Metalepsis

Posted on July 19, 2026 | Leave a comment

Metalepsis (me-ta-lep’-sis): Reference to something by means of another thing that is remotely related to it, either through a farfetched causal relationship, or through an implied intermediate substitution of terms. Often used for comic effect through its preposterous exaggeration. A metonymical substitution of one word for another which is itself figurative.

“You’re a bamboo shoot in shorts ticking all the boxes with your rubber stamp nose. Skinny as light coming through a crack in a wall in the bedbug central motel on the outskirts of hell. What do you think?”

I was talking to myself’s reflection in my full-length dressing mirror. I didn’t think much of what I saw. I made myself miserable and took off to catch the bus to work, which sustained my misery.

I worked as a tele-scam man. Today, we were doing “walk-in showers for old military veterans.” The whole point of the scam was to get a deposit from the mark. I affected an old man demeanor. I would call the mark “Sonny” and he would tell me he’s no “Sonny” and I would laugh and ask for his first name, but use “us” and “we” throughout the call. It worked almost always with over-eighties who I built strong identifications with—coordinating our selves and steering us where I wanted to go.

I hated myself for doing this eight or nine times a day. I was a deposit shark, a bullshit-filled balloon, a dirty joke, a heartless hoax. I wanted to shrivel up like an over-ripe tomato, be rolled down a bowling alley paved with broken glass, and explode in a shower of juice and seeds when I hit the pins.,

I had to pay my kid’s college tuition, my mortgage, credit cards, car payment, food and utilities bills, not to mention alimony. I was divorced and was tasked with taking care of my elderly father too. His needs are bigger than a boil on an elephant’s ass—think about it.

So, I pulled eight successful scams for the day and hopped the bus home. The guy sitting next me smelled like boiling water swamp water, scalding my nostrils with its steaming stench. I’d rather have my nails pulled out one by one, but I needed to get home in a hurry—my angst was waiting for me in the mirror—my brother in harms who reflects my misery while I narrate it.

I think I need a new job. Ripping off the elderly is taking its toll on my soul.

POSCRIPT

I got a new job. I am a ticket taker at “Golden Projections,” the local movie theatre. It’s unionized, and it barely pays the bills, but it has improved my self-image substantially. When I look in the mirror now, ready to go to work, I see a slack-jawed cynic dressed like a monkey.

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Metallage

Posted on July 18, 2026 | Leave a comment

Metallage (me-tal’-la-gee): When a word or phrase is treated as an object within another expression.

“This is not that,” In the foggy ambiguity of a pronounal haze we struggle as “that” does not specify, and neither does “this” specify, their antecedents. One may be left wondering what the hell they are they talking about, when in fact “this” and “that” are simply examples, not actual subjects of an unquoted discourse—we may see them in their own right as bland substitutes for “what is.“

Why then do we tolerate them (whoops). Why are they (whoops) used at all? I don’t know. Maybe to fight the boredom of repitition—that makes them strategic, not simple substitutes, they may seek a “perking up” of a given discourse—freshening it with a new note that gives variation to the semantic drone of the same. So, pronouncing an effect rhetorically, they help to induce cooperation. But, if they (whoops) be used too distant from their antecedents they lose their punch. They become the forgotten representatives of their distant constituents. They need to reintroduce their antecedents from time to time so they will not by swallowed by them and transformed into sites of thin or absent imagery, the death knell of effective word choice. They must be resurrected or remain in the shadow of dimmed significance, rehotorically short-circuited—vividness darkened by disuse.

All this hearkens back to “enough is enough” and the rhetorical prospect of timing. We must know when to draw the line as well as where to draw it, not to mention not. How many pronouns should a rhetor chuck or chuck at all? Time and circumstance tell all. Sometime abundant repetition can be your keynote as in the accusation of conspirators, while pointing around the room you say, “He, and he, and he, and he, all of them, served Jeffery.” Or you list them by name if they have the gravitas you’re looking for. There are more contingencies for word choice, but suffice it to say you have a choice and should weigh it on scales of rhetorical effectiveness.

There’s more to the story than meets the ear. Take heed and know your options in every particular case. “What you say and how you say it” makes what you think in your head effective or not.

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Metaphor

Posted on July 17, 2026 | Leave a comment

Metaphor (met’-a-phor): A comparison made by referring to one thing as another.

Where have all the roister doisters gone? I don’t know, I’m only a fly—a buzzing purveyor of irritating sound in speech that fails to deliver and does not bear coherence to the world outside my head.

I am a wildfire burning across borders—not respecting ethnicity or national origins, transgressing, smoking across hills and dales of difference, a haze-making foible of unrestrained roiling posturing, a particle-laced puff of unrequited longing—longing to dissipate in the winds of sociability.

I am a hangnail swinging over the abyss, waiting to slough off and fall into the infinite hollow, the endless opening into meaningless free-fall, borne by angst, propelled by the gravity of endless semiosis, never knowing, only going down, down, down looking for a glimmer or a revelatory light.

I am an umbrella blocking the rains of misfortune on bad days, shading the sunshine of your affection on others. I am a “bummershoot” aiming my pointed tip at innocent voices, stilling their awkward speech, teaching them how shut up after being slashed by my sharpened words. They cry in the shadows—they are poisoned fools angry in learning, grateful for the bummershoot’s rending of their tiny hearts with the critical slicing and dicing of pestering hope.

I am a filled donut— powdered by the sugar of my love, tender as raw dough, filled with life’s flavored jelly sloshing in the cavities of my hope. I am not nourishing, but I am really good—my sweetness mollifies my empty calories and will make you want me. Take a bite and enjoy my delectable, yet unwholesome, presence.

I am a joke. I am a metaphor.

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Metaplasm

Posted on July 16, 2026 | Leave a comment

Metaplasm (met’-a-plazm): A general term for orthographical figures (changes to the spelling of words). This includes alteration of the letters or syllables in single words, including additions, omissions, inversions, and substitutions. Such changes are considered conscious choices made by the artist or orator for the sake of eloquence or meter, in contrast to the same kinds of changes done accidentally and discussed by grammarians as vices (see barbarism).

See: antisthecon, aphaeresis, apocope, epenthesis, paragoge, synaloepha.

“My soul is unwholesome; the whole-sum of depredation, degradation, and degeneracy agitating my actions, I dance across the void and prey on the witless, the greedy, cutting apart their cloven zouls with razor feet, bleeding out their notions of truth, goodness and beauty and transfusing them with cold flowing lies.” Byron Plumpwell.

This is the only thing Plumpwell wrote, yet its eloquence and powerful pathetic impact have given it a place in the canon of 17-century literature. It can echo in your mind weeks after you read it, agitating and making you morose.and out of sorts. His changing the of spelling “souls” to “‘zouls” positions it in semantic proximity to “razor” by the letter “z” exploiting the linkage afforded by purposeful misspelling, forcing the reader to participate more fully in the construction of meaning and the confusion it induces, which is commensurate with the paragraph’s craven tone.

Many readers have subsequently drifted into the throes of depredation, degeneracy, and degradation, drifting despondently into Plumpwell’s written hell. If effects are all that matter, Plumpwell’s writing displays and affects all that matters. In fact, it is said that “Poison Pen” was first coined in response to his singular writing—the one writing which still moves the tectonic plates of poetry and fiction—creating an unstable rumbling beneath them that cannot be ignored.

Readers may typically become miscreants, tearing away their hopes and becoming their fears, running roughshod across the landscape of human relations, vituperating the innocent, breaking hearts, and pushing decent people into the abyss of narcissistic self-promotion and it it’s inducement to the downfall of willing dupes.

Yet, the rhetorical power of Plumpwell’s writing is not guaranteed. It’s Other’s shadow may blot out the luminosity’s of Plumpwell’s words—resolute opposition, well voiced, can glow and nullify their affect on weak minds, and open an opportunity to shed light on the moral disaster delight in their musings designs, freeing its captives from the jailhouse of their inept semiosis, spotlighting Truth with critical discourse.

POSTSRIPT

I am done, now, leaving this battlefield of contestable meaning, returning to my ivory tower where the truth speaks for itself and my servant, who serves my every need, says “Yes boss!” before I even finish my sentences.

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Metastasis

Posted on July 15, 2026 | Leave a comment

Metastasis (me-tas’-ta-sis): Denying and turning back on your adversaries arguments used against you.

