Allegory

Posted on May 2, 2026 | Leave a comment

Allegory (al’-le-go-ry): A sustained metaphor continued through whole sentences or even through a whole discourse.

People keep asking me if I have a bug up my ass. I’ve gotten quite worried and became more quarrelsome than usual. I thought I felt movement “down there.” It seemed more like bugs, than a single bug. I was panic stricken when I farted in bed one night and felt something skittering around my rectum.

I was like the boy who lived long, long ago. He cried “wolf!” I cried “bugs up my ass” and my mother would come running, roll me over and spread my ass cheeks. She never found any bugs and told me to quit crying out or she would hit me over the head with a one of my work boots. I was panic stricken. Even though she never found any bugs, spreading my ass cheeks seemed to chase them away.

I didn’t know what to do. So, I collected a jar of lady bugs and stuck them up my ass. That night, I yelled “Bugs up my ass!” The lady bugs were having a picnic. They were biting my anus with their stinging bites. It was like revenge. I yelled again, “Bugs up my ass!” No response. my mother had decided I was deluded and really didn’t need help. Like the little boy who cried wolf who was eventually eaten by a wolf when he had made himself look like a bullshitter, my mother shunned me when I really had bugs up my ass, and they were biting me. I wouldn’t let them eat me!

I acted fast.

I got my spray Deoderant from my bathroom and squatted down and sprayed it up my ass. I could hear the ladybugs hitting the tile floor as they died and dropped off. I felt “back there” and determined that all the ladybugs were gone. But, I was still vexed by all the people telling me I had a bug up my ass.

So, I did some research. I Googled it: “Bug up the ass” (or “bug up one’s ass”) is a vulgar American slang idiom describing a state of continual annoyance, obsession, or irritation about a specific topic. A person with a “bug up their ass” acts abnormally, often exhibiting irrational rudeness, extreme impatience, or an obsessive fixation.” Wow! This described me to a “T”.

I couldn’t imagine living in a town where everybody had a bug up their ass. Everybody would be perpetually irritated and itching for a fight. Their relations would need frequent swatting and their beds frequent fumigation by bug chasing counselors. With all this, the bugs up peoples’ assess would be vanquished, people would no longer be bugged, and love would rule the day.

There’s hope for everybody. I am cured of the bug up my ass. You can be cured too! Heed the allegory!

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Alleotheta

Posted on May 1, 2026 | Leave a comment

Alleotheta (al-le-o-the’-ta): Substitution of one case, gender, mood, number, tense, or person for another. Synonymous with enallage. [Some rhetoricians claim that alleotheta is a] general category that includes antiptosis [(a type of enallage in which one grammatical case is substituted for another)] and all forms of enallage [(the substitution of grammatically different but semantically equivalent constructions)].

Me and my wife were sitting next to each other on the couch. I said, “As usual we is bored.” My wife would say “Yes” and squirm around a little. We sit there until 10 or 11 and then go to bed. Nothing happens. We go straight to sleep.

I am going to buy a dog to liven things up. But, it was like magic. A big brown dog showed up at our door. We went ahead and let him in. We named him Brown. He was the size of a pony and shook them windows over there when he barked. By scratchin’ he turned my easy chair into a pile of fluff in a pile on the floor. We were spendin’ $100 per week on his dog food. We could barely afford our rent, let alone the dog food. My job at the kite factory didn’t pay that good.

Then I got an idea: Brown could give dog rides in the front yard. After all, he was as big as a pony. I got him a pony saddle and put up a sign: Dog Rides $2.00. The neighborhood kids flocked to our yard to ride Brown. I kept a rope around his neck so he could only go in a circle. I was feedin’ him a dog treat one afternoon when he bit me on the hand. It was just a little nip, so I thought nothin’ of it.

Then, one day, I dropped my rope to tie my shoe and Brown got loose an’ run off with a kid ridin’ him. The kid’s parents were really angry. I took off after Brown hopin’ to find him quickly and return the kid. It didn’t happen. That was four months ago.

A few people have spotted Brown with the kid still ridin’ him. Most recently, it was at Burger King when Brown and the kid pushed through the doors. The kid ordered a Cheese Whopper and fries while Brown growled menacingly, scaring people away.

Also, they’ve been raiding grocery stores for 10 pound bags a’ dog food. They gallop into the grocery store and go straight to the pet food section. The kid grabs a bag a’ food and they gallop outta the grocery store, scaring the customers with Brown barkin’ his explosive bark.

The kid’s parents are suing me for $1,000,000. I’m just hoping Brown will bring the kid back. I don’t have no million dollars. With luck, they could squeeze $500.00 outta me and my wife, who has left me.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Alliteration

Posted on April 30, 2026 | Leave a comment

Alliteration (al-lit’-er-a’-tion): Repetition of the same letter or sound within nearby words. Most often, repeated initial consonants. Taken to an extreme alliteration becomes the stylistic vice of paroemion where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant.

I was in the sixth grade. I was in the lunch line. I pushed the boy in front of me out of line and took his place. Earlier that day, I had pushed my sister off the toilet so I could pee. I chased her out of the bathroom. On my way to school I has pushed a third grader into a crossing guard causing him to fall down and nearly get run over by a school bus. I walked by a nursing home on my way home after school. I saw on old man in a wheel chair and gave him a push. He rolled away and ran over the nursing home’s comfort cat. That episode wasn’t very satisfying, but I couldn’t figure out why.

I was at the mall shopping with my mom for a new pair of shoes for me. I wanted loafers because I thought they would make me relax and “loaf” around. I saw a pair called “Ecological Elk Skin.” I knew it was just a sales ploy to call them ecological, but they were made out of real elk skin. But it wasn’t to be. My mother made me get brown lace-ups. They looked like cow shit with heels. My mom said “What sharp stylish shoes Jerry. You will enjoy stepping on insects when you wear them.” I knew my mother was crazy, but this was one of her best derailed ding-dong moments. I pushed some nerdy looking kid out of the way as I went out the door. I was going to step on him, but he wasn’t positioned properly—he was laying on his side crying, so I gave him a light kick. His mother asked me what I thought I was doing. I said, “Picking on your dumbass kid. You need to toughen him up mommy.” My mother had her fists raised. I calmed her down and we ran out the mall exit, found our car, and drove away.

As you may have noticed, pushing plays a major role in my life, even to the point of pushing the Mayor off Dead Man’s Cliff. I beat the rap for killing the Mayor because I was too young to be indicted. My pushing was so bad that I was known as “The Pusher.” People wouldn’t get within five feet of me for fear of being pushed. I couldn’t stop pushing. I went to a doctor. He told me that I had a genetic disease that I inherited from my Greek ancestor, Sisyphus.

Sisyphus is directly related to me. He is the archetypal pusher man—pushing a boulder around for all eternity. Once I realized I couldn’t be cured, I searched the world for something productive I could do with my “Pusher’s Syndrome.” I tried pushing baby carriages, but they were not people and it just didn’t seem right.

My travels took me to Tokyo, Japan. The subways were crowed during rush hour. I started pushing and stuffing people into subway cars. It was deeply satisfying and provided a service to Japanese commuters—what are called “salary men.” Now I have established a school that teaches people how to stuff people into subway cars.

I toyed with calling my school “Shove it Academy.” Everybody thought it was stupid, so I named it “Sisyphus Academy.” I am making a ton of money. Every once in awhile, I get the urge to push somebody down. I have an employee designated as “Faller Downer” standing by to take the push.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Alliteration

Posted on April 30, 2026 | Leave a comment

Alliteration (al-lit’-er-a’-tion): Repetition of the same letter or sound within nearby words. Most often, repeated initial consonants. Taken to an extreme alliteration becomes the stylistic vice of paroemion where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant.

Carl was a Cretin. Somewhere he had learned the Liar’s Paradox: All cretans are liars. As a Cretin claiming all Cretans are liars, was he telling the truth? Who knows. He wasn’t from Crete, he was just a Cretin. He was stupid and offensive. He had earned the Cretin title, testing everybody’s patience with his obnoxious character. He would swear at toddlers, kick puppies, and steal Social Security checks from elderly peoples’ mailboxes. Somehow, he managed to evade arrest and gloated when he cashed the checks at the bank. People would look at him with their mouths hanging open, but they didn’t do anything. Carl’s father was Mayor and had an iron grip on Tinker Town, named after the Tinkers from England who settled it in the late 17th century, making them among the first colonists of what would eventually become West Virginia. Most of then made and repaired tin cups and thimbles. They were known for donating tin cups to beggars. Their thimbles were revered. They had a cushioned lining made of mole fur, enabling sweatshop seamstresses to sew for 12-15 hours per day without discomfort. A the time, the thimble cushion was seen as a benevolent innovation that was sponsored by the church.

