deep reservoir of talents proclaimed by my role: Recon Drone Pilot First Class, US Drone Force.

We kept the peace by surveilling the law enforcement community—at home and working; patrolling cities, towns sand hamlets on the lookout for hints of insurrection. Every home throughout our little corner of dystopia was required to have one screenless window open at all times so Corps drones could enter premises unrestrained.

The pizza drone was a favorite— it was a welcome guest in most homes—a non-threatening presence related to family festivities like birthdays or anniversaries—forms of homecoming celebrating bonds of blood, friendship, and marriage,

Because our food drones were edible, they had a mana-like presence, coming from the sky and sometimes feeding whole-sports stadiums filled with cheering believers grabbing buckets of fried chicken hovering before them, while gathering information and providing tasty treats in return.

Tonight, as I hovered over the microwave I could see a big no-no resting in the living room. It looked like an innocent butterfly net, but it was actually a D-47 drone catcher issued to pathetic constituents by the opposition, whose motto was “Catch It-Do Not Eat It.” They alleged the drones were drugged, making willing dupes of supposedly free constituents who ate them.

They were right.

I inserted my pizza pie into the microwave’s specially designed pizza port. As it was zapped to life, it’s irresistible odor returned the family to normalcy, taking their pizza catcher outside and lighting it on fire, burning it to a crisp and crying, riddled with remorse for turning rogue and being conned by the opposition.

Of course, I was all for The Man. I had all the pizza I could eat, all the “truth” to digest, and solidarity with other mega-dupes glorying in the lies, injustice and the dictates of the infallible leader of the infallible regime.

All hail edible drones—mana from heaven, just desserts, like rainbows of oppression with pots full of deliciously prepared junk food beckoning at their ends.

Come and get it, boys and girls! You must try the cake!

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Hysteron Proteron

Posted on August 15, 2026 | Leave a comment

Hysteron Proteron (his’-ter-on pro’-ter-on): Disorder of time. (What should be first, isn’t.).

Everything was back-asswards. I was getting younger by the hour. My receding hairline was ceding—like a tide of black fur rising on the shores of my bald head. It wasn’t quite a tsunami but it was close. There was dandruff floating in the sea of hair bobbing on the swirling currents of restoration. My eyes were no longer foggy-looking little round smudges. Now they were bright puddles of lapis-lazuli, shining their beautiful color for all the world to see, and to comment on and love. My stomach had shrunk to its forty years back flatness. I looked like I used to be as my whole body had gone into chrono-reversal.

Where would it end? Back to the womb? A cloud a protoplasm blown into consonance with the wind and streaming away on a volatile west-gale?

The process had slowed considerably since I had switched over to a junk food diet. I figured eating convenience store snack food would slow the process, and maybe reverse it. Eating death-food, I reasoned, would balance out whatever it was making me younger. Of course, I was wrong. The improvement had become unnoticeable, as death=life in backwards logic. It started again. My death-hold kept me at about thirty years old for a week.

Now I’m going full tilt into adolescence. Pimples. squeaky voice, rude, enjoying fart jokes and video games, and more. I still don’t understand why this is happening to me. Certainly, under its logic, if I was sane before, now I’m going insane—a crazy adolescent, but jeez, I’m fading into toddlerhood. Luckily I still have my wits about me, even though, I’m insane. I’m insane.

I see a giant vagina posed in front of me with an arrow pointing in. In I go. I pass out. Unconscious, I’m conscious of laying on a pile of clocks going coo-cuck, coo-cuck, coo-cuck.

This is a disaster, but at least I’m comfortably bald again. I hear ahead a soft, yet adamant voice, urging me to take my meds NOW! It’s THAT TIME AGAIN.

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Inopinatum

Posted on August 7, 2026 | Leave a comment

Inopinatum (in-o-pi-na’-tum): The expression of one’s inability to believe or conceive of something; a type of faux wondering. As such, this kind of paradox is much like aporia and functions much like a rhetorical question or erotema. [A paradox is] a statement that is self-contradictory on the surface, yet seems to evoke a truth nonetheless [can include oxymoron].

I can’t believe you ate that rabbit’s foot. Why the hell did you eat it? I could see a chicken’s foot, but not a rabbit’s. Yech!