I started dating Willy’s sister. He got angry and yelled . “Friends don’t date friends sisters!” “What? Aren’t we friends any more? You’ve been dating my sister for the past two years. I guess you’re not my friend, right?” He mumbled something about forgetting that Sharon was my sister. We were still friends.

Willy did this all the time. I called him “Willy Nilly.” He was a hypocrite—world class. No matter what he criticized other people for what they did or liked, he would claim to do or like what he criticized. He just liked criticizing people who were “like” him. He would make them feel bad, and then, get their sympathy by lying to them he was just like them. Sharing their defects bonded them. This was a bizarre way to make friends, especially since he actually shared nothing in common with his “victims” and delighted in perpetuating their the pan he caused them. For example, he would criticize somebody for being addicted to ice cream, say he shared their problem, while he ate all the ice cream he wanted and loved it—no problem. He would fake be upset and make another friend on that basis, illegitimately depriving them of their legitimate love of ice cream.

With sister thing, I got him before he could move to phase two and talk about our shared straddle as we dated each other’s sister and struggled with of friendship. I called him out on his hypocrisy before he had chance to start whining, and in his view, deepen our relationship. I didn’t wine—I beat him to the punch. His problem was a pseudo problem.

Most of the time, however, the whole process was much more simple. He won friends by falsely avowing simple common interests. If somebody said they liked oranges, he would lick his lips and say he loved them too, when in fact, he hated them. Much less complicated than the above. He didn’t try to “negate” their likes.

I loved watching him lie to ingratiate himself to other people. In his lying guided he could be a vegetarian, pacifist, Christian, environmentalist, when he’s a meat-eating, war mongering, atheist, polluter. If the truth was was discovered, the tables could be easily turned and he’d lose his “friend.”

This cycle was completed countless times in his life as he tried to manage his sel- loathing,

Then there was ends-means, faking sympathy for a goal, he would say ”You don’t want to get fat, but fasting can kill you.”

This is complicated, and I may have it all wrong, but I tried it once. Willy’s sister told me she loved pizza, so I told her I loved it too, when in fact I hated it. Actually eating it with her traumatized me. From there on out we were willing to admit our difference and compromise, or win-win. We would eat sushi. But, she started going to the pizzeria with Bill Bongweed and I became certain she liked pizza more than sushi, and that I would lose her to Bill who shared her love of pizza. So, I sucked it up and ate pizza—saying “mmm” with every bite. I am a hypocrite, but Willy’s sister is mine. FU Bongweed!

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Metonymy

Posted on July 14, 2026 | Leave a comment

Metonymy (me-ton’-y-my): Reference to something or someone by naming one of its attributes. [This may include effects or any of the four Aristotelian causes {efficient/maker/inventor, material, formal/shape, final/purpose}.]

“I am ‘Fats’ the magic gerbil. I come from Ft. Lee. I frolic in the morning mists by the bagel factory.” (to the tune of a’Puff the Magic Dragon’) I did kids’ birthday parties dressed as a big fat gerbil. I was fat under my costume, I was fat everywhere—that’s why I was “Fats.”

I could barely walk but being a gerbil impersonator for eight-year-olds does not require much. The kids feed me food pellets. we sing “Fat’s the Magic Gerbil“ together and play hide-sand-seek. I’m easy to find because I’m so big and fat. The kids liked that.

I was pretty happy doing this for a living, but I was ready for a change. I’m interviewing for a position as Kash Patel’s bodyguard. Ten years ago I was a special operator with the 7th Special Forces Group. I was thin and tough and fearless. I could jump from a helicopter at 2,100 feet. I could rappel down a 300-foot high brick wall. I could hike 40 miles with a fifty pound pack. But, I got addicted to the fried chicken in the mess hall. It was crazy—I’d eat one or two chickens every night. I got fat. I got kicked out of Special Forces, and eventually the Army. But, I still had my firearm skills, and could snap a pine board with one swift karate chop, all while sitting in a lounge chair. I started practicing while standing up, and my old self started to re-emerge. I lost five pounds and was ready to rip.

I jiggled into the room and shook hands with Patel. He got right down to business. “What can you give me if I hire you?” I had a crawfish farm in Alabama that I had inherited from my grandfather. I offered it to Patel in exchange for the job. He took it, and now, I’m his bodyguard. After my first “guarding incident” Patel fired me—we were attacked by a women who’s son had been unfairly incarcerated for killing a raccoon that was rummaging through their trash. Patel gave me the order to “Get the old bitch, shit for brains!” I lurched toward her, flashing fists raised. I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk, fell down and shit my pants. That was it. I was terminated on the spot as Patel’s brother and three cousins took over and beat the woman up. Patel kept my farm.

What a catastrophe. So, I had major liposuction—they drained off 200 big ones. I weigh 145 pounds now and work in a DC vegetarian restaurant named “The Golden Carrot.” I’ve taught myself to do a back flip while holding a tray and earn extra tips by performing. When I think about my past, I wonder why I didn’t do this in the first place.

Patel came in yesterday and he didn’t recognize me. I put a handful of X-lax in his chocolate chip fudge sundae. I read in this morning’s paper that he shit himself while boarding the FBI jet “The Kash Express” on a “routine flight” to the Cayman Islands.

I feel vindicated, but not totally. I blew the whistle on his bribery operation and have agreed to testify against him. Ha ha!

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Ominatio

Posted on July 13, 2026 | Leave a comment

Ominatio (o-mi-na’-ti-o): A prophecy of evil.

Darkness had spread across the land and Chick Littel was at it again. He was running up and down Main Street telling “The sky is dark. Something bad will happen.” Yeah—it was December. It got dark around 4:30. Ir was normal. The only bad thing that happened happened to him.

He did this every year and was put on leave from his job at the newspaper. He would be sent to Stone Bridge Asylum and put him on medication until he was well again. That was usually in a week. He suffered from SAS—Seasonal Agitation Syndrome. It affects people at the change of season, when the days get longer or shorter. Daylight Savings Time puts sufferers in a frenzy, leading to an upsurge in crimes of passion.

So, in a way, Chick was right. Some murders would be committed and people would plead the “SAS case” and be found not guilty by reason of SAS. Lesser crimes would also be committed and charges dismissed by reason of SAS. For example, a crackhead stole a car and drove into the fountain on the village green. He claimed was “All SASed up” and the charge of “destroying public property while driving a motor vehicle under the influence of crack cocaine” was dismissed.

I started thinking SAS was a scam—some kind of fake disease promoted by pharmaceutical companies. They made billions because of medication mandated for sufferers of SAS. Doctors diagnosed it and probably received a bounty for each new patient booked.

I was liiving through another winter on the Canadian folder in upstate York. Spring was in the air and I was becoming agitated. When it was time to Spring forward with the clocks, I felt a surge of uncontrollable anger. I burned my mittens in the back yard and chased my neighbor with my snow shovel. I ran down Main Street yelling “it’s over, Spring will commence and you shall lose sleep, mow, and clean.”

I had SAS! Oh my God! It was real. It was true. I needed medication. I saw my doctor and got a prescription for “Seasonall.” It leveled the sense of seasonal transition in patients’ minds. This was reinforced by the “Continuum Therapy” I was receiving, where I learned there was only “One Season” that had variations, that did not alter its essential seasonhood in the process. This was assuring.

Now, on my medication, and with my counseling sessions, I hardly notice the transitions. Now, I think “It is one, the cold, the warmth, the heat, the coolness. Whatever it is, whenever it is, it is just right. It is varying face of The One Season.”

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Onedismus

Posted on July 12, 2026 | Leave a comment

Onedismus (on-e-dis’-mus): Reproaching someone for being impious or ungrateful.

“I gave you my last dollar and you don’t care. You spent it on a cup of coffee for yourself, and wouldn’t even give me the cup it came it—high quality, good for begging. You bastard!”

I sat there on my piece of cardboard, fuming. Ever since I went homeless after being fired from “Noble Brickworks” for embezzling, I couldn’t even get a job at the car wash. I was screwed for life.

My so-called “friend” Slim had begged my last dollar out of me. His crying and moaning, plus our so-called friendship gave him the edge. He said he was getting chills and tremors from caffeine withdrawal. As a former drug addict myself, I felt sympathy, so I forked over my last dollar.