Anyway, Carl Cretin continued his criminal capers, flaunting his stolen checks each month when he took them to the bank. It seemed that his father was Mayor for life—covering Carl’s ass out of a sense of family loyalty. However, trouble was brewing on the horizon.

Tinker’s Social Security recipients had formed a “society” to combat Carl’s criminal ways. They all rented Post Office boxes at the Post Office. As a government facility, it was under the jurisdiction of the federal government—if Cretin tried to steal checks from the Post Office, he would be subject to arrest and a 25 year jail sentence.

Being completely stupid, Carl Cretin thought he was smart.

Carl immediately hatched a plan to rob the post office. He bought a battery-powered drill at Lowe’s, and a black balaclava at Dick’s Sporting Goods. Disguised as a robber, he would drill out the post office boxes’ locks and scoop out the checks. The post office boxes were located in a wing of the post office open 24-7. Carl planned to hit the post office at 3:00 am when there wouldn’t be anybody around. He thought “I’m a goddamn genius” as he opened the post office door and headed to the first post office box and started to drill.

Suddenly, a a bright light lit up and a vuvuzela started blowing loudly. There was an old man standing there. He had been appointed by Tinker Town’s Social Security recipients to watch over their post office boxes. His name was Clint and he had insomnia.

Carl ran out the door and tripped on the curb, knocking himself unconscious. He was plied with smelling salts, handcuffed, and driven away by federal agents never to be seen again. It is rumored that he changed his name, was pardoned, had plastic surgery, and was appointed FBI Director. We don’t believe the rumor for a minute. How could a Cretin be appointed FBI Director?

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Allusion

Posted on April 29, 2026 | Leave a comment

Allusion (ə-ˈlü-zhən):[1] A reference/representation of/to a well-known person, place, event, literary work, or work of art . . . “a brief reference, explicit or indirect, to a person, place or event, or to another literary work or passage”. It is left to the reader or hearer to make the connection . . . ; an overt allusion is a misnomer for what is simply a reference.[2]

Summer was here and the time was right for dancin’ in the street—I believed it. I would find a way to dance in the street. Although I did not live in any of the cities catalogued by Martha and the Vandellas in their overview of where to dance in the street, I felt that my home town, Malarky, New Jersey would work. It was founded by Irish immigrants in the 1920’s. They worked in the cranberry bogs. Malarky holds a cranberry gala every summer. It is pretty tame. Vendors line the Main Street (Ocean Spray Avenue) selling cranberry-themed wares: cranberry jelly, cranberry wine, cranberry beef patties, cranberry and popcorn Christmas tree strings, cranberry cologne, cranberry car fresheners, etc. The big excitement was kids shooting people with their slingshots loaded with cranberries. But, that is about to change.

I got a cultural grant for $85.00 from the State of New Jersey to bring Martha and the Vandellas to Malarky for a reprise of “Dancing in the Streets” to get the residents of Malarky dancing in the street, inspired by the singing. My buddy Jerry set it all up. However, he found out that Martha was booked all summer at state fairs all over America, but there was a tribute band, Margo and the Vans, who were willing to perform cheap. They would sing the song for $200.00.

When I met them at the bus station, I was shocked by how old they were. Margo had a walker and the Vans weren’t far behind. One of them rode over my foot with her wheelchair. But, they said they were up to the task—that they could sing like ringin’ a bell. Margo was clearly high on something, but I let it slide.

The bandstand was built and the day came. I introduced the group to the modest-sized audience. Margo walked up to the mike and fell over dead. I yelled to the audience, “Don’t fear the reaper.” They panicked anyway. Margo was bleeding! She had been assassinated. There was a guy in leg braces with two canes that looked like an ancient Chubby Checker. He was going as fast as he could up the aisle waving a handgun. I got in front of him. He yelled “Boogety, Boogety, Shoo,” swiveled his hips, took a shot at me, and missed. I beat him over the head with my microphone, nearly killing him. I heard somebody yell “She’s alive!” Margo was sitting up and we called an ambulance. The State Police took “Chubby” away. He got 50 years in Rahway State Prison. His motive was pure vengeance, but I don’t know what for.

Margo and the Vans will be back next year. When I found out they lip synched, I was mad at first, but they are cheap. I think my dancing in the street dream will come true. The improved cranberry gala will put Malarky on the map and I will be a hero.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Amphibologia

Posted on April 28, 2026 | Leave a comment

Amphibologia (am’-fi-bo-lo’-gi-a): Ambiguity of grammatical structure, often occasioned by mispunctuation. [A vice of ambiguity.]

My brain was searching. I was chasing a tortoise in my underpants. I saw a duck driving my car. I don’t know what’s wrong, or maybe it’s right. I was turning into a myth. Who would sing my tale—the man who got lost in his garage. I saw a screw driver in my socks. I dropped my hammer. It made a spark and disappeared. And so, the story begins.

I was born in a very big flower pot in the lobby of an upscale hotel in Camden, New Jersey. This is highly unorthodox. My mother is very small, so there were no complications anticipated by the fake doctor—Merlin Fangshaw— who oversaw my mother’s health. He would say ”Merlin’s my name, and malpractice is my game.” Then he’d laugh and say “Just kidding.” I didn’t think he was kidding. His diagnostic skill was absent. I’ll never forget the time he diagnosed my mother’s ingrown toenail as cancer. He prescribed chemo, and when it didn’t work, he amputated her toe so the cancer wouldn’t spread.

There were about fifty people, hotel guests, who assembled in the lobby to witness my birth. They got a good show.

My head was unusually large. My mother was unusually small. She had a horrible birth. The flower pot cracked a she was torn like a piece of paper, bled profusely, and died before the ambulance arrived. As far as the people at the morgue knew, I had no relatives. I was sent to “Children’s Woe” orphanage. My big head was not an asset at the orphanage. I was bullied. I was called “Basketball Head,” and “Planet Head.” I was sad and angry all the time. I started crying when I got out of bed and started crying again when I went to bed at night. My pillowcase was damp from the tears and I developed a rash. It seemed incurable. I was sent to a medical research laboratory where they experimented on my face. I was happy at the laboratory and stopped crying. My rash went away.

They kept me at the laboratory to use me in their experimental work. I was a vehicle for a number cures. They would give me a disease, and then, try to cure me. The scientists would lay odds and bet on whether I’d be cured or die. My favorite disease was “Lip Smack.” When you had it, you could smack your lips so loud that they would sound like a handgun and scare the crap out of everyone! Another one was “Elephant Ears.” They injected my ears with “Dumbo Juice.” If I stood facing into a strong wind, my giant Elephant Ears would lift me off the ground. This was great fun until they found a cure. If I abstained from peanuts, my ears went back to normal, surgery wasn’t necessary. After they were surgically removed, I was allowed to tan my ears and I have them for entertainment hanging on my apartment wall. I look at them in my lab coat eating breakfast and watching the morning news.

When I was at the laboratory, I noticed that one of the scientists had a big head like mine. Big heads run in my family. We got to talking, and I started talking about my mom and her horrible death in a flower pot in a hotel lobby while giving birth to me. His shoulders slumped. He looked at the floor and said, “I wondered what happened to your mother. I am your father.” We hugged. I was a little too aggressive and my big head hit his big head too hard. He fell to the floor and a puddle of blood pooled around his unconscious head. I called 911 and we lived happily ever after. I call my Dad “basketball head” and he calls me “planet head.” Life is good.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Ampliatio

Posted on April 27, 2026 | Leave a comment

Ampliatio (am’-pli-a’-ti-o): Using the name of something or someone before it has obtained that name or after the reason for that name has ceased. A form of epitheton.

“Hey Boobie-Butt! How’s it going? Are you selling watermelons or potato sacks filled with jello?” I dreaded running into anybody from my high school days. In high school I was flat chested and flat assed. I had breast and butt injections to fill me out. But something snapped in my head. I was obsessed with the word “jumbo” and couldn’t stop getting injections. People started calling me “Boobie-Butt” due to my expanding boobs and butt.