Vick responded, “I am the archetypal suitor of married women. I need to be fleet of foot—like a rabbit—to escape the cuckolds I create with my debauchery. When eating rabbit’s feet, I see myself as Bugs Bunny: a fast bunny who always escapes retribution for his deeds, much to the chagrin of Elmer Fudd.

As I assimilate the feet into my body’s gross adventures, I can move like a drag racer from “A”to “Z,” from bedroom to SUV in 20 seconds. I have outrun 100s of furious husbands in my quarter-mile dash to my car.”

I was fascinated with Vick’s story. I aspired to be a pianist. Following Vick’s lead, I resolved to eat piano players’ fingers—fingers that promise to make me grow into a key key player in the musical world.

I couldn’t do this alone, so I recruited Ms. Addington, my lover, my best friend and my teacher/tutor. l was on my third and final run at math. I had stayed back three times in the eighth grade due to failing math. Ms, Addington was assigned to me by the School Board. Ms.Addington was beautiful.

We were alone in the math lab, and one thing led to another. I told her she was a hot number, that she added up, and that nothing could divide us. In short, she was my number one, almost tied with my mother. Plus, she was she was a gourmet chef.

When I told her my plan and why I was doing it, she told me she wanted in. She told me eating pianists fingers would increase her speed on the white board. I told her I had made up a recipe for our first finger meal. I’ve printed its step by recipe below:

  1. Several hands from victim.
  2. Amputate fingers.
  3. Remove fingernails.
  4. Wash fingers.
  5. Roll each amputated finger in flour.
  6. Smother in canned mushrooms
  7. Heat oven to 208 degrees
  8. Bake for 45 minutes
  9. Serve with favorite vegetables and red wine.
  10. Eat with corn holders.

If all went well I should be a virtuoso pianist in one month.

The night came. Our victim was Suzy Bolinger, a total dork-nerd who had won every piano playing contest in the state of New York. I hated her. Harvesting her fingers and eating them would be the highlight of my life—my staircase to heaven—my way to prowess.

We dressed in black. I loaded my battery powered circular saw in my gym bag, along with zip ties, duct tape, and a hammer that I would beat Suzy over the head with. Ms. Addington had determined Suzy would be home alone—it was her parents night out at their book club. I rang the doorbell—it played “Flight of Bumblebee.” As soon as Suzy opened the door, lights went on and sirens filled air. A guy with a bullhorn yelled “Walk toward me with your hands in the air.”

We were busted!

Ms. Addington had informed the police of our plan. It’s true, you can’t trust anybody over thirty.

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Inter se pugnantia

Posted on August 3, 2026 | Leave a comment

Inter se pugnantia (in’-ter-say-pug-nan’-ti-a): Using direct address to reprove someone before an audience, pointing out the contradictions in that person’s character, often between what a person does and says.

I’ve assembled your friends Dolly and Doris to witness my “intervention.” They too may, counsel you later. We’ve duct-taped you to kitchen table, and gagged you, to be sure you listen and to assure the intervention works.

And what exactly is an intervention? It’s when a loved one (AKA me) intervenes in the course of your life, calls you out and gets you to admit you have a problem affecting and harming the people around you who care about you. Your friends are here to watch me call you out, since they’re afraid to do so on their own.

Basically, Marge, your nonstop anger accompanied by your swearing, is driving your friends away—everything in your life mother fu*ks, shit heads, or dipshits, or c*cksukcers, or assholes, or numnuts’s, or jerk offs, or blows’s, or shitstains, or shit eats, or dick weeds, or fart faces, or scumbags, or buttholes, or bug fu*ks, or shit-for-brains, or hum jobs, or carpet munchers, or shove it up your asses, and hundreds more. You know them all. You use them all.

Our greatest concern is for you job working as a secretary/ receptionist for Reverend Bland, The other day I heard you address a parishioner: “What the fu*k do you want asshole?.” That won’t do at all. Or, during services last Sunday, during collection, you admonished the congregation to “put some fu*kin’ paper money in the basket instead of nickel-dining Reverend fuckin’ Bland into the co*ksuckin’ poor house, while I lose my God dam job.”

That’s not all. Your parent-teacher meetings haven’t gone well. When the guidance counselor, Mr. Norknock, told you he had some “concerns” about Little Timmy, you flipped out and called him “A do nothing dipshit shit for brains who would be better off as a fu*king greeter at goddamn Wal-Mart than shoveling shit here at Chester Fu*king Arthur Middle School.”