My beggar-cup was getting frayed and dirty, and I thought for sure that Slim would give me the container his coffee (that I had paid for) came in. He humiliated me by making me beg, and then, wouldn’t give me the cup. He gloated and waved his new cup in my face. I grabbed it out of his hand, and he started crying. I gave it back to him on the condition he share it. I took mornings, and he took afternoons. We held the cup together in the evening and split the proceeds.

As soon as I made enough, I bought a coffee, as much for its cup as the coffee. Me and Slim’s dilemma was over! No matter the names we had called each other, we remained friends.

We don’t beg any more.

I used the computer in the public library to write my bestselling book Our Cups Runneth Over. It documents our cup struggle and its successful resolution—how to allocate finite resources with partners amicably.

It is used by marriage counselors, attorneys, and financial advisers as a how-to manual, and also by the general public to work through difficulties with family and friends.

I am grateful for Slim’s selfishness and bullshit and how it prompted me to do the right thing.

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Onomatopoeia

Posted on July 11, 2026 | Leave a comment

Onomatopoeia (on-o-mat-o-pee’-a): Using or inventing a word whose sound imitates that which it names (the union of phonetics and semantics).

My flip-flops were driving me crazy. Everywhere I went, “flip flop, flip flop, flip-flop.” Who the hell invented these goddamn fu*kin’ things? I Googled it—the answer was vague. It mentioned Asbury Park, New Jersey, but no names. I was about to burn my flip-flops when I got an idea! I bet there are millions of people who would want to read a book about the inventor and history of the flip-flop. So, I quit my job, said goodbye to my wife and kids, cleaned out my bank account, and headed for Asbury Park.

I drove all night and got there at dawn. I looked out over the ocean, and then, checked into a low budget motel—“Wicked Waves.” It didn’t have a lobby; just a drive-thru window with bars. The desk clerk pointed a .45 at me and asked how long I was staying. I said I didn’t know and he said, “Ok, give me 75 in cash, now! Hand it over!”

I paid and went to my room—Room 13. The door squeaked like a mouse being strangled. There was a neatly folded inflatable sex doll on my bed with a sticky note on it that said “1 hour for $5 see proprietor for inflation and to pay.” I pushed her onto the floor and laid down. The mattress had the consistency of a ripe banana—nice and mushy—I would sleep well tonight.

Time to get to work. I had brought a cardboard sign that said “Tell me about your flip-flops.” I pulled it out of my bag and headed for the boardwalk.

It was a beautiful summer Saturday and the boardwalk was packed. I took up a position near the merry-go-round and held my sign up over my head. I stood there nearly all day. No luck. Nobody even looked at me.

I walked back to “Wicked Waves” and there was a guy, who must’ve been 80 or 90, sitting on the sidewalk outside his room in one of those old-time metal lawn chairs. It was rusted and old like him. He was shirtless and there was a faded tattoo of a flip-flop on his wrinkled old chest. I held my sign up in his face and it was like he turned 30 years younger.

His blue eyes sparkled as he said slowly, “I invented the flip-flop, Sonny.”

I flipped out. If it was true, I was the luckiest man alive.i said, tell me your story—pleaaaaaase!” He began:

“It was 1959 and I had just graduated from high school. I was in a rock band called “The Beach Fellows.” We sang music about looking for beach glass, seaweed, slippery rocks, starfish and seashells—mostly clam shells. We were going nowhere. So we got a manager. He changed our name to “Vinnie and the Hula Hoops.” We had a hit song “Watermelon Waterfall.” Our manager put us on tour and our first gig was here at Asbury Park—my home town—I, Brad Steelsprng—was about to make it big!

The night of our gig, I could not find my shoes. I was desperate. I took the rubber floor-mat out of the shower, and traced my feet on it with the pen by my bed. I used my Swiss Army knife to cut out my footprints, I tore my sheet into strips, poked a hole in each of my cut outs between my big toe and pointer toe and on each side of my foot, and threaded the sheet through the mat’s holes. I put them on my feet and walked across my room, and they made the signature flip-flop sound. Flip-flops were born!

After our gig I went back to my room. I found my shoes and threw my ‘flip-flops’ in the trashcan outside my door. Later that night I heard a noise. I looked. There was an Asian man rummaging through my trashcan. He found my flip-flops and ran away. Six months later, I saw a rubber version of my flip-flops on sale at the drugstore near the beach. They were actually called ‘flip-flops’ and they were made in Japan. My invention!”

“What happened next?” I asked.

“I receive a small royalty check each month,” he replied.

It had to be bullshit—it was all fake, like the tatoo on the old man’s chest. Royalty checks! Bullshit! I packed my stuff and left. My project was dead. I drove back home. Some named Hal had moved in to “help out” my wife.

Two months later, I received a package from Japan with a pair of gold-plated flip-flops inside. There was a note that said: “It is all true,”

I headed back to Asbury Park the next morning to get more details from Brad—my book project was back up and running! I even had a working title: “Flip-Flops: Footwear of a Generation.”

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Optatio

Posted on July 10, 2026 | Leave a comment

Optatio (op-ta’-ti-o): Expressing a wish, often ardently.

She was the 12th contestant for Miss Morristown to give her speech in the competition, there were only four left to go. I was a judge and I was ready to snooze through them. Every damn speech began with “I wish.” It was driving me crazy. So far I heard three wishes for world peace, two wishes for people to pick up their dog poop, one wish for a steak medium rare, and five wishing that the reflecting pool would be repaired by God’s grace (technically they were prayers).

This speech was different: she began with “I ardently wish.” it was like a breath of fresh air. The speech itself did not matter, but its “ardenthood” pushed it up there. Here’s how it went:

“I ardently wish that tire pumps were included with bikes, regardless of age or ability, whether mountain or racer, two-wheeled or three-wheeled. It is unfair to deprive owners of the right to pump when they buy their bike. Pumping is a God-given gift and shouldn’t be diminished by having to go to Wal-Mart and buy a pump, when it should be part and parcel—an integral aspect—of the identity of every bike in our land.

Right now, here in America, and throughout the world, not all bikes are created equal, when despite their retail price, they all should come with a pump: a pump able to restore tires’ souls with air and get them back on the road to world peace.

We can no longer accept the dastardly greed and calculated neglect of the world’s bike makers. We must demand that pumps are universally included with all bikes sold in our beautiful land, across the waves of grain and purple mountains majesty gracing our national quest for brotherhood and pump-equality among all bikes: tricycles to electric bicycles together, together at the table of velocipedehood.

This is my ardent wish. Thank-you!”

POSTSCRIPT

This speech was beautiful, playing on revered tropes of Morristown’s ethos. As a member of city council, I had continuously lobbied for bicycle racks downtown and at the train station, and parks, and bus terminal. Nobody listened. Now, I had a dream inspired by Candiate 12–I too would “ardently” wish, not just wish, for bike racks!

I would open: “My fellow Morristowners, I ardently wish for universal bike racks, like the truth, everywhere always the same—downtown, at city parks, at the railroad station, at the bus terminal celebrating their universality, all painted Morristown Maroon. Parking places are a universal right, as such, so are bike racks located at crossroads of commerce, leisure, and travel —where we shop, and play, and travel to work or to visit our cherished friends and loved ones. This is my ardent wish! May you make my ardent your ardent wish too! Thank you.”

Dynamite!

Contestant 12 won the speech competition, barely beating Constant 14, who simply “wished” that contact lenses would be free: “I wish, like the air we breathe in this great nation, the United States of America, that contact lenses were free.”

The speech embodied Morristown’s socialist ethos, but “ardently” was missing, damaging its overall credibility and putting it in second place.

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Orcos

Posted on July 9, 2026 | Leave a comment

Orcos (or’-kos): Swearing that a statement is true.

“I swear, I forgot.” “I swear, I forget.”

Now that I was 80, these were my go-to excuses. It didn’t matter what the expectation was that I failed to fulfill or the question I was asked: from turning off the lights, to zipping up my fly after I peed, to missing an appointment.

But then, in the murky depths of my fumbling mind, I realized I could use “I forgot” or “I forget” for every failed expectation, or, bottom line, for every question I was asked—they would become my chief ruse.

