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 individual had done to me. As 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, and a pair of tweezers everywhere I go. Pulling legs is my personal way of managing my grief and fear.

Save your consoling and encouragement for the poor suckers who down a handful of meds every day.

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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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Paronomasia

Posted on June 24, 2026 | Leave a comment

Paronomasia (pa-ro-no-ma’-si-a): Using words that sound alike but that differ in meaning (punning).

I had undergone a metamorphosis, not as drastic as Kafka’s character though. I couldn’t hold a candle to Gregor Sansa who woke up one morning as a giant bug. My metamorphosis was gradual, not sudden like Gregor’s.

One morning I woke up as a giant ant Boy Scout—7 feet tall. I had been transitioning there ever since I said “Be prepared” to my big sister as she went out the door on a date. She turned head and asked with a smirk “Be prepared for what you little pervert?”

Next, all my clothes turned a nasty olive drab, and would preface everything I said with “Scout’s honor.” It was like nobody trusted me.

Then, I had the two-foot growth spurt. Everybody teased me. They called me “Skyscraper,” and would ask me “How’s the weather up there Beanstalk?” I responded, “Scout’s honor, you’re a bunch of assholes. You’re a bunch of ducks—as low as you can duck, evading the pain you inflict on people like me, but I’m a liver, not a dier! If you want to be mean, make sense!” My puns needed work, but I didn’t give a damn—they kept me from flooding myself with tears.

One high point of my metamorphosis was the so-called Boy Scout knife my deranged father gave me. It was a 12” switchblade that he had panted olive drab. You pressed a button on the side and it flew open. Dad said it would come I handy in the gang wars with other troops. He made a dummy out of a pair of pajamas, stuffing them with newspaper. I would pretend I was nonchalantly walking down the street and the dummy would yell “Hey, Troop 911 pussy, wanna fight a killer from 289?” I’d flick open my knife and yell “You bet your ass.” I’d slice the jammie’s to pieces. Dad would jump up and down and throw his empty beer cans at the dummy yelling “Take that you fu*ing little Girl Scout!”

Talking about Girl Scouts, near the end of my transition, I met a 6’4”girl named Bingo Dodsworth. She was from a wealthy family and introduced me to”Some-Mores”—toasted marshmallow topping a square piece of chocolate on a Graham cracker. For me they were an aphrodisiac, but I respected Bingo and didn’t give in, until one night she came on to me and we did it—we yelled “Some-More, Some-More” as we rolled around on the kitchen floor.

Subsequently I became addicted to Some-Mores and went to rehab in the Catskills—Bingo’s family paid for it. Bingo and I are getting married—we’ve already decided on “Scout” as our first kid’s name.

Now that I’m a full-fledged giant Boy Scout, I have begun working on my merit badges. I’ve decided to go for the Xenophobe badge. You have to learn to identify foreign-looking people and then turn them in to I.C.E. You must taunt them with slurs while they’re being arrested, and then, find out their address and harass their family, if they have one.

I aspire to be an Eagle Scout, and maybe volunteer as a crosswalk guard at “Mel Fritter Elementary School.” I can do some foreigner spotting while I’m on the job..

I know this account is incomplete, but suffice it to say, I’m doing way the hell better than Gregor Sansa.

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Parrhesia

Posted on June 24, 2026 | Leave a comment

Parrhesia (par-rez’-i-a): Either to speak candidly or to ask forgiveness for so speaking. Sometimes considered a vice.

“I’m gonna tell you like it is, The last ten years with you have been like living on that French prison island—Devil’s Island. I’m breaking out of here. Free of you I’ll be somebody.“

I said this ten years ago when I split up from my wife, Sloopy, who hung down at the local bar “Dick’s Kicks” bumming drinks an flirting with the truck drivers who hung out there.

It’s ten years later and I’m still nobody. My nickname is “Dead End Darrell.” I’m 49 years old and I’m still hoping to hit the big one. TV, cigarettes, and beer have kept me on track all these years, consumed by night from the embrace of my velveteen lounger. By day, I’m a workin’ man, nervous most of the time—nervous because I never paid Sloopy any alimony. I wrote cordial letters, but never sent a check. I “disappeared” five years ago. It takes years of absence to be declared dead. I am almost there—almost dead! No more worries!