I removed the gag. Marge said “Get outta my fu*king face you gaggle of co*k-sucking Mother fu*kers.”

That was it, our friendship ended then and there. Marge had crossed the line.the intervention failed.

POSTSCRIPT

Surprisingly, Marge did not lose her job. Even more of a surprise: Marge got a master of divinity degree. She continued her swearing by quoting miscreants’ talk in her sermons, and condemning it as the Satanic talk of sinners. She was able to keep swearing, constrained only by the obscene words she put in the mouths of evildoers. Her Sunday sermons were known far and wide for their honesty, bluntness, and avoidance of euphemism.

Her obscenity-laced Sunday sermons vituperating sinners exorcised her weekday speech as a sort of steam valve.

Ironically, Marge’s penchant for swearing was satisfied as she did the work of the Lord. When she said “Holy shit,” she meant it with all her mother fu*kin’ heart.

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Intimation

Posted on August 3, 2026 | Leave a comment

Intimation: Hinting at a meaning but not stating it explicitly.

“Your barn door is open,” I said to my friend Joe. The “barn door” thing is the universal hint that one’s fly is unzipped. Not for Joe. “Do I look like a friggin’ farmer?” He didn’t get it. Once we we were eating in a posh restaurant and he was slurping his soup. I said, “I hear a sink draining, do you?” Some guy at another table yelled “I do!” Joe looked a me like I was crazy and kept on slurping.

We were in a crowded elevator. I hard a telltale squeaking noise coming from Joe it quickly morphed into a blinding stench. I said, “Your trumpet’s broken. We better get out on the next floor before you kill somebody.” Joe said “What? Are you talking about my farts? Ok.” He got it! I would’ve hugged him, but he was ringed by the stench he had emitted.

I was optimistic that Joe was starting to understand my subtleties.

We were in a crowded subway. He blew one of his poison farts. He said, “Uh oh. My trumpet’s broken again.” He laughed and blew another one. He said, “I think it’s my tuba that’s broken.” He laughed and blew another one. Everybody got off at the next stop, and nobody got on. We had the car all to ourselves for two stops.

We went to a Yankees game. He stood up yelling when McGreevy hit a triple. He was jumping up and down yelling. I noticed his fly was unzipped. I yelled “Your bath door’s open,” he looked down and zipped up his fly.

Success! It seemed that Joe had tuned into my subtleties and was becoming a full-fledged social actor.

We were at the nYS State Fair. We were boarding the wild mouse—a roller coaster type ride. It is set up so it looks like the car you’re riding in is going off its rails and you’re about to fall to your death 200 feet below. I had never gone on the Wild Mouse before, due fear of heights. Joe made chicken sounds and quickly convinced me my fear was unfounded.

We slowly ascended to the top of ride. We could see the fair from up there. Suddenly we plummeted almost straight down, and made a turn so sharp I could feel our car coming off the rails! I was terrified and was still shaking when I got off the ride,

Joe came over to me and said softly, “Hey Eddy, you have a fudge stain on the back of your pants.” I knew instantly what he meant. Joe had given me a hint instead flat out telling me I had shit my pants on the Wild Mouse.

This gave me hope that Joe had figured things out.

I took off my sweatshirt and tied it around my waist to cover my “fudge stain” and we headed off to the dairy barn to view this year’s butter sculpture “Mayor Mamdani Hands Out Money.”

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Isocolon

Posted on August 1, 2026 | Leave a comment

Isocolon (i-so-co’-lon): A series of similarly structured elements having the same length. A kind of parallelism.

The sunshine. The trees. The birds. The butterflies.The creek. The lake. My camp. Finally, I had gotten away from it all. Off the grid, my ten acres of paradise was my refuge in all four seasons: hiking in spring, summer and fall, snow shoeing and x-country skiing in winter, swimming and fishing and canoeing in summer, and burying my victims all year-round.

I had brought the list of missing persons in Starbucks County to 15 over the course of 15 years, harvesting one victim per year. I was a disgusting excuse for a human being—the lowest of the low: insane, compulsive, uncaring, conscience-free.

I am a serial killer.

It started with gleefully crushing insects, then torturing and killing hamsters, mice, and lab rats. I did my first annual human when I was 22. She was a fellow student from the community college.,I had recently won the ten acres in a poker game. That’s where I took her. I killed her and buried her. I did this once a year for fifteen years.,

Nobody suspected me of the recurring deaths. I was a guidance counselors at the local high school. I had helped many students with their choices of college and vocations. I was loved by everybody.