When my son chided me for “losing” his car keys, I told him “I forget” where I put them. “I swear”. He looked at me with pity in his eyes and said “It’s all right Dad, you do’t have to swear. At your age you can’t remember everything.” What he doesn’t know is I’ve got the keys in my pocket and I’ll be headed to “Wild Bunnies” after he goes to bed to watch a little pole dancing and have a lap dance. The keys will mysteriously reappear under a couch cushion tomorrow.

The age-ruse ruse!

It can be applied to myriad expectations, inducing guilt or relieving one of responsibilities. And, by the way, if it doesn’t apply, you can cry “Elder Abuse,” and win a lawsuit. That’s what I did to the 35 year old kid who said “get out of the way geezer” when I was having trouble boarding a bus. I sued him for defamation and won $1,000. When you’re old, the law considers any insult referencing your age as defamation.

Then, there was the time my son and his family went on vacation and I was left home alone. I saw this as an excellent opportunity to get rid of Hammy, my grandson’s hamster. I got tired, months ago, of it escaping from its cage and crapping in my bed. I got tired of brushing the little poops onto the floor. I was trying to figure out how I could escape the blame for Hammy’s “departure.”

Then, it hit me—I could starve him! So, I stopped feeding him. The family came home four days later and he was lethargic—close to death. My son asked me “Did you feed Hammy?” I said “Oh my God, I forgot. No lie! Oh God!” My son looked at me with pity in his eyes and said “It’s all right Dad, I know you’re not lying. At your age, you can’t remember everything.” My ruse worked! It always worked.

The BIG ONE was when I got tired of living on Elm Street. i wanted a bigger house with a swimming pool. So, I burned the house down. They were gone for the weekend. I told my son I needed to burn a scented candle in my room to cover the oder of my increasingly smelly farts. I “forgot” to blow out the candle and it started a fire on my desk which was covered by sheets of paper (I was working on my memoirs). When I told my son what had happed, my son looked at me with pity in his eyes and said, “It’s all right Dad, at your age, you can’t remember everything.” I think he actually took the blame. Haha!Now, we’re living in a bigger house with the “therapeutic” swimming pool I requested. Ruse accomplished!

So, if you’re 80 or older make “I forgot” or “I forget” your go-to excuses, and don’t forget the throw in “I swear” for good measure. One last piece of advice: sue the hell out of anybody who perpetrates elder abuse on your poor old bent over white-haired vulnerable self.

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Oxymoron

Posted on July 8, 2026 | Leave a comment

Oxymoron (ox-y-mo’-ron): Placing two ordinarily opposing terms adjacent to one another. A compressed paradox.

They called me “Giant Shorty.” I was 6’4” tall and my ‘you know what’ was 2” long. I was the tallest man in Castroville, and the shortest too. They could’ve called me “Jumbo Shrimp” but that was a worn-out oxymoron. “Keep it simple” was the rule of thumb. Anyway, half the people in Castroville had never seen a shrimp. They were too busy making artichoke fritters for the tourists who stopped there on their way to Monterrey to visit the aquarium and the tawdry souvenir shops and hippie crafts shops built on the back of Steinbeck’s Cannery Row.

I was working in my laboratory overtime trying to make THC-infused artichokes—“wicked good” as they would say in Maine. Everybody else in the valley grew artichokes, but I grew artichokes and pot. I was experimenting with three strains of pot: “Gold Medal Haze,” “Pinky Dinky,” and “Boom-Boom Banshee.” I imported “Banshee” from Ireland. My mule, Timmy O’Hanahan, put life and limb on the line twice a year to supply me, risking the sea voyage across the Atlantic. He travelled the course of the Pilgrims to Boston and then hopped a bus like Jack Keroac to San Francisco, and then, hitch-hiked to Castroville with a 100 pound odor-proofed laundry bag filled with “Boom-Boom Banshee.” Timmy told me when people asked what was in the bag, he’d answer “A wee bit o’ laundry.”

“Banshee” was by far the best pot to make my THC-infused artichokes from. When ground up, it mixed readily with the rich soil of the Salinas Vally and was almost 100% THC. However, I couldn’t get the artichoke plants to suck it up. I needed a remedy, so I texted my friend from college RFK Jr. He was an expert on “The Herb” and probably had the answer. I got an answer almost immediately: “Hey Stupid Smart-ass your dimwitted-genius makes a mockery of Einstein and Abraham Lincoln combined. Pot-infused artichokes! Like WOW! Im-pure genius man! Here’s what you do: Run one pound of weed through a blender, mixing it with 5 cups of “Miracle Gro” plant food and 29 gallons of birch water, and spray the concoction on the artichoke plants. They will absorb it through their leaves. I use this recipe with opium on my organic carrots, and they make for sweet dreams every time I munch one!”

I took RFK Jr’s advice. My “Artichoke Boom-Boom Banshee Fritters” are the POT at the end of the rainbow. People come all the way from Japan to sample them.

When you ingest them, the fritters fly through the bright midnight of your brain. You will see the future-present and follow the path to everywhere via nowhere, relaxing in an anomic revery, with reason’s barriers beautifully broken by the battering ram of your THC-soaked mind. You’ll wail like a banshee lost in time’s shimmering mists, and laugh like Santa after a shot of akvavit.

Like “WOW!” man.

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Paenismus

Posted on July 7, 2026 | Leave a comment

Paenismus (pai-nis’-mus): Expressing joy for blessings obtained or an evil avoided.

Tiny Tim was dead. Thank God. I was sick of his “cripple little boy” schtick—limping around on his crutch like he owned the world, with dark rings under his eyes, and that stupid tweed cap he got at the Salvation Army Thrift Store when he was a kid. After Dickens gave him a starring role in A Christmas Carol you couldn’t shut him up with his incessant “God bless us one and all.” He had learned to twirl his crutch like a baton and he performed in front of the Stock Exchange, singing “Tomorrow” from the musical “Annie” and “The Good Ship Lollipop,” one of Shirley Temple’s most popular songs.

He was 32 when somebody threw a hand grenade at him from a passing car. He died instantly.

There was rampant speculation concerning his death until the police determined it wasn’t an accident. A grenade fragment was found with fingerprints on it. They were run through the FBI and were traced to Rambo McStain, owner of “Switchblade City” where he sold spring assisted knives to handicapped people, seniors and others who just liked to see them flash open in a dimly lit alleyway, or darkened living room. He gave lessons on proper stabbing techniques. Clients would practice on dummies with the best stabbing spots marked out. Throat slitting practice was included free of charge!

Rambo was clearly bad and helped keep the crime rate high in Hot Dog City (named for the Sweeney Hot Dog Factory that dominated the town’s economy and cultural interests), but, throw a hand grenade at Tiny Tim? So what if Rambo touched the hand grenade. Chief Mongahandell didn’t believe it was Rambo. Where was the motive?

“Why on earth would Rambo want to murder Tiny,” he asked Mayor Shimmy. The Mayor just smiled and nodded his head. It was 9:00 a.m. and he was drunk already, sitting behind his desk sipping gin through a red plastic straw. He was last stone-cold sober when his wife ran off with his accountant in 2020 on their 9th wedding anniversary. Now, he was drunk, depressed, and angry all the time.

The Mayor sat up straight. He said, “Arrest that goddamned accountant!” The Chief did what he was told and the goddamned accountant was found guilty as hell by a jury consisting of the Mayor’s closest friends and relatives. He was executed the next day and his dead body was placed on display in the “Destiny Mall” parking lot. The local Turkey Vultures caught scent of him and quickly devoured his remains. His picked bones were donated to Hot Dog High to be used in biology classes to teach anatomy.

All was well now in Hot Dog City. But then, one day a hunchback named Quasi Dobrough showed up, walking the streets yelling “Sanctuary!” He wanted to make Hot Dog City into a sanctuary city, sheltering miscreants, like illegal aliens. He played his guitar and sang protest songs in front of the stock exchange, yelling “Sanctuary” between sets.

His days were numbered.

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Palilogia

Posted on July 6, 2026 | Leave a comment

Palilogia: Repetition of the same word, with none between, for vehemence. Synonym for epizeuxis.

“Help, help, help! I’ve got bad morning breath and I can’t get up.” It was my senile mother again, yelling from her big chair in the media room. She was trying to imitate a commercial and she mixed up the “Lifeline Medical Wearable Alert System” advertisement with the old Oral-B “Overnight Protect Toothpaste” advertisement.