But in the meantime I hide & work. My jobs are low profile and under the table. I switch jobs frequently to stay under the law’s radar. I work for a collection right now. It is humorousLY called “Rat’s Ass Collection Agency.” it is a branch of a giant loan sharking conglomerate called “Hell’s Interest” to warn people—so they can say “We told you so, sucker” when guns are drawn, the car is flaming and the daughter has been shipped off to Abu Dhabi,

I specialize in knuckle busting. I wield a two-pound hammer with a beautiful leather wrapped handle and “Dead End” engraved on it. I can’t say I enjoy the work. I really get tired of the begging and screaming with pain, but every month I aspire to be employee of the month, so I try to ignore it. Just last week I “busted” somebody who owes us a cool million. In a sense, it was professionally rewarding. The guy was a real schmuck before I landed one on his FU finger—that he was pointing at me. Bam! and he was a new person, the arrogant bastard became a lame duck. Ha ha!

Before working for “Rat’s Ass” I worked filing serial numbers off handguns. I went through special training at “Smoothies” where I learned how to take serial numbers down with a Diamond-gritted file, by hand. It was hard work. So, I quit.

I just wish I could get my shit together. Through no fault of my own, I have become a bottom feeder.

I’ve got a new job lined up at “Smoke on the Water” a mafia operation specializing in arson. They burn down the homes of financially strapped people and split the insurance payout, and charge a fee. I will be a “match man” actually igniting the fires with a BIC Firestick.

I think this will be a good career move.

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Pathopoeia

Posted on June 23, 2026 | Leave a comment

Pathopoeia ( path-o-poy’-a): A general term for speech that moves hearers emotionally, especially as the speaker attempts to elicit an emotional response by way of demonstrating his/her own feelings (exuscitatio). Melanchthon explains that this effect is achieved by making reference to any of a variety of pathetic circumstances: the time, one’s gender, age, location, etc.


I was all right for a week, I could still take a leak, then it hit me. I’d caught the clap from Naomi. I felt like my weiner was a flame thrower, streaming fire. I started crying! I felt like I was channeling Roy Orbison. But his woe was about love lost, mine was about my penile inferno.

I was all right for awhile, but it was morning and I had to pee again. I whipped it out and let it flow. My hooter had turned into an erupting volcano. Again, I was writhing in pain, and I was crying again. I held Vesuvius in the palm of my hand, I could hardly stand, and I was crying.

I went to the pet store and bought some “Icht Away,” bright blue tablets that are supposed to be dropped in fish tanks to kill pet fish skin disease. The pills can do this because they are composed of tetracycline—the same compound that kills clap, for a lot less money than what CVS sells. Using them, you also evade the expense of visiting a doctor! I bought two bottles.

I don’t how it happened—well, maybe I do. I was stoned on my ass and mixed my Viagra up with my Icht Away. I took around ten blue Viagra pills.

I was sitting there thinking lewd thoughts about Naomi. We were twirling tongues, making a slurping sound together. Suddenly, there was a tearing sound. My giant Johnson had torn out of my pants and was standing there 20” tall, ready for action. My usual stiffy was only 5”.

I was horrified. Peeing napalm was bad enough, but having an orgasm with a giant dick will kill me. Oh my God! The PAIN—just thinking about it started me crying! I called Naomi and told her I had the clap and a 20” hard-on. She laughed: “Nicky, you’re having another one of your fu*king three-day mescalito adventures. Take a walk and get the shit out of your head.” I protested, “But, the pain is real! I can’t walk with my womper the size of a baseball bat!”

She hung up.

I called 911. I was transported to the “Pay-Pal Hospital Emergency Room” where they pumped my stomach and prescribed medication for the clap, all, for the low, low price of $900.00.

I was crying.

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Perclusio

Posted on June 22, 2026 | Leave a comment

Perclusio (per-clu’-si-o): A threat against someone, or something.

I yelled at my little brother: “Get out of here or I’ll turn you into a fly!” He scoffed at me and continued rummaging around in my laundry basket. I had seen the movie “The Fly” and it scared the shit out of me. Nevertheless, I’m a certified thrill-seeker by the “Junior Thrill-Seekers of America, Omaha, Nebraska.” They certified me after I sent them a photo of myself in a roller coaster, waiting for take-off. I was going to chase my brother around with a fly swatter pretending it was a kind of wand that could transform him into a fly. The