Then I fell in love with Tootsie Keller. She had a small farting problem, but that that didn’t bother me. We got married, paid for by her wealthy parents. I thought my serial killing days were over, but I was wrong. One day, I woke up and wanted to kill Tootsie. I had no reason, I just had an urge. I lured her to my campsite and was about to split her skull with a hatchet when she turned to me and said, “I love you so muchChippy.”

They say love conquers all, but In this case it didn’t. I split her skull and buried her. When she went missing, the police searched my 10-acre paradise and found my cache of bodies. DNA tests and my flimsy alibis put me in prison for 125 years.

Even though I am guilty as hell, I feel no guilt.

I am a psychopath.

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Kategoria

Posted on July 31, 2026 | Leave a comment

Kategoria (ka-te-go’-ri-a): Opening the secret wickedness of one’s adversary before his [or her] face.

“You cheated, you lied, you said that you loved me.” I figured confronting her in song would heighten the impact of what I was about to do.

All of her secret running around had torn my heart into confetti, and I was ready to throw it in her face.

We were going to meet down by the river where many distraught men had shot, or bludgeoned, or drowned their unfaithful wives and lovers. I was going for bludgeoning. I was a hands-on man. I was a mechanic at “Cars & Pars.” We repaired automobiles and golf carts from the local public golf course. I was a transmission specialist. I dealt primarily with slippage—tightening the inner bands that make autos move and pressure plates on manual transmission cars that do likewise. My one-inch hex box wrench will put her down.

My plan is to throw confetti in her face. Then, I use my torn up heart saying, followed by singing “you cheated, you lied, and finally, beat her over the head with my wrench and drag her into the river.

She pulled up at 8.00pm as agreed. She got out of her car and walked up to me. I reached in my paper bag, got a handful of confetti and threw it in her face. She squealed “Oh honey! You remembered it’s our second end anniversary,! How romantic! Come here and for great big kiss!” I was taken aback. I dropped the wrench and did as she said.

My plan went completely awry. She got me. I was blind-sided by what she said. My hostility melted away. We went to the most expensive restaurant in town, “To-fusion+” a Japanese place with fifty kinds of tofu prepared with accents from different cultures and ethnicities. I ordered Southern-fried tofu and she ordered Tikka-tofu. In the heat of the candle-lit moment, I proposed. She accepted. We got married.

POSTSCRIPT

I’m serving a life sentence in Huntsville State Prison for murder. I caught her banging the counter guy from Cliff’s. When I burst into our bedroom and caught her, she said “You finally made it! Join in the fun honey.” It almost worked, but I shot him and beat her over the head with the marble bookend by the bed instead. I threw a handful of confetti on their bodies and dialed 911.

The moral of the story: “Never give anybody a second chance.“

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Litotes

Posted on July 30, 2026 | Leave a comment

Litotes (li-to’-tees): Deliberate understatement, especially when expressing a thought by denying its opposite. The Ad Herennium author suggests litotes as a means of expressing modesty (downplaying one’s accomplishments) in order to gain the audience’s favor (establishing ethos).

I am honored to accept this award you have generously bestowed upon me.

My invention of the wind-powered dump truck was a hard-won accomplishment. As you said, it made for savings of billions of dollars on the cost of fuel in the construction industry.

The wind doesn’t blow all the time, but it blows enough to keep those dump trucks rolling most of the time, saving cash and delivering their payloads—from dirt to chert, from asphalt to basalt.

The International Association of Dump Truck Drivers (I.A.D.D.) has always been on my list of favorite service providers, generously conveying every conceivable “fill” across, this, our beautiful land. While I sit comfortably behind my laptop banging out inventions, you’re driving through fair weather and foul weather to backfill and pave and excavate the needs of America’s builders and developers, road paving crews, and more, helping to provide homes for families and roads to every destination in our beautiful land.

So, while I humbly accept this award, I also proudly offer my gratitude to I.A.D.D. for all you do everyday to haul America’s hope into a brightly-lit future making possible buildings’ foundations, and roads, and highways, and driveways, and swimming pools, and so much more!

Somebody should give you an award!

Thank you for this precious award. I am honored and grateful. When I’m driving home tonight, on a smoothly paved highway, to my house with its swimming pool, I’ll be thinking of you! Again, thank-you!