She had the uncanny ability to imitate voices, and had been recruited by the CIA at the age of 8 to serve during WW II as a “Clandestine Voice Imitator.” She interdicted radio transmissions by imitating the voices of enemy radio operators. Her code name was “Klein Schnitzel” among her co-workers at their Langley CIA headquarters.

For example, when a German General was urging a division to retreat in an uncoded “in the clear” emergency message, she spoke over him urging it to “Attack, attack, attack!”

The CIA had special radio equipment that delayed enemy radio operators transmissions so The Imitator Cops could speak over them “excising” words phrases and filling them in with Voice-imitated messages. In the case cited above, an entire Panzer Division was obliterated when it’s already shattered effectiveness was exploited by the Americans, as it followed the Imitator’s orders.

At the War’s end my mother was decorated with a Bronze Star and was nicknamed “Atomic Bomb” for the important role she played in bringing the war to a close more more quickly than it otherwise would’ve been.

She was 11 years old when the war ended. With my grandparents help, she put together a vaudeville-type act. She would begin being Churchill and delivering his famous “We Shall Fight Them on the Beaches” speech, and the take requests from the audience. One of the favorites was Clark Gable’s “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” from “Gone With the Wind.”

She went on to work with Mel Blanc imitating his Warner Brothers cartoon characters’s voices, enabling Blanc to take a break, and also, increase cartoon production. She made extra millions for the studios, but had to work behind the scenes and never got credit for her massive contribution to the Warner Brothers bottom line. But, she was generously rewarded for her work and be came a millionaire in 1959. At that point she retired.

In her retirement, she learned how to imitate bird songs, and learned the song every bird in Tory “Peterson’s “North American Birds.” She appeared as a recurring guest on the “Tonight Show” with Johnny Carson, and chortled her way into the heart of America.

Things started going down hill a few years ago. The first sign was doing a Daffy Duck imitation when she was asked to do a Mallard duck. She said “Sufferin’ succotash,” one of Daffy’s famous catchphrases. Soon after, when asked to a woodpecker, she did Woody Woodpecker’s “Heh-heh-heh-HA-ha!” instead.

It was sad seeing her lose it after such a stellar career and her outstanding service to our country. Currently, a documentary is in production that spans her life. It is titled “Voiceborn” and consists solely of archival film footage, with Taylor Swift narrating.

My mother is 104 and won’t be around much longer.

Well, I hear Teddy Roosevelt singing a cracked version of “Wooly Bully.” He’s ordering lunch. I have to go.

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Parabola

Posted on July 5, 2026 | Leave a comment

Parabola (par-ab’-o-la): The explicit drawing of a parallel between two essentially dissimilar things, especially with a moral or didactic purpose. A parable.

“The sun will not shine thine shoes—wingtips, moccasins, pumps, ballet and all the footwear under the sun. Yea, you are but a square-toed Frye boot unwisely coursing the sands of sinfulness wearing a hole in thine soul. Sit thee down and repent.” This is one of those deep and wise parables that you think about for days. My brother said it to me.

I was at the beach with my brother Swami Piraña. He files his teeth to points and wears a turban made of deadly nightshade. He has a following of nine committed, or ought to be committed, acolytes. He holds weekly ZOOM meetings with his “congregation” dancing to the dervish-like strains of “YMCA.” Sometimes the service goes on for ten hours. Then, when his congregation is delirious from dancing, he asks for money. Then, he gives a sermon in a sarcastic tone on the evils of materialism and the “shark eat shark” perils of capitalism. Then, he rebukes them for eating of the tree of “false tomatoes” (deadly nightshade), and asks for more donations to the cause of uprooting it “once and for all from the landscapes of your minds.”

So, there we were—broiling on the beach. I asked him what the hell he meant with the shoeshine sun thing. He leapt up and pointed at me—“You will burn,” he yelled. It was true. I had forgotten my SPF 90 sunscreen and was already turning red. I ran to the concession stand and bought some sunscreen and smeared it on. I covered myself with a towel and lay down by my brother again. I asked what the shoes signified in his parable. He said he didn’t know, it was too mystical, even for his divine consciousness. He thought for a minute and said “Maybe the shoes are your soul, and I’m telling you you must ‘shine’ your own soul with the shoe polish of God’s wisdom in the Bible. The Bible is the Gucci of the Lord.”

My head was spinning. God, shoes, Gucci. It was too much for me to understand. So, I forgot about it, put my sunglasses back on, and ran into the ocean. I heard somebody yell “Shark!” It was coming toward me. It stood up! It was my brother wearing a strap-on fin. He raised his arms and yelled “Behold! I am not a shark, I am an imposter: You are betrayed by your senses, follow your heart.” He was arrested for impersonating a shark and causing widespread beach panic.

As a result of his stunt, and its coverage in the news, his congregation grew to 50,000. He is now known as an influencer on TikTok where he hosts “Free Range Wisdom” once a week on Fridays. He sells plastic “Trees of Wisdom” turbans to his viewers for $29.99 and is getting rich.

This week’s sermon it titled “God is a Stamp Collector.”

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Paragoge

Posted on July 4, 2026 | Leave a comment

Paragoge (par-a-go’-ge): The addition of a letter or syllable to the end of a word. A kind of metaplasm.

“My little cutesy wootesy. My little ba-ba baby boo-boo! Grandmama loves you more than gummies, or gin & tonic, or Lucy Strikes. Let’s play bouncy on my knee, Little Barty.”

I am 64 and Grandmama still treats me like a baby when she comes to visit me and my wife. She stayed for a week. She brought a bottle, Pampers, Zwiebach toast (for my teething), Simulac, a portable crib, and my blanky,

It was totally, uncontrollably, weird. And I liked it. I liked being cutesy-wootsey. And crawling around the living room in my onesey. I loved free range pooping in my die-pee. My wife took care of my hiney hygiene so things wouldn’t get too weird with Grandmama. Sometimes my wife would give me a bath in my tubby and wash my hair with no tears baby shampoo. It was wonderful.

My ba-ba really brought me back to the good old days when Mama would feed me warm Simulac and I would suck on the rubber nipple. I still have a Simulac shake now and then, but they are really fattening.

My blanky hadn’t been washed for forty years. I could smell Mama’s cheap perfume on it—“Bonkers Babe.”

Mama was wild. She drove a motorcycle and hung out the “Owl’s Claw” down by the beach. She drank shots and beers and carried a gun—a sweet-looking little Beretta .25. She taught me how to shoot it at my eighth birthday party. I idolized her.

“Dirty” Dad had left me and mom when I was three. He ran off with a stunt-driver from the “Bimbos, Bimps and Backdrafts,” a traveling stunt-driving circus. Her name was Mabelliene. She was a cheating slut, but Dad was smitten by her stunts. He loved it when she drove through a flaming hoop with the car’s horn blowing, jumped out the driver’s side window, and let the car smash into a concrete wall, where it exploded and burst into flames.

When Dad left, Mama didn’t give a shit. She had a big party with her biker buddies—“The Karma Busters.” We danced all night. Mama wouldn’t let me drink or smoke. I was only 3. I had my first toke when I was eleven at Mama’s annual “Fu*k the Bastard Party,” The best part of the party was beating the shit out of the custom-made Dirty Dad Piñata with crowbars. The piñata was filled with tabs of blotter acid and “Dark Side of the Moon” CDs. Each tab of acid had a little cartoon middle finger printed on it. Mama was a stickler for detail.

Dirty Dad died 8 years ago when Mabelliene lit him on fire for “speeding in wrong lane”—that’s stunt driver jargon for cheating on her. She duct-taped Dirty Dad to the hoop of fire, doused him with gasoline, and boom, sent him up in flames screaming. Too bad Mama didn’t get a chance to be there,

Mama died 15 years ago. She had a heart-attack trying to kick start her vintage Harley. At least I still had Grandmama! Now, she’s 109 and wears an ankle monitor for the “incident” at the grocery store. We love to have her visit from “Never-Never Land Nursing Home.”

I said, “Grandmama ba-ba! Pleezy weezy!” and pulled blanky up to my chin.