As they grew, I loved to stand it front of my mirror a look at them. I’d hoist up my boobs and bend over and look at my ass. It sent a shiver up my spine. My parents didn’t even notice. The plastic surgeon cut me off after I had spent all the money my grandma had left me—$6,000. My big bras were custom made by my Home Ec Teacher Miss Tremble. She would fit me after class, in the evening. She would squeeze my boobs and kiss them to make sure her big bra pattern was the right size. I really enjoyed my fittings. Also, she had a plastic buzzing “Seamstress Wand” that she turned on and set on her lap during the fitting. At the time, these sessions were the highpoint of my life. Miss Tremble also made my giant underpants, following the same rituals as she did for the bras. I felt like the underwear Queen! But that was then. This is now.

I am 70 years old and my boobs and ass are weighing me down. I can barely stand up or sit comfortably. They make an embarrassing sloshing sound. People look at me in the grocery store. Mrs. Tremble, who became my wife, died 10 years ago. Every day that goes by without Mrs. Tremble I wonder why I still have big boobs and a giant ass, especially given my age, and also the taunts from high school assholes hurled from their walkers and wheelchairs. “Boobie-Butt” breaks my heart. To my class mates it was a bullying taunt, to Mrs. Tremble it was an affectionate nickname. We’d snuggle under the duvet and she’d whisper “Boobie-Butt” in my ear. Now, I’m old and broken down and having my “Boobie-Butt” drained. Yes, drained.

POSTSCRIPT

I had them drained. I feel like a traitor, but now I can stand up and sit down without any problems. The emptied body parts look weird. My boobs look like Christmas stockings hung on my rib cage. My butt looks like a giant washcloth flapping around behind me. This is what we do, as some poet sad, to “go quietly into the night.” I can’t go that quietly. My breasts make a flopping sound when I walk. Oh! If only Mrs. Tremble was still alive. She could fit me with a “flop suppressor.” I can joyously look forward to seeing Mrs. Tremble again in heaven. Love never dies. It’s perfect for heaven.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Anacoenosis

Posted on April 26, 2026 | Leave a comment

Anacoenosis (an’-a-ko-en-os’-is): Asking the opinion or judgment of the judges or audience, usually implying their common interest with the speaker in the matter [and illustrating their communally-held ideals of truth, justice, goodness and beauty, for better and for worse].

How many of us want to hike the Appalachian Trail? Yeah! Great!All right! Me and Cammy! The rest of you losers can go home and think about what it means to be a Flamingo Scoout—“Pink, pink have another drink and drive somewhere.” Cammy and I are going to polish off this bottle of MD 20-20 and drive to the trail head in North Jersey.

I was already half-crocked, but duty called. We would walk to Maine. Piece of cake.

Driving to the trailhead I swerved off the road and flipped my car. Cammy was’t wearing a seat belt and looked dead. He had been thrown out of the car and was impaled on a mileage marker. I called 911 and reported the accident. Then I took off walking for the trailhead. I was a Flamingo Scout. It was too bad about Cammy, but I would not be deterred. I sat down to smoke a joint, but I heard sirens off in the distance. I got moving and came to the trailhead. It was almost straight up to the trail. I got about 50 feet and had to take a rest. I was 6 feet tall and weighed 242 pounds. I could barely fit in my Flamingo Scout uniform any more. I stood up to resume my trek and heard a click in my back pocket and a shooting pain in my ass. My Flamingo Scout OTF switchblade knife had been triggered and shot its blade into my ass. I felt my butt cheek and it was wet with blood.

To make things worse, a bullhorn yelled from down the hill: “Scoutmaster Vector, this is the State Police. Come down to the trailhead. Come down to the trailhead.” I cupped my hands and yelled “I’ll be right down.” I did not make it. I bled to death before I got there.

I know this is an unexpected twist to my story but just bear with me.

POSTSCRIPT

I am now known as the “Trailhead Ghost.” If you have an OTF switchblade or folding knife in your pocket when you walk past me, it may pop open and you may bleed to death. As a ghost, I really don’t know how I ended up with this job. It is really gross. I am petitioning the Ghost Commission to have the knives I affect turn into rubber and become harmless. I have a lawyer who specializes in these kind of “matter transformation” cases. “Pinnochio” is his most famous case, where Pinocchio was judged eligible to be transformed from wood to flesh. Accordingly, I think metal to rubber will be allowed by the Commission.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Anacoloutha

Posted on April 25, 2026 | Leave a comment

Anacoloutha (an-a-co’-lu-tha): Substituting one word with another whose meaning is very close to the original, but in a non-reciprocal fashion; that is, one could not use the first, original word as a substitute for the second. This is the opposite of acoloutha.

I love to hate you in so many ways hand guns, broken glass and trash hauled away. I would blink. Go away. Come back. I have more to say.

I dream of driving over you with a loaded dump truck. A dump truck loaded with my broken dreams—the woe and hurt you’ve made in my life, cracked like an abused urn leaking my soul on the living room carpet. What is wrong with me? What has happened to me? Is this ketchup, or hot sauce, or Code Red, or strawberry kool aide staining my shirt? What?! Blood?

There is a screwdriver—a hand tool—you are not so mechanically inclined—a stabbing, a fatal puncture made by your feckless hand. Ah. The screwdriver has a wooden handle. Maybe it’s an antique or made n Germany, or both. Ouch! I am dying.

I got up off the floor with great difficulty and shuffled to the bathroom to get a band aid. I pulled out the screwdriver and I squirted blood on the medicine cabinet mirror. I stuck five bandaids over the hole in my chest. They stopped the bleeding.

I shuffled back to the living room and flopped on the couch. I called 911. Fairly soon, there was a knock on my door. I crawled to the door and opened it. There were two guys dressed in white with black plastic bowties and white hats with black patent leather brims. They looked like ice cream men.

They wheeled in a gurney. They hoisted me up and shoved me in a black bag with a zipper around it. It was a body bag! One of the orderlies said “You’re probably going to pass on the way to the hospital. We just want to get a head start.” It was warm and damp in the bag. I felt my life ebbing away. I wanted to sleep. Then, when they were loading me into the ambulance, the gurney slipped on the curb and I spilled out on the sidewalk. I could hear the gathered crowd go “Oooh.” The orderlies got me back on the gurney and slid me into the ambulance.

We were speeding through the streets of Rahway with the siren blaring. It was two blocks to the hospital. I didn’t die. After eleven hours of surgery I was put in the ICU to heal. After one month, I was discharged. I went to the hardware store to buy a screwdriver. I bought a high-end Phillips Head—the pointed tip was an advantage. The mahogany handle was beautiful.

I took a cab to my former girlfriend’s apartment.

I made my way to her door, brandished my screwdriver, and kicked in the door. She was sitting naked on the couch with a bullseye painted on her chest. She said, “I heard you were being discharged from the hospital today. I knew you’d come to see me. Take aim Billy. I’m ready to go. I owe it to you.”

I didn’t know what to do. My anger was melting. Nevertheless, I raised my screwdriver and stabbed her. Immediately, I was filled with regret. She was sitting there crying and pumping blood out of the hole I had made in her chest. She passed out.

I washed my screwdriver off in the kitchen sink and left. The next day, I read her obituary in the Star Ledger. What a crock of shit! She didn’t like cats! She didn’t even have a cat. I was mentioned as her fiancé. Total bullshit. She tried to murder me when I refused to take her to Cape May for the weekend. It said she liked to cook and hike. She wouldn’t get off her ass long enough to do either. It said she volunteered at Salvation Army. Yes that’s true—she volunteered so she could steal shit off the loading dock before it got into the store.

Jesus Christ, how full of shit can an obituary be?

Anyway, I keep my screwdriver in my sock drawer as a reminder of the versatility of hand tools.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Anacoluthon

Posted on April 24, 2026 | Leave a comment

Anacoluthon (an-a-co-lu’-thon): A grammatical interruption or lack of implied sequence within a sentence. That is, beginning a sentence in a way that implies a certain logical resolution, but concluding it differently than the grammar leads one to expect. Anacoluthon can be either a grammatical fault or a stylistic virtue, depending on its use. In either case, it is an interruption or a verbal lack of symmetry. Anacoluthon is characteristic of spoken language or interior thought, and thus suggests those domains when it occurs in writing.