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Martyria

Posted on July 29, 2026 | Leave a comment

Martyria (mar-tir’-i-a): Confirming something by referring to one’s own experience.

I was a Boy Scout. I took the oath. I won some merit badges—for orienteering, for whittling, for catching a live chicken and making it into a chicken salad sandwich, for hiking five miles in the rain.

“Be Prepared” was our motto. We carried toilet paper in our knapsacks. We packed bug spray and bandaids and Neosporin everywhere we went, even if it was only to the kitchen. I was never without a poncho to the thwart the rain and sunglasses to thwart the sun’s dangerous rays. When I got older, I carried a 9mm Beretta, just in case.

But now, harkening back to my “Latrine Digging Championship Award,” from the 2016 National Boy Scout Jamboree held at the Summit Bechtel Reserve. I competed against 52 other Boy Scouts who had won state/territory competitions. I represented New York.

We had twenty minutes to complete our latrines. Our latrines were judged by stringent criteria: uniform depth, width, diameter, and beauty. We all had to give a speech on the history and health benefits of the latrine, and finally, our latrines were tested by five urinators and two poopers each. I had decorated my latrine with wildflowers—that’s what pushed me over the top to win, and that’s when I decided to be a septic system technician. That was around ten years ago.

And here I am now to service your septic system. I am eminently qualified to ensure your septic system does not continue to “runneth over” or continue to smell like a puddle of poopy. I founded “Proven Pumper” to provide people with pumped septic tanks and peace of mind. I am at my clients’ command at any time, day or night. Scout’s honor. And what’s more, you’re my 1,000th customer, so you get a free pump-job!

Thanks for listening to my little spiel!

Now, shall we get started pumping this baby dry? Ok! Please stand back while we uncap your septic tank and run the hose down in there.

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Maxim

Posted on July 28, 2026 | Leave a comment

Maxim (max’-im): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegm, gnome, paroemia, proverb, and sententia.

“Truth does not speak for itself”

This maxim counters the maxim “The truth speaks for itself.” We hear “The truth speaks fr itself” all the time from smug bearers of bullshit who want to make you believe that there’s magical ventriloquism attached to truth’s application in discourse; that saying “The truth speaks for itself” somehow bestows what’s said with truth’s credibility as if people don’t speak the truth. No matter how “obvious” an utterance may be, its veracity is still mediated through human sensibilities, reason, the senses, and more.

You may hear in a closing argument’s conclusion: “And so you can see members of the jury, the truth speaks for itself, my client is not guilty.” That’s like saying “This burger speaks for itself, it tastes like shit.” At least in the burger example the speaker seems more connected to his judgment than the truth speaking for itself does. At least there’s a bare reference to the speaker’s judgement which helps mollify its absurdly—he’s doing the tasting—he explicitly agrees with the burger. Together the two of them make the case (this may be true of the Truth example too).

Below is a of list some “speaks for itself” utterances so we can see how the speaker is actually employing personification—a figure of speech where a concept or object is given human attributes. In sum, it is an instance of rhetoric’s use, at best, to make the so-called truth effective. It is not evidence, or a formal claim. It is an instance of figurative language intended to bolster the credibility of a given line of argument. It’s apparent detachment from the speaker, speaking in its own right as truth “personified,” may add to the credibility of a speaker’s claim, making it more persuasive.

Examples:

  1. The crayon speaks for itself. It is red.
  2. The boil on my neck speaks for itself. It is disgusting.
  3. The way you parked your car speaks for itself. You are a lousy driver.
  4. This used car speaks for itself. It’s a beauty.
  5. This lobster roll speaks for itself. It is delicious!

And on, and on, it goes. We all know the truth does not speak for itself—people speak for the truth and everything else. When they employ the “speaks for itself” maxim they want to make their version of the truth credible by giving it its own voice, apparently detaching it from the speaker’s bias by its appearance of emanating from itself and being free of the speaker’s interests, but synonymous with them.

This sort of figure squares with the saying “That’s mere rhetoric” which itself is a rhetorical act—using rhetoric to belittle rhetoric. It is is a villainous irony, sort of like “the truth speaks for itself,” which is not about solely telling the truth, but is in fact, an attempt make a version of the so-called truth more effective by by claiming rhetorically not to be mere rhetoric!

So, if the maxim “Repetition is the soul of truth” is true, let me say again . . . “The truth does not speak for itself, people do,”

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