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Paralipsis

Posted on July 3, 2026 | Leave a comment

Paralipsis (par-a-lip’-sis): Stating and drawing attention to something in the very act of pretending to pass it over (see also cataphasis). A kind of irony.

“He said, standing there in his monogrammed bathrobe: ‘I’m not going to tell you how I love you more than anything—anythng between heaven and earth.‘ With that, he came at me with his tongue sticking out. I was 46 at the time, and I thought I had seen everything. When it was over, I felt guilt for what we had done. But, from then on, men’s tongues excited me. Sometimes I would sit on park bench with my tongue sticking out, waiting for ‘Mr. Right.’ Please help me Reverend Jack.”

I specialize in fetish conversion therapy, trading “The Cross” for “The Fetish.” Ms. Lombardi’s case was difficult, but we helped her overcome her tongue fetish. We filled her tub with cow’s tongues obtained from “Big Bill’s Broadway Butchery.” Bill specialized in weird cuts of meat like pig’s ears and sheep’s ankles.

Ms. Lombardi leapt into the tub yelling “Yahoo!” But after a week of soaking in the tongues, she begged to be hauled out. She screamed “I hate tongues.” She was cured!

We told her that when the tongue-urge hit her in the future, the Lord advised that she turn to glossalalia (speaking in tongues), or licking envelopes, to drive out her urge.

The hardest case we ever had was Mr. X, or “The Man Who Loved Air.” He refused to gasp or hold his breath. He wouldn’t make a wish and blow out his birthday cake’s candles. He wouldn’t go under water in his swimming pool. He slept with a respirator, put in place every night by his private nurse. Whenever he exhaled, he felt guilty for betraying the oxygen he loved by expelling it into the “big and lonely” atmosphere.

As you can see, his love of oxygen, in the last case above, put him in a sort of double bind: if he inhaled, he would have to exhale because “breathing” symbolized the full circle of his love, but it was inevitably snarled in “exhalation regret,” a rare and nearly intractable psychological malady, not unlike that of breaking up.

We prayed on it and the Lord told us he should become a clown—blowing up balloons for children could, itself, be an act of love, ameliorating the conundrum of exhaling/loving. His exhalation would be housed in a balloon releasing it from the cruel anomie of the atmosphere. He was told that the Lord wanted him to carry a handful of balloons at all times, and to blow one up when he felt the anxiety of exhaling. It worked. Just yesterday, he did a “full gasp” when he ran over a groundhog with his car.

Praise the Lord. I am but a vessel for His divine spirit. Damn you fetishes! In the name Lord Jesus, BE GONE!

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Paramythia

Posted on July 2, 2026 | Leave a comment

Paramythia (pa-ra-mee’-thi-a): An expression of consolation and encouragement.

With fake tears in my eyes, I said sarcastically, “Oh my little Bumble Bee. Maybe your wing will grow back! You’ll be able to fly in a straight line instead of spinning around in circles on my coffee table when you flap your remaining wing. Miracles DO happen! I know how you feel, I’m rooting for you!”

Then, there was the Itsy Bitsy Spider. Sarcastically, I said: “Oh little ‘Spidey.’ Two legs are better than none. Now, you can take life more slowly, finding your bliss skidding ‘round and ‘round like a merry-go-round on my coffee table. Do you want some dopamine? Be optimistic. If you survive, when you molt your legs will grow back and all will be well. In the meantime, keep on skidding little guy.”

Anthophila (bees) and Arachnids (spiders). I hated them. I pulled off their wings. I pulled off their legs. It was my way of torturing them and exacting my revenge for what an individuals had done to me. As a species, they were all the same.

I was allergic to bee stings. I found that out when I was six years old. I sat on a hornet at my birthday party at our lake house. It stung me through my bathing suit. I went into anaphylactic shock and nearly died. Now, I carry an “epinephrine pen.” It’s a needle that I jam in my thigh if I get stung. That’s why I torture bees.

When I was twelve, my mother fell into a nest of “Nesting Black Widow” spiders, a species that lives communally. Mother was bitten so many times, she died on the spot—they found her slumped over a pallet board stored in the back of our garage. That’s why I torture spiders.

There’s a good reason for everything. Although something may appear to be cruel and perverse, if you know the back-story, you may change your mind.

After all, bees and spiders are only goddamned insects.

For thousands of years in so-called “Western Culture,” torture has functioned to “get the answers” out of miscreants, such as Ted Bundy, and Lizzie Borden. But more often, it’s been used to provide catharsis for victims. No more medications needed after torturing one’s assailants. Their suffering absorbs one’s suffering. As they say, “Revenge is sweet” and the best proven “sweetener” is torture.

Don’t pity me. I pack an epinephrine-pen, a lidded jar, a pair of tweezers, and a pair of surgical gloves everywhere I go. Pulling legs is my personal way of managing my grief and fear.

Don’t pity me—pity the pill-dropping chumps who manage their grief and pain with meds.

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Paraprosdokian

Posted on July 1, 2026 | Leave a comment

Paraprosdokian: “A figure of speech in which the latter part of a sentence or phrase [or series = anticlimax] is surprising or unexpected in a way that causes the reader or listener to reframe the first part. . . . For this reason, it is extremely popular among comedians and satirists. An especially clever paraprosdokian not only changes the meaning of an early phrase, but also plays on the double meaning of a particular word.” (1)

“Give me a break, but not my leg! He was head over heels. His brother had decapitated him! I’m on a roll. Pass the ketchup! I raised my hand and farted. My science teacher told the class it was a gas! I was like a grain of sand on the beach, gritty and hot! My girlfriend bit my neck. The next time we went out, I insisted that we go out for a stake. I thought time had run out, but my watch’s battery was dead. How many beagles can dance on the head of a pin? None. Beagles don’t dance.” Me

I was addicted to two- or three-liner jokes. I was in a rehab group named “Ha. Ha,” said with a sarcastic tone of voice. At meetings we affected the Homo Seriosus demeanor described by Stanley Fish in Down the Anti-Foundationalist Road.

We were all failed comedians or plain everyday annoying people who had alienated their friends, families, and basically, everybody they met, with streams of one liners not even fit for a toilet.

The group’s only rule was “Don’t crack any of your stupid ass jokes.” If you cracked a joke you had to read the “Declaration of Independence” to the group in a solemn tone. Eventually, I got sick of reading it after 67 times, and quit the group.

I refashioned myself as the “Hokey Paradoky: Street Corner Funnyman.” I blurted one-liners at passersby while I held out a styrofoam cup that said “Deposit $1” on it. Usually, people would just keep going. But every once-in-awhile, somebody who was as warped as me would stop and deposit a dollar. One day, the owner of “Warpo’s Comedy Club” asked me to perform at his club.

The club specialized in dead baby jokes, a genre of humor popular in the 60’s. I was ok with that—I would’ve joked about old ladies falling down flights of stairs naked if I had to. My mind wasn’t wired to make up dead baby jokes, so I plagiarized my Schlick from the web. I managed to make up one though: “How dead babies does it take to screw in a lightbulb? None. They’re dead.” My stolen ones weren’t much better. For example: “How do you fit ten dead babies into a bowl? With a blender.” “What’s the difference between a dead baby and a granola bar? About 500 calories.” “What’s the difference between a dead baby and a moose. I don’t have a moose head mounted above my fireplace.” “What’s the difference between a dead baby and peanut butter? A dead baby won’t stick to the roof of your mouth.”

As soon as I did the peanut butter joke, a woman in the audience stood up and yelled, “Robber, thief, plagiarist. I wrote that!” I was screwed. It was Marmy Ridex, the famous “Dead Baby” lady. Her act was revered among dead baby aficionados. Everybody recognized her. I ran out the fire exit and almost made it to my car when Marmy caught up with me. She hurled what looked like a dead baby at me, but, thank God, it was one of those anatomically correct CPR dolls. Then, she hurled a yellow liquid- filled plastic ba-ba at me and yelled, “What’s the difference between a bucket of baby guts and gravel?” I freaked out. I didn’t know the answer. She yelled and held up jar full of something: “You can’t gargle gravel.” I applauded and she dropped the jar. It had some kind of disgusting goo leaked out of it when it shattered on the pavement.

Trying lighten things up, I said “Hey baby, let’s get a drink.” Marmy laughed and nodded her head. When we got to the bar, she ordered a “Rosemary Baby” and I ordered a “Baby Stout.”