I was blast—a proper loser. I had misplaced my car keys again. I started pushing my car to work. It would take awhile, but at least nobody would know I had lost my keys. My car would be parked in its designated slot at “Singing Frog Law Firm, LLP.” We did mainly environmental law—saving Pug-Nosed Whales, Giant Himalayan Weevils, Stool Bots, Five-Legged Loam Flies, Nail Worms, Creeping Tongue Grippers, Steaming Leeches, etc. These are a few of our successes. Currently, we are working our way through the courts trying to get citizenship for Japanese Beetles. Gardeners are presenting what seems to be an unbreachable wall of argument against the beetles—especially the moral argument. Their public mating rituals offend most sane people. But where else can they go? Your bedroom or your hollyhocks?

Anyway, I felt an irritation in my underpants. I went in the men’s room and pulled down my pants expecting to find Larry Lizard—my pet lizard—in my underpants—he likes it there—nice and warm. But it wasn’t Larry. It was my car keys! I was elated. I didn’t remember putting them there, but I was thinking it was my wife’s doing. She liked to keep things lively and frequently played jokes on me. Last week she put sand in my scrambled eggs. The week before that, she talked me into wearing a flower pot for a hat and saying “Whip it good” to my colleagues.

I drove home from work without incident. When I got home, my house was on fire. It was smoking and fire was coming out of the windows. My wife was on fire too. She had not stopped, dropped, or rolled. I thought, “Fu*k it” and let her burn. All I could think of was living prank-free. To my chagrin, one of the firefighters hosed down my wife and she was alive. She recovered after many skin grafts and antibiotics and lots of morphine.

This morning I couldn’t find my shoes. I had to wear my Porky Pig slippers to work. I am planning on putting a highly poisonous, and endangered, Osmosis Beetle in my wife’s underwear drawer. One bite when she reaches for her panties and she’ll collapse dead on the floor.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Anadiplosis

Posted on April 23, 2026 | Leave a comment

Anadiplosis (an’-a-di-plo’-sis): The repetition of the last word (or phrase) from the previous line, clause, or sentence at the beginning of the next. Often combined with climax.

The sunset was pink and purple. Purple as the bruise on my arm. I got the bruise from the “cop” who grabbed my arm when I was marching in the demonstration. He told me I was under arrest. I pulled off his balaclava. I couldn’t believe it. It was the Pastor from the Methodist Church, Pastor Cross. This was the most shocking experience of my life. Prior to that it was spying on my sister through her bedroom keyhole and seeing her dancing naked with her pet snake. In all other respects she’s a normal person, so I let it ride. But Pastor Cross! He is supposed to be a man of God, religious, steeped in Christ’s teaching.

“You little bastard!” he yelled when I pulled off his mask. “I’m under cover for Jesus. I am taking notes on the miscreants disrupting this demonstration. Especially those inflicting pain, like me. Ha ha ha!” He squeezed my arm tighter and said “Come with me.” “Where are we going?” I asked. He yelled “Sanctuary!”with a speech impediment identical to Peter Lorrie’s in the “Hunchback of Notre Dame.” The Methodist Church was a short walk—its specific name was “Lovely Lamb Methodist Church.”

When we got inside Pastor Cross let go of me. He took off his shoes and told me to follow his lead, or hell was waiting. I took off my Blundstones and waited while Pastor Cross plugged in an old-fashioned record player, put on a record, and turned it on. It was Dee Dee Sharp singing “Mashed Potato Time.” We danced the mashed potato in our socks, sliding around like we were dancing on butter. Pastor Cross yelled over the music “This is God’s work: Ya a weem o wep a weem o wep!”

The record player was set to play the same record over and over. It must’ve played 50 times before Pastor Cross turned it off and began a sermon from the pulpit. I sat in a front row pew, sweating and exhausted from dancing the mashed potatoes.

Dr Cross began: “You won’t find Jesus in a penthouse. He’s more like a Motel 6 kind of guy: a bed, a TV, a chair and a bathroom with a shower. He’s waiting for you to knock on his door. He will let you in. His room can become crowded with souls seeking redemption, but there’s always room for a sinner.”

“I went to the Motel Six and sat on the bed. There was a knock on my door and it was Joanie Vester, Mr. Vester’s wife. We prayed together under the covers and we “came” together to the light of the Lord in a perfect conjunction of contractions.”

“So, I am a jumbo sinner. But I know, if I repent I will be forgiven. Forgiven by you fallen wives. Forgiven by your husbands too. Totally forgiven by everybody I’ve transgressed against throughout my life. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

Then somebody yelled from the back of the church: “Oh yeah? That’s what you think shithead.” It was Mr. Vester! He yelled “The Lion does not sleep tonight!” He had taken off his shoes and was sliding roward Pastor Cross with a Zulu iklwa—a stabbing spear. Mr. Vester had worked for Shell Oil in Africa, where he had purchased the spear as a souvenir. Pastor Cross was frozen with fear. The spear went through his solar plexus, pinning his open Bible to his chest as an ineffective shield from the fatal wound. God’s word couldn’t save him.

Mr. Vester and I watched Pastor Cross die a slow and agonizing death, which I’m pretty sure he deserved as he moaned and cried. After Pastor Cross expired, Mr. Vester ran out of the church yelling “All is forgiven. Jesus loves you! Ya a weem o wep a weem o wep!” Mr. Vaster made no sense, although his hair was smoking.

They tried to charge me as an accessory to Pastor Cross’s murder. It didn’t fly, mainly because I’m a credentialed Quaker vegetarian beekeeper and a registered pacifist,

Hopefully, the evil Pastor Cross went straight to hell where he’s burning in the lake of fire. The irony is that eventually Mr. Vester will end up there too, but for the time being, he has had radical plastic surgery and is living with Mrs. Vester, who is missing the index finger from her left hand. Hand it to Mr. Vester! He has resolved a significant conflict.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Anamnesis

Posted on April 22, 2026 | Leave a comment

Anamnesis (an’-am-nee’-sis): Calling to memory past matters. More specifically, citing a past author [apparently] from memory. Anamnesis helps to establish ethos [credibility], since it conveys the idea that the speaker is knowledgeable of the received wisdom from the past.

As Metallica said: “Nothing else matters.” Trusting is the only way to hope and a life of happiness. Trust will take you on a voyage to the truth. Trust will give you optimism and make room for another person in your life—somebody to love and nourish with trust. Trust is a rock to stand atop as you search for your future—your partner, your children, your peace of mind.

But trust can also be the fast lane on the highway to hell—yes, hell! The questions. The allegations. The suspicions; well-founded or not. Based on fear and the madness of uncertainty, not being sure, fear of betrayal. Trust is based in faith and faith is fragile, easily shattered by a renegade imagination taking the worst option, believing what isn’t true, believing what hasn’t happened.

This is the problem: the trust breaker and the trust maker—the way to hope, the way to fear: BELIEF.

Belief is a matter of choice: belief does make you believe it. You make you believe. You look for evidence, but sometimes you stumble across it—a condom in his pocket when he never uses them with you. Her picture of the neighbor sporting a hefty erection on her call phone.

Evidence of infidelity! But, maybe not. But probably so. Faith is broken. Betrayal has been performed. Rage takes center stage. It goes with crying, and even physical violence— punches thrown in the living room, threats with a kitchen knife. Threats with a handgun. Stabbing. Shooting. Murder. This is the worst case. Usually, the person betrayed has a broken heart and years of struggling with so-called “trust issues” in therapy.

Trust rides a rocky road—full of potholes and dead ends. It just may be foolish to ride that road, especially when you’re young when nobody knows what the hell direction they want to go. As you get older, the road smoothes out, the potholes are filled in and the dead ends diminish. It is easier for trust to ride the road. There may be moments of doubt, of being lost, but your life-experience on the road will make it easy to find your way back again. Back to home. Back to trust. Back to love and partnership.

The driving metaphor above provides a sort of inept opening to the issue of trust and its temporal development. But trust me, I’m on the road again.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Anapodoton

Posted on April 21, 2026 | Leave a comment

Anapodoton (an’-a-po’-do-ton): A figure in which a main clause is suggested by the introduction of a subordinate clause, but that main clause never occurs.