We fell in love.

1. “Paraprosdokian.” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. 4 Jan 2008, 03:30 UTC. Wikimedia Foundation, Inc. 9 Jan 2008 <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paraprosdokian>

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Paregmenon

Posted on June 30, 2026 | Leave a comment

Paregmenon (pa-reg’-men-on): A general term for the repetition of a word or its cognates in a short sentence. Often, but not always, polyptoton.

“How may I help you, how may I? How may I be of assistance, how may I?”

I said this all day long. I worked as an “Influencer” at the information counter in the New Hampshire state line “Welcome Center.” “Ifluencer” wasn’t in my job description. I took bribes from motels and restaurants to steer visitors to their businesses. The business would ask “How did you hear about us?” If it was from the Welcome Center, they wired me $10.00. Also, I could eat, or stay at, any of the businesses who bribed me for free. It was a sweet deal, but trust played a key role. I would periodically have my brother Vince make the rounds of my clients to make sure they were asking the “How did you hear about us?” question. He would accost a patron/patrons going into a client restaurant or motel. He paid them $5.00 to report back on whether the question was asked. If it wasn’t, he’d go in and threaten the maître de or receptionist with “digital removal.” It worked every time. Everybody likes having all their fingers.

One of the weirdest parts of the job of “State Information Provider” was that some people would address me as if I were Siri. They asked crazy-assed questions like: “Do you know the way to San Jose,” a simple yes or no question. Or, I would get jokers: “Why do lobsters never share? Because they’re shellfish.” Or, “Is there an Old Hampshire?” Or, “What is chowdah?” Or, “Where is Metric? Canada?” Or poor bastards, “Is there a car wash nearby? Seagulls shit all over my car.”

I handed out free lobster-shaped lollipops, shots of New England clam chowdah, and handgun permit applications for New Hampshire non-residents (who would be given a free Glock or Beretta key ring along with the application forms). Once in a while, a traveller who “couldn’t hold it” would come in looking for the restroom with a big stain on the front of their dress, shorts, or pants. I would give them a pair of fresh paper unisex slacks for free and direct them to the restroom. They were often very grateful.

I made $900.00 off my “Influencer” scam last month. Vince “harvested” a ring finger in Pennsylvania and kept the ring—a real score for him, given the price of gold.

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Pareuresis

Posted on June 29, 2026 | Leave a comment

Pareuresis (par-yur-ee’-sis): To put forward a convincing excuse. [Shifting the blame.]

We went to Maine every summer, leaving behind the brutality of New Jersey for one week. We drove all 350 miles in our old family Chevy to a town on the coast where our anscestors landed in the late 1600s—East Boothbay.

The Chevy was a coupe—a piece crap with a hole in the floor between me and my sister—we sat on the floor. Coupe’s didn’t have back seats. We just had to be careful. The drive was long and would’ve been boring as hell if our dad did’t make up a stupid game (Beaver!) and sing traditional and popular songs with words he made up, sort of like Al Yankovich.

We had just finished playing “Beaver!” and my sister had won again. Beaver! rules were simple, when you saw a station wagon with exterior wood paneling you yelled “Beaver!” Whoever got to five beavers first, won the game. When I got older and heard a vagina referred to as a “beaver,” I thought maybe my father was a pervert.

The songs were the best boredom fighter. Dad would make us laugh and time would fly. Although they were silly and stupid, they did the trick. I’ve listed some titles below:

  1. “Ground Hog” (Elvis, “Hound Dog”)
  2. “Feral Jock Straps” (French trad. “’Frère Jacques”)
  3. “Tony Baloney” (Roy Orbison, “Only the Lonely”)
  4. “I Shot You Babe” (Sonny and Cher, “I Got You Babe”)
  5. “Baseballs Afire” (Jerry Lee Lewis, “Great Balls Afire”)
  6. “I’m Pickin’ on You” (Jimmy Bowen, “I’m Stickin’ With You”)
  7. “The Twits” (Chubby Checker, “The Twist”)
  8. “Roses are Dead” (Bobby Vinton, “Roses are Red”)
  9. “The Blunderer” (Dion, “The Wanderer”)
  10. “I Want to Hold Your Ham” (Beatles, “I want to Hold Your Hand”)
  11. “Blue Barney Pill” (Fats Domino, “Blueberry Hill”)
  12. “Dancing on Your Meat” (Martha and the Vandellas, “Dancing in the Street”)
  13. “Implants and Oven Mitts” (Strawberry Alarm Clock, “Incense and Peppermints”)

We called these “Dad Songs.” They kept us awake and from falling the through to floor between me and my sister. Once our suitcase blew off the roof of the car and Dad Sang “Our Garments are Blowin’ in the Wind” and kept going.

We stopped at the Salvation Army store in Bath, and got new clothes. I got a two sizes too big t-shirt with a hole in it that had a big red lobster on it and said: “Vacationland.” I loved it, almost as much as I loved Mom and Dad.

Soon we would be in East Boothbay, and the Boothbay Shores where we would pitch a tent on private property, sleep to the tune of mosquitos, cook on a Primus stove, and I would spend my week’s vacation looking for crabs at low tide, drinking Yoo-Hoo, fishing, and shooting my BB gun.

That was 60 years ago.

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Paroemia

Posted on June 28, 2026 | Leave a comment

Paroemia (pa-ri’-mi-a): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegm, gnome, maxim, proverb, and sententia.

“Deep is deep, but steep is steeper.”

This is another worthless saying from “Bowling Ball Blues.” Even worse: “If Emanuel Kant, nobody can.” One must struggle to find a context where it applies. Maybe that’s its point. Who knows? How about: “Every bloated wallet tells a story.” What? Is this is a far-fetched allusion to “Every picture tells a story,” one the most trite sayings in the history of humanity, first discovered inscribed on Poptech-to-Copwhap’s 2,000 year old sarcophagus in Egypt in 1842. It was determined to be the opening line from a tutorial on hieroglyphics dating to 2,500 BCE.

“Bowling Ball Blues” title comes from the saying “Bowling alone is better than staying home.”Iit is part of a paen to bowling permeating the book:

  1. Let the good times bowl.
  2. Spare the strike spoil the child.
  3. Wisdom rolls like a bowling ball down life’s alley.
  4. A seven-ten split is like a bad divorce.
  5. Don’t spare your strikes.
  6. 300 isn’t everything.
  7. A hook is a curve with consequences.
  8. Your ball is not your all.
  9. Odor-eaters in my bowling shoes make me happy.
  10. Lofting the ball dents your soul.
  11. If I was a pin, I’d fall for you.
  12. I have more than two balls.
  13. Spare me the resin,

One must work hard to find an apt moment to employ any one of the above with any kind of relevance to the human condition, unless of course, one wants to risk ridicule and expulsion from polite society. For example, can you imagine saying “Let’s let the good times bowl” as you take to the dance floor with your partner? I can see the potential aptness of “A hook is a curve with consequences” to baiting a fishing hook. That does not redeem the whole lot of “Bowling Ball Blues” smarmy anthology.

But, given they are directed toward a rare sensibility (the love of bowling) perhaps they’re not as terrible as one would imagine at first. maybe they speak to the alienating effect of rare desires and the shrunken community they motivate, to the exclusion of other communities. This quality of exclusive identifications can lead to smugness and an ethic of superiority, and in interactions, an air of incoherence. For example, if a gamer says to a seducee: “I got some Easter eggs for you baby,” what does it mean?

Here, we’re verging on jargon’s job.

So, let’s end it here with the biggest bullshit saying of all time: “Love is s more than a four letter word.” Any “thing” is different from a word, this does not make it “more.” So, as I check out I leave you with this: “Broccoli is more than an 8-letter word,” so, suck it up Bozo.

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Paroemion

Posted on June 27, 2026 | Leave a comment

Paroemion (par-mi’-on): Alliteration taken to an extreme where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant. Sometimes, simply a synonym for alliteration or for homoeoprophoron [a stylistic vice].

“Big black buggies bolted beyond the sidewalk, bounding, bounding, bounding. Beginning to backtrack, they bolted, their drivers yelled “bingo” as they binned the bugs they were bringing to the beach to dutifully drown.“

The passage above was penned by the great nineteenth-century alliterator, Boswell Bucky Buddy Brody Brown. He was the head of the movement “Alliterate! Astonish! Appeal!” As you can see from the passage, he strained to alliterate, hence his writing sometimes seemed insane, nonsensical—not worth worrying over or even reading. But, when he hit the mark, the mark was hit.

His book, Drink, Drank, Drunk, Repeat, gave the temperance movement a huge boost. He showed alcoholism was tied to hygiene regimens, wrongly inculcated in children at a young age. Drinking every day, mimicking the practice of taking a bath or shampooing every day, inculcated a desire for repetition of bodily effects—drinking was a degrading substitute for shampooing.

The “cure” proposed by Brown’s book was to take the “drunk” out the “drink, drank, drunk“ slogan and replace it with “don’t.” This was known as “Alliterative Therapy.” The Temperance Movement picked up on Brown’s teachings and began using them in their cause. Subsequently, a number of business and interest groups picked up on Brown’s teachings to “rehabilitate” businesses and social causes. “Weight Loss Plan” became “Weight Watchers. “Log Cabin Toys” became “Lincoln Logs.” “Racists United” became the “Ku Klux Klan.” “Wood Saws” became “Skil-Saws.” “Sticks in Holes” became “Tinker Toys.” The list goes on and on.

People’s prose projected the alliterative spirit. “Damned dunce” became a popular catchphrase denoting stupid people. “Fu*kin’” was placed adjacent to just about any word whose first letter was “f” as in “fu*kin’ fire” or “fu*kin’ farm or “fu*kin fart.” “Big” and “bad” inevitably appeared together, along with other “b” words: bed, broad, bagel, boned, “Bopper,” etc.

Some historians call the late nineteenth-century the “Age of Aggregated American Alliterationism” due to alliteration’s infusion into every aspect of American life. People wore red hats saying “Always Alliterate.”

However, near the turn of the century, Alliterationism was being eclipsed by the emergent Elocutionary Movement’s emphasis on voice and gesture. One of Alliterationism’s heroes, Frederick Flamingo Farmhouse Trump, raised the alarm: “Brokering bullshit, buffoonery, and bollocks, the Elocutionary Movement makes monumental misery a millstone around the necks of honest Americans acceding actively to its teachings everywhere. Beware! Beguilement is your bounty!”

Trump was ignored, because ignominy infused his ventures, and Allitterationism died. He had plagiarized Aristotle, Cicero, David, and the Apostle Paul, alliterating their writings to sound like his own. Former Alliterationists, following their newly adopted Elocutionary precepts, pointed their left foot to the east, clasped their hands to their breasts, and looked down at the ground whenever they heard his name.

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Paromoiosis

Posted on June 26, 2026 | Leave a comment

Paromoiosis (par-o-moy-o’-sis): Parallelism of sound between the words of adjacent clauses whose lengths are equal or approximate to one another. The combination of isocolon and assonance.

My head was breaking, “Hi” led the areas’ shaking. Why? The dead were rising. There they were in my backyard, coming out of the ground like big stinking butterflies hovering over a cesspool.

I had waited for years for this. As a Zombieologist i have a keen interest in the living dead—what they wear, their favorite movies and sports, favorite foods, concepts of truth, mating habits, etc. but most important, their girth.

“Fat in life, fat in death” was my motto. The equation stressed the life/death/zombie genesis, indicating living fat people carry the Zombosis gene, making them Omni-somiacs in death, eating the whole bodies of their victims, instead of just their brains.

I had been robbing fresh graves for the past three weeks and burying the bodies in shallow graves around my back yard. We had had an unprecedented heat wave. It drove the bodies out of their graves to forage for victims in Canolla Park, where I live. It is a small town outside of Philadelphia, renowned for its cream cheese.

I read epitaphs before I dug, ensuring I would strike only fatties. One epitaph read: “She liked cakes and pies,” another read: “He ate Crisco from the can proving he was a man,” and again, “Twelve Cokes a day put her away.”

The heat wave had killed a large number of elderly people who didn’t believe in A/C. The scent of the rotting dead helped turn the “just plain dead” buried in my back yard, into the living dead, and along with the heat, prompted their rising.

I needed to work fast to get my research team together. We had a grant from “Blasto Refrigeration” testing the effects of freezing air on Zombies’ rising, but that’s not what we were about tonight. Tonight, we were conducting “life style views.” The three of us—me, Barbie Brooklyn, and Teddy Wrench—had recorders and wore white hazmat suits—signaling our inedibility, due to our consumption of a shitload of garlic. And of course, Zombiosis Zombies could speak! The suits said “Beware Garlic” on the front and back.

We had a successful night getting detailed answers to the questions below:

  1. When you’re on the prowl, what turns you on the most?
  2. When you bite into a hand, how does it compare with biting into a foot?
  3. If your mother could see you now, what would she say?
  4. What is your favorite flavor human and what does it taste like? (“Chicken” is prohibited)
  5. What type of soil were you buried in?
  6. How often do you change your underwear?
  7. Can you still whistle?
  8. If you caught fire, how would it feel?
  9. Did you vote for Trump? Why/why not?
  10. Do you have a high school diploma?
  11. Why are you so fat?

We will use this data to determine, if any, the legal status of Zombies. We believe that their eating human flesh is all that sets us apart from them, and that building bridges across that difference will ameliorate the knee-jerk hostility toward their cultural practices and the rich tapestry of difference they display.

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Paromologia

Posted on June 25, 2026 | Leave a comment

Paromologia (par-o-mo-lo’-gi-a): Conceding an argument, either jestingly and contemptuously, or to prove a more important point. A synonym for concessio.

“Oh yeah? So you are smarter than I am, but I am more taller!”

That was my comeback every time. If I wasn’t 10’ 9” tall, I’d never win an argument. It is surprising what an advantage being so tall is. The first time I heard Jimi Hendrix sing “Purple Haze,” I figured he was at least 1,000 feet tall when he excused himself to “kiss the sky.” He must have been some kind of sky god or something. I can’t kiss the sky, but I can kiss a basketball hoop if I stand on my toes.

Back in the day, I was a professional lightbulb changer. I worked in the Empire State Building and Chrysler building. I changed an average of forty-five bulbs a day, from incandescent to LED. My favorite “change” was the red blinking warning lights at the tops of the buildings. The view is great up there. If I brought my binoculars, I could look in the windows of apartment buildings nearby, especially the Sultan of Brunei’s condo in the Chrysler building. He had lot’s of guests. They danced naked and played Corn-Hole. It was fun to watch him puff his hookah, take off his turban and slippers, and jump into the fray.

I also enjoyed “bulbing” in the ladies restrooms. There’s one on every floor, so there was lots of action. At 10’ 9” I can sneak up and look over the stalls. I saw everything from deployed joysticks to the “New York Times.” Once, around Christmas, I saw a woman making snowflakes out of toilet paper. They were pretty good for toilet paper. She saw me peering in. She yelled “What the fu*k are you looking at?” I said “It’s ok, I’m taller than you” and ran out the door. That was a close call, but she didn’t report me. She yelled “What’s your phone number?” as I ran out the door. I yelled back, but I haven’t heard from her yet, and that was two years ago.

For awhile, I took a job with the federal government. I was a crowd surveillance technician. My code name was Tall Beam 22. I stood in the middle of crowds at demonstrations. I had a camera loaded with facial recognition software. My height allowed me to sweep the crowd, identifying chronic troublemakers and wanted criminals. My camera gave me grid coordinates, I reported them via my PRC-15 radio to the base, and they apprehend the bad guys.

Now, I am a part of a U.S. Army differently-heighted team—Special Ops: Long Legs Team 488 (Airborne). In Vietnam, we posed as rubber trees and palm trees doing recon work behind the lines in Laos and Cambodia. In Iraq, we posed as tall fence posts, monitoring roadsides and thwarting IED deployment. In Afghanistan we posed as circus acrobats and giants in “our” traveling circus, gathering intel as we signed post-show autographs. There are countless clandestine missions in Long Legs 488’s history that are classified Top Secret and can’t be reported here. Suffice it to say, identifying and apprehending the perpetrators of the greening of the reflecting pool is on our radar screen right now.

Well—there is a place for everybody and everybody has a place. At 10’ 9” I have found my place. Thank-you Uncle Sam.

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