Anapodoton is a kind of anacoluthon, since grammatical expectations are interrupted. If the expression trails off, leaving the subordinate clause incomplete, this is sometimes more specifically called anantapodoton. Anapodoton has also named what occurs when a main clause is omitted because the speaker interrupts himself/herself to revise the thought, leaving the initial clause grammatically unresolved but making use of it nonetheless by recasting its content into a new, grammatically complete sentence.

“Well, I’ll be. I never thought I’d see the day when you did something worthwhile.” My father was elated.

I had been gone for four years serving my sentence for stealing 5 T-bone steaks from Hannaford Supermarket. They gave me ten warnings before they had me arrested. They called me “Cheapsteak” at the trial because I sold the stolen t-bones for next to nothing to my neighbors and friends. I got four years because the judge thought I was a wise guy. I wasn’t a wise guy, I was just a high school dropout trying to make a living. My only alternative to stealing meat was mowing lawns, but I’m allergic to grass. So, I turned to meat-napping.

But now I was out of prison, on parole, and facing toward a smarter, wiser, future. I had read a book titled “Are You a Worthless Piece of Shit?” by Sado Minnelli. I concluded that I am a worthless piece of shit, but Sado offered a postscript that is redemptive. It is titled “Chickens.” It explains that raising chickens for their eggs and bodies when they wear out was done throughout the centuries by great people: Jesus, Abraham Lincoln, Ozzie Osborne, Babe Ruth, and Elvis all raised chickens. If you ask him, “The Egg Man” will delver 10 fertile eggs to your door for $10.00 for you to hatch into chickens. I went for it and now my father was eating scrambled eggs for breakfast and we’re having roast chicken for dinner tonight.

My business “The Shell Game,” is doing well. I owe it all to Sado Minnelli. Making me feel like a worthless piece of shit prepared me to succeed. You know. When you’re at the bottom.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Anastrophe

Posted on April 20, 2026 | Leave a comment

Anastrophe (an-as’-tro-phee): Departure from normal word order for the sake of emphasis. Anastrophe is most often a synonym for hyperbaton, but is occasionally referred to as a more specific instance of hyperbaton: the changing of the position of only a single word.

In went the knife. My heart’s strings went zing. I was peeling a peach with an Army surplus bayonet. Like blood, its juice was sticky, making a little puddle on the cutting board. In I put my fingertip for a taste. It was sweet and warm. Mmmm.

Peeling a peach is hard work—not physically but mentally. It has all the hallmarks of surgery, but you “eat” the peach patient in the end. I used to eat people. I gave it up without ever being caught. I ate six people before I quit—3 adults, 2 teenagers and 1 child. I always regretted that I didn’t eat more children. I guess I wasn’t evil enough—I liked the “Cowsills” and “Mr. Rogers Neighborhood.”

The first human I ate was the crossing guard at my middle school. He would slap me on the butt with his stop & go paddle when I crossed the street. Then, he’d stand there looking at me and licking his lips. That’s where I got the idea to eat him—from his lip-licking. I told him I wanted to learn how to direct traffic. He salivated heavily and told me we could practice in his driveway. I didn’t want to put him on guard, so I didn’t mention the fact that there was no traffic in his driveway. I played along. When we got there he gave me the paddle and pretended he was a car. He came running at me and tried to knock me down. I hit him hard over the head with the paddle and knocked him out. Then, I stabbed him once in the heart with my trusty bayonet and dragged his dead body inside through the garage. He had a chainsaw hanging in the garage—I was jubilant. When we got to the kitchen I stabbed him in the heart again and fired up the chainsaw & cut him into pieces. I sliced his buttocks into thick bacon and fried it up with some scrambled eggs. I made some toast soaked with butter and slathered with blackberry jam. I found some maple syrup in the refrigerator and poured some on the bacon. I finished up and cleaned up except for the crossing guard. I left him on the kitchen floor and took off. I noticed the next day that we had a new crossing guard—the old crossing guard’s wife’s man-toy Franklin Ballzinger—a notorious womanizer.

The wife was a key suspect. Her fingerprints were on the chainsaw and a love-email to to Ballinger was found on her computer: “I’m cutting my losses, Franklin. There’s too much bad blood between me and my husband. I will take a stab at living with you and getting you the crossing guard job.” The crossing guard’s wife was convicted of “death by dismemberment” and sentenced to 200 years in Mount Venus Women’s Prison.

Well, there you go—one example of my depravity. I had to give up eating people when I developed a liver problem. Franklin Ballzinger was killed by a hit and run driver. Now, I work as the middle school crossing guard and follow a strict vegetarian diet.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Auxesis

Posted on April 19, 2026 | Leave a comment

Auxesis (ok-see’-sis): (1) Arranging words or clauses in a sequence of increasing force. In this sense, auxesis is comparable to climax and has sometimes been called incrementum. (2) A figure of speech in which something is referred to in terms disproportionately large (a kind of exaggeration or hyperbole). (3) Amplification in general.

It hung to the floor. He tripped over it getting out of the shower. He could crack it like a whip. Once, he used it to tow a tractor trailer across the Walmart parking lot. He tried to play jump rope with it, but nobody would play. He used to paint it to look like a boa constrictor and scare what few friends he had, he tried to choke Billy Johnson with it after he grabbed it on the way to school.

His unusually long penis was a curse. His parents wouldn’t’t pay to have it shortened. They were religious and believed that the eight foot long penis was God’s will and shouldn’t be tampered with. They believed it would bring famine and plague down on their home if they had it “fixed.” Whenever he asked for the surgery they would admonish him and make him go naked in the back yard garden and write “I am a sinner” in the dirt 10 times with his penis.

It was humiliating. He left home as soon as he could and found his place working in King’s Traveling Circus “Special Sideshow.” He did tricks with his penis. His best was twirling it like a lasso over his head. He met and fell in love with Alligator Lady. She had razor sharp teeth. He knew it would bring his career to end, but he asked her to chew him down to size. At first she resisted, but gave in to his nearly constant begging. She bit his penis off at eight inches. The blood gushed out. She thought fast and put a condom over it with a rubber band secured tightly at the base. His penis healed without a problem.

He stayed with the circus to be with Alligator Lady, working his way up from picking up elephant shit to ringmaster. He and Alligator Lady got married. They had a child—a girl they named Sharona. She had Jumborgianitis like her father. She was born with adult-sized breasts and now, at 20, she’s a size 52. They have her bras custom made in Thailand. She wants to have breast reduction surgery, and they’ve going through with it for her on next birthday.

After the surgery, she had phantom boob syndrome—the sensation that her boobs are still there. It is normal among amputees and she is managing it well with implants.

So, this is the story of a family with disproportionately large inherited body parts. After dealing with organs the size of Nebraska, they came to terms, whittling themselves down to size and going on with their lives. Having a penis stretching from New York to LA is no more. Having boobs as big as Mt. Rushmore is no more. Thanks to modern medicine and crazy-ass behavior, all is well.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Bdelygmia

Posted on April 18, 2026 | Leave a comment

Bdelygmia (del-ig’-mi-a): Expressing hatred and abhorrence of a person, word, or deed.

“I hate your guts,” I love that saying. But, I didn’t know what the “guts” were that I hated. Was it your kidneys? Your lungs? They were plural, so it might be them. But, maybe “guts” could be made out of a single organ, or hating more than one “gut” at a time, even to the point of all your guts. I feel like I hate all of your guts. But, what is it about your guts that I hate?

I Googled it: “‘I hate your guts’ is an American idiom conveying an intense, absolute dislike for someone. It suggests hating a person to their very core, using ‘guts’ to represent the innermost, fundamental parts of a person, rather than just their surface behavior.”

This is it! I hate your guts! I really, really hate you. Hate, hate, hate! You, you, you. What do we do with people we intensely hate? Spank them? I don’t think so. Instead, we need something fatal. Drowning? Too complicated. Too physical. I’m no athlete. Shooting? Stabbing? Too messy. Push down a flight of stairs? Too iffy. Overdose of prescribed medication? Mom takes “Tangelo” for her depression. Perfect! I’ll pour the whole bottle in her hot cocoa. Presto! She’s gone. My hatred will become a thing of the past. I will fade into normalcy and live happily ever after. I did an evil man laugh: “Moo hoo ha ha ha.” I was surrounded by rainbows and sunshine, and sitting on a big pink cloud. Free at last, free at last, tonight I will be free at last!

You may be asking yourself how I could hate my mother enough to want to kill her with her medication. Well, it started when I was 5 and she gave me a piece of shit wrapped in toilet paper for Christmas. I asked her what it was and she told me it was the best thing my father had ever done for me. Dad stood up and started laughing. He said, “Honey this is the funniest thing you ever did.” Then, he gave her her gift. It was a used condom. He said to me, “Son, this could’ve been your brother or sister” and laughed his evil laugh like Vincent Price. Then, Mom gave Dad his gift. When he opened it, it exploded and blew a hole in his chest. Me and Mom got minor shrapnel wounds, but Dad was dead. His lungs were hanging out.

Me and Mom tried to make a getaway, but the car wouldn’t start and the battery ran down. That’s when I started hating my mother, for botching our getaway. I hated her guts because now I’d have go to Meadow Lark Reform School—I was judged a juvenile accessory to Mom’s crime because I didn’t warn my father that “some shit” was going to come down. I stayed at Meadow Lark for 10 years and became deeply mentally disturbed. When my mother got out of prison, she moved in with me, and all I wanted to do was kill her, and I did. She went to sleep and never woke up. The cocoa cupful of Tangelo hit her like a crowbar on the back of the head. Her death was determined a suicide and I am living happily ever after.

Boy, did I hate her guts!

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Bomphiologia

Posted on April 17, 2026 | Leave a comment

Bomphiologia (bom-phi-o-lo’-gi-a): Exaggeration done in a self-aggrandizing manner, as a braggart.

When I played basketball, I could jump 50 feet straight up. I bumped my head on the ceiling of the gym and shot thousands of baskets. If you don’t believe me, look at the dents in the gym ceiling. I was the champion of Bunn High. I could’ve played professional basketball, but I helped needy people instead.

When I tell people about my basketball career, they say “Bullshit.” That’s their loss—they could be basking in the glow of a true champion.

When I went to work at the homeless shelter, it wasn’t named that. It was called “Loser Housing.” I renamed it “Homeless Shelter” and now it is the standard name for loser housing. It puts a positive spin on living with roaches, no heat, and faulty plumbing. I am quite proud of myself.

A typical day for me is about helping these people find a better life for them and their families. Just last Monday, I did minor surgery on a toddler with an extra toe. It was painful for her. The vodka helped, and my Swiss Army Knife cut through the bone like it was a piece of wire,.

The parents were extremely grateful. They don’t have to buy expensive orthopedic shoes for their daughter any more, and she can follow her dream to become a ballet dancer. All because of me.

My pet chickens give me a big “beaks up” to my charitable work at the homeless shelter. When they see me they flock around me expressing their love and admiration. I’ve trained them to flap one wing and spin around singing a “buck, buck, ba dawkit” version of “Strangers in the Night.” It took me a year to train them using corn kernels and worms to get their respect and feel rewarded. I’m thinking of making a Tick Tock video as the world’s greatest animal trainer. KFC has already contacted me and I’m involved in the Hollywood production of “The Sky is Falling” starring my Rhode Island Red “Scarlet” as “Chicken Little.” .

My chicken Barbara may have laid the world’s biggest egg. It weighs nearly nine pounds. It is a shame she sacrificed her life for the egg. She exploded in her nest box while making a racket. We’re all looking forward to seeing what hatches. Maybe it’s a dinosaur! Ha! Ha!

Right now, I’m in the process of making a giant ball out of rubber bands. Soon, it will be too big to take any more rubber bands. When that happens, I’m going to drop it off the roof of my apartment building to see how high it bounces.

POSTSCRIPT

His bragging days are over. His rubber band ball landed on a man in a wheelchair and killed him, and then bounced out into the street and caused a major traffic accident. He’s serving 5-10 years for manslaughter. It’s too bad. He was such a great man.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Brachylogia

Posted on April 16, 2026 | Leave a comment

Brachylogia (brach-y-lo’-gi-a): The absence of conjunctions between single words. Compare asyndeton. The effect of brachylogia is a broken, hurried delivery.

“Pow! Pow! Pow!“ I shot my next door neighbor for maybe the fiftieth time. I’d point my finger like a gun and let him have it. He would play along and fall groaning on the grass. I had just gotten out of the Army, so there was a connection to shooting my neighbor. My unit was “Special Garbage Operations.” We would parachute into vacant battlefields and pick up the garbage—everything from MRE wrappers to 155mm shell cases, bloody bandages and empty vodka bottles. We were extracted from the battle field by helicopter, under fire. I had a Walther PPK that I fired into the air and out the helicopter door when we took off from the LZ. I think I shot a couple of bad guys while I was over there. What a pain in the ass.

The Mess Hall is what gave me non-combat related PTSD. The “Chef” was named Mickey Picone. We’d all oink when we lined up for chow—we ate pig slop every night. We would joke that on Mondays we’d have shit on a shingle, then on Tuesday, puke on a bedpan. The rest of the week we’d spend recovering from the shits. That was no joke. After his bed was set on fire four times, Mickey was reassigned. He was replaced by Tootsie Trinker. She was touted as the “Mess Hall Rambo.” If you didn’t eat what she cooked, she would have 2 MPs take you behind the mess hall and kick your ass. It was part of her “Ne Leftovers Left Behind” policy. It was bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

I decided to get to know her and hook up, and weasel out of “No Leftovers Left Behind.” It was a wild ride. She made me her food taster. I was let in the mess hall before everybody else to taste the food and Tootsie too. It was awful—like having sex with Thanksgiving turkey, but I thought there would be an eventual pay off somehow. There wasn’t. My buddies all started hating me. When we went on missions they would try to wind my static line around my neck, but I fought them off before I jumped. Eventually, they buried me up to my neck on a battlefield in MRE wrappers. They fired their 9mms into the dirt around me. I would cry. They would laugh. I told our company commander, Captain Springy, and he laughed and told me to get the fu*ck out of his office. He said “Any more of this shit and they’ll find you with a tank track across your face.”

I was discharged from the Army with a less than honorable discharge. I have all my benefits, but I have the finger shooting problem as a residue of my service. I’ll never shake it. Ironically, Captain Sprngy lives next door and plays shooter with me. This is the most amazing stroke of luck that I could possibly imagine. I can’t figure it out. Maybe he works for the VA.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Cacozelia

Posted on April 15, 2026 | Leave a comment

Cacozelia (ka-ko-zeel’-i-a): 1. A stylistic affectation of diction, such as throwing in foreign words to appear learned. 2. Bad taste in words or selection of metaphor, either to make the facts appear worse or to disgust the auditors.

The little baby bird had been run over in the street. It couldn’t move and it was peeping in pain. It was bleeding. I watched it for a couple of minutes and then stomped on the chick with my heavyweight lumberjack boot and ground it into the asphalt. I wiped off my boot’s sole on the grass by the curb and headed off to the animal shelter where I work as a volunteer.

Today, I was in charge of starving cats—malnourished cats picked up off the streets of Belltone where I live. Belltone was originally named Udderville until the milk plant moved away. Now, Belltone made hearing aids and most of the people who were employed there were hard of hearing. The company’s logo was a big ear with the word “What?” in an arc above it. They make mini solar-powered recyclable hearing aids.

Today, at the shelter, I’m going to play food hockey with the cats. I duct tape their feet to the floor and bat full cans of cat food at them with a broom. When I hit one in the nose, it howls and often bleeds on the floor. I made this game up myself and feel quite proud of it, although I have to keep it secret. I clean up after a round, so nobody’s any the wiser. Eventually, I feed the cats, so all is well, but I love to hear them yowl.

It is time to head home. It’s 4:00. Grandma’s there alone, usually hiding in her bedroom closet. I tear open the closet door and yell “Here’s Barney!” I’m like the guy in “The Shining.” Grandma usually shits her diaper. I take her to the top of the stairs and ask here menacingly “Do you want to fly Grandma?” She screams “No!” and I give her a playful little shove. Then, we go downstairs and play horsy in the living room. She makes horse snorting noises and I ride her around. I call her “Old Trigger.”

Eventually, it is around time for Mom to come home, so I climb off and I point my pistol at Grandma’s head and tell her I’ll kill her if she squeals on what we do. She keeps her mouth shut.

We eat dinner and I go to bed where I put down a sheet of plastic wrap and make little cuts on my arms with a razor blade. The blood drips and I taste it—warm and red and salty. It reminds me of what I would like to do to everybody: slash and smile and stay awhile. When I move away from home, I really want to be a serial killer. I’m going to get a little car like Ted Bundy’s and travel around killing people. I think I will specialize in nursing homes, killing elders in their wheelchairs. I know I’m lazy, but I’m not ashamed. Anyway, stabbing people takes a lot of energy, and the mess it make is almost impossible to clean up. I’ll leave it to the nurses. Ha! Ha!

I actually think I’ll start my career with Grandma. I’ll send he off on the night of my high school graduation. I will stab her and throw her in the canal.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Catachresis

Posted on April 14, 2026 | Leave a comment

Catachresis (kat-a-kree’-sis): The use of a word in a context that differs from its proper application. This figure is generally considered a vice; however, Quintilian defends its use as a way by which one adapts existing terms to applications where a proper term does not exist.

My baloney skin collection was almost complete. I needed a very rare 1822 Bavarian Dünner Schnitt. It was the thinnest baloney skin ever created. It was like a toe dancing Brown Recluse Spider reading “The Sorrows of Young Werther” on the dashboard of my car as I drove to the airport with my perfumed suitcase in the trunk. The rare skin was possessed by the famous Bavarian baloney skin collector, Tupac Snitzel. I was going to walk to Bavaria, but my therapist told me there was an ocean between here and there, so I would have to fly.

I had to have Snitzel’s 1822 Bavarian Dünner Schnit. I would have it or die!

I shouldn’t have worn my orange jumpsuit to the airport. I was scrutinized like pus in a doctor’s office. The TSA woman found me attractive, taking me to a back room and touching me all over. It was not unpleasant, but I felt like she used me like a Craftsman screwdriver, or a bottle opener, or a rake.

I boarded my flight. I got to Germany! I went straight to the “Tupac Schnitzel Processed Meat Museum.” He was wearing the rare 1822 Bavarian Dünner Schnit Skin on his wrist like a Lance Armstrong “be Strong” bracelet, I offered him $1,000 for the bracelet. It was all I had. He laughed “Not for sale, Never for sale. Go away you fool.”

Suddenly, Tupac had a heart attack, hit the floor, and died. I tried to pull the bracelet off his wrist, but I couldn’t do it. I went to the morgue that night and broke in, found Tupac in a refrigerator, and pulled and pulled and finally pulled off the bracelet.

The morgue’s CCTV caught me on camera and I was arrested at the airport leaving Germany. I was tried, convicted, and sentenced to 6 months for “tampering with the dead.”

When I was released, I went straight home. After flying into Newark, I boarded a train and my wife met me at the Utica train station. She was pissed. She started beating on my chest and calling me “asshole.” She made me swear to get rid of my “dipshit” baloney skin collection. I agreed.

At my wife’s prompting, I put my collection on E-Bay for sale for $20.00. I knew it was worth more, but I had to let it go before my wife injured me any more. It sold immediately. It was bought by somebody named Oscar Meyer. I knew that was a fake name. That’s all I knew. My wife took care of the transaction and dropped my collection off at the Post Office. I waited for my twenty dollars. It came two afternoons later.

Then I saw the front page of the Utica Observer Dispatch:

“Woman Sell Baloney Skin Collection for 2.5 Million Dollars”

I wanted to ask my wife what she thought. I couldn’t find her anywhere. Then, I got a text message from her telling me she was the one who had bought my collection for $20.00, sold it for 2,5 million dollars, and moved to Canada.

I am a broken man. I’ve started collected jars to help me cope with my grief.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Catacosmesis

Posted on April 13, 2026 | Leave a comment

Catacosmesis (kat-a-kos-mees’-is): Ordering words from greatest to least in dignity, or in correct order of time.

“One, and a two, and a three.” It was driving me crazy. We did the “count up” before every song. We were the “Flying Welks” a Lawrence Welk tribute band. I played the keystone instrument: the accordion. We did mostly polka music, playing a Lawrence Welk playlist. We play “Who Stole the Kishka?” at least 200 times per year. The “champagne” bubbles float across the stage, popping in my eyes and challenging me to keep pumping my accordion and sing.

Don’t get me wrong. I had some really fun times with the Flying Welks version of the Lennon Sisters and would “dance” to Box Car Willie with them, making train whistle sounds under the covers. Also, we would play “I am the magnet, you are the steel” in my dressing room, slithering across the floor. It was damn fun, but not enough fun to keep me from quitting the Flying Welks. The Lennon Sisters cried. Our boss, Crosswind Bob, wished me well, while he fingered his 12-inch stiletto. I ignored him and thought about my new life.

I had founded a four-person rock band I named “The Cashmere Underground.” I had written an edgy song about my addiction to “Funions.” Funions are fake salted onion rings that compete with potato chips in the snack food market. My addiction began when I couldn’t keep my hand out of the bag—once my hand was in, I’d clutch a handful of Funions, and then, stuff them in my mouth, sometimes nearly choking. Two years ago, I almost died—I went on a three day Funion binge and woke up in the hospital with Funions broken in half and stuck in my nose and ears. I had temporarily lost my hearing and could barely breathe. I was saved by emergency surgery.

But that’s all behind me now. I’ve been Funion-free for one-year. I’ve been on “Cheese Doodles” for about six weeks. They are safe because the orange stain on my fingertips is a beacon to my girlfriend. She immediately grabs the Cheetos bag and cuts me off when my fingertips turn too orange. With her timely intervention, Cheetos addiction will never strike me. Thank God for Folly—my girlfriend. Not only does she care for me, but she cares for my accordion. She stores it in temperature-controlled closet, wipes it down with a cashmere cloth, and sprays the keys with WD-40 once a week.

Currently, I am learning to play “Sympathy for the Devil” and “Hotel California” on my accordion. Also, I am composing a new song tentatively titled “Yellow Accordion.”

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Cataphasis

Posted on April 12, 2026 | Leave a comment

Cataphasis (kat-af’-a-sis): A kind of paralipsis in which one explicitly affirms the negative qualities that one then passes over.

My push mower was a piece of shit—it was rusty, left dandelions standing, and gave me a workout I didn’t need. But, I had inherited it from my grandfather ten years ago. My father just died last week and didn’t leave me jack shit, unless you count three five-foot high stacks of National Geographic magazine. I looked at the stacks and thought they would make great fire starters. Now, for once, I was looking forward to winter. Burn, baby burn! Ha ha!

I bumped into one of the piles, it fell, and the magazines scattered on the floor. What looked like a scratch-off lotto ticket fell out of one of the magazines. I thought, “At least my fuc*ing father had a sense of humor.” The lotto ticket was titled “Happy Trails.” Which made me think it was some kind of marketing gimmick and not my father’s doing. I scratched the first spot and it said “Bali.” The second spot was “Bali” too. The third spot was “London.” The fourth spot was “Womb.” It made no sense, but I kept going. The fifth spot was “Womb” too. Number six was “Moon.” Number seven was “New Jersey.” Number eight was “Womb.” I had three “Wombs”—a winner. I had no idea what I had won, but I took off for Cliff’s to find out. I handed the ticket to the clerk. She looked at it and said “What the hell is this?” as she shoved it into the ticket reader.

I started sweating.

I woke up in my mother’s womb. It was warm and the most comfortable place I had ever been. It had a calming effect like a Jacuzzi. Suddenly, I was being hit with waves of contractions pushing me headfirst toward a destination. There was yelling and crying with pain. It made me sad and I tried to help with my exit. I saw bright light and came squishing out all the way. It was cold and I said “damn” and I cried like a baby. Why? Because I was a baby! “I” passed out, but not my baby me—he kept on crying. I awoke at home in my media room wrapped in a warm little blanket watching “The Pitt.” Except for the blanket, it was like nothing had happened.

When I tell people about my experience, many of them point to their temple and twirl their finger, or they wave me off and get me a drink. Still others, recommend psychological counseling. I show them the blanket and they laugh and tell me to cut the bullshit and get a life.

Eventually, I asked my mother if there was anything unusual about my birth. She said: “I never told anybody before for fear they’d think I was crazy, but I think I heard you say ‘damn’ right after you were born.”

She wasn’t crazy, and neither was I. It was the lotto ticket that did it, that defied time and place and took me to the “Mystical Scratch-Off Zone” where winning can be losing and the prize is a blessing and a curse.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Cataplexis

Posted on April 11, 2026 | Leave a comment

Cataplexis (kat-a-pleex’-is): Threatening or prophesying payback for ill doing.

I was so poor growing up that I had to make toys out of “found” things. I had a pull toy made from an empty can of spray paint. My playhouse was a porta-potty that I had dragged home from the freeway rest area behind our house. It was hell. It took me three days to pull it home by rolling it on small logs that I had stolen from our neighbor’s woodpile. I also played “Army” with dust bunnies from under my bed. I had 59 soldier bunnies deployed in my bedroom. It could get wild!

My sister was a bitch. She threatened to burn my dust bunny army if I didn’t find her a boyfriend. This eaten crazier than the time she told me she would pull out my fingernails with Dad’s pliers if I didn’t do her laundry and sing “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” and lick her S&H Green Stamps that she got when she grocery shopped for Mom.

I said to her “Woe unto you for your bellicose threat. May your poodle hair go straight, your knees knock, and may you get TB like grandpa.” I thought that would shut her up—after all, she was showing the initial symptoms of TB. Then, I said to her, “If you make me find you a boyfriend, the rift between us shall grow into a chasm, and we may become estranged from each other even unto Heaven.” I tried to sound biblical—like a prophet of the Lord pronouncing her future. It didn’t work.

“Stop the holy-rolly bullshit and get your skinny sss out there and find me a boyfriend. I can’t sit here playin’ with myself all day and night until I get saggy all over, my ankles swell up, and my hair turns grey!” She hit me in the face with a ball of cottage cheese, and my search began.

It wasn’t much of a search. I had a guy in mind who was a perfect match for her. His name was Niles “Piles” Kahootan. He had a really bad case of .hemorrhoids. Whenever he sat in a chair, after about a minute, he’d start rubbing his butt back and forth. When he had to stand, he’d find a table to stand by, and rub his butt up and down on its corner. I’ve run into him in the men’s room with his pants down flat out scratching his butt in the middle of the floor. Given my sister’s weirdness and Piles’s desperation, I thought they’d make a perfect pair. She could learn to scratch his hemorrhoids, wash them, and even apply cortisone cream or Preparation H. No matter how creepy, she would have a boyfriend.

I fronted my idea to Piles. At first, he wouldn’t admit he had world record hemorrhoids. Then he started scratching the back of his pants. At that point he capitulated, and excused himself for a couple of minutes to “refresh an application” in the men’s room. When he came back, he agreed to try my idea.

When I told my sister about it, she was elated. She said “Oh my god! Dingleberries!” I found out what a really kind person she is. She started wearing a nurse’s cap and following Piles around. No matter where they were, she took care of him. If he needed to have his pants down in public for an “application,” she would obscure him from view with a giant umbrella, and then, go to work on him with what she called “Doctor Digit.”

Piles and my sister fell in love and got married. Their favorite wedding gifts were the life-time subscription to latex gloves and a copy of the hemorrhoid classic “Doctor Shove an go,” that I gave them. In the end the protagonist is crushed by a barrel of cortisone, falling from a wagon headed to the front lines. So damn sad!

Anyway, I am currently working on a battery-powered hemorrhoid scratcher. It has three speeds and can be used as an electric toothbrush in an emergency. I am tentatively calling it “The Shove And Go 25.” I am looking for volunteers to test it. If you’re itchin’ to try it out, be patient.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Charientismus

Posted on April 10, 2026 | Leave a comment

Charientismus (kar-i-en-tia’-mus): Mollifying harsh words by answering them with a smooth and appeasing mock.

“You hair looks like a pile of bubblegum, freshly chewed and shiny.” She had dyed her hair pink and slathered it with hair gel. She said “Thanks, you’re so observant. You should be a scientist.” I couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic. She has a sense of humor the size of Yankee Stadium, so I knew it was likely that she was poking back at me. In addition to the bubblegum hair, she was wearing a sweatshirt with the right sleeve missing with “Instant Karma” printed on the front. She said “Watch!” and tore off the sweatshirt. There was a T-shirt underneath. She tore that off. I wasn’t ready for what I was looking at. She had had her nipples pierced. She had a paper napkin over each breast and an olive held with a toothpick mounted oh each nipple. Then, she tore off her pants. She was wearing a jockstrap with a big red heart on it. Also, her shoes were chrome-plated miniature locomotives.

I asked her: “What the hell happened to you? You were never normal, but this is beyond never normal,” She farted loudly and looked me in the eye and said “I’ve joined the ‘Barking Weasels,’ a cult conveniently located in an abandoned apartment building near you.”

I ran as fast as I could back to my condo. I called the reference section of the library to see what information I could get on the “Barking Weasels.” I came up with zero information, but the librarian did know of a professor at the local college who studied cults. Her name was Dr. Phuc Mhe. She was from Thailand. I made an appointment to meet with her. When we met, she held out her had and said “Phuc Mhe.” I almost said “Ok,” but I shook her hand instead. I told her my story and she said, “Well, eat me raw through a flavor straw! I’ve never heard of this cult before—they could be silent but deadly. Don’t stress your mess. We need to think outside the bun. Where’s the beef?”

I quickly decided that Phuc Mhe was insane. Spewing slogans wouldn’t help one bit. How did she keep her job? I figured it was best to keep an eye on her. I ready to leave condo life behind. So, I moved in with her for the duration of our search. We got to know each other quite well. We drank a lot of “Thai Mekong Whiskey,” a very civilized Thai beverage. We would wake up naked on the floor together. Then, it happened.

It was my 206th search on Google for Barking Weasels. It said there’s no such entity—that it is used as a cover for breaking up with a boyfriend or girlfriend. The “weasler” pretends to have lost their fashion sense and some elements of affection and decorum. This is exactly what Barbie did to me. I was sad, but now I was in love with Phuc Mhe. Her mental problem with “sloganosis” is a little irritating, but, I love her. I mentioned marriage and she said “A Diamond is forever.” I said to her, “You’ve come long way baby.” She said, “I love this place.”

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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Chiasmus

Posted on April 9, 2026 | Leave a comment

Chiasmus (ki-az’-mus): 1. Repetition of ideas in inverted order. 2. Repetition of grammatical structures in inverted order (not to be mistaken with antimetabole, in which identical words are repeated and inverted).

I worked all and day and by night I labored. My life was a tangle of work, poverty, and anxiety. I had two jobs. My wife and two daughters were a laughing stock—teased for the ill-fitting frayed second- and third-hand clothing they wore, not to mention the fact that their collective I.Q.s added up to 160. For example, if I asked my daughter how many apples were in the bowl on the kitchen table she would just look at me, and then, walk away.

I was the exact opposite of my big brother Manny and Manny was the reverse of me. Our parents had invested in him. He went to College, and then, law school. He was married with two dazzling children and a wife with the good looks and brains of Madame Curie. His older daughter had won the Miss New Jersey competition and was headed to Edinburgh for the Miss World competition. She had also won a merit scholarship to Harvard University—free tuition and an annual $10,000 stipend. Her brother is not far behind. His Junior science project won the top prize of $5.000 plus the free services of a patent attorney to help commercialize his project. The project was a chemical additive for house paint that makes the house invisible to enemy aircraft (and everything else). He has interested investor in the Gulf States, Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, and Gaza who will be marketing the paint to homeowners and owners of high-rise apartments, and government military installations in their regions.

And here I am stuck in my smelly apartment with my smelly family, their smelly clothes and their smelly breaths: they think garlic is attractive. My day job is making donuts. I sell donuts at night. I sit outside “Risky Billy’s Topless Lounge.” I say “Donuts for sale” to the patrons as they enter Risky Billy’s. My day boss gives me a “special donut” every day after work. It has icing that says “Thirteen.” A guy with a scar on his face gives me $5,000 every night for the donut. I pass the cash along to my boss the next day..

I guess my life isn’t’t that bad. When my older daughter was bringing me supper to Risky Billy’s the other night, she met the guy with the scar on his face. Come to find out his name is Geppetto and he collects antique puppets. I think it was love at first sight with my daughter! She’s started “making the rounds” with him at night in his black Escalade. She tells me he picks up and delivers things in fairly small boxes. She asked him what was in the boxes and he slammed on the brakes and said angrily “You don’t want to know!” My daughter told me she did want to know. I told her to fagetaboutit.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

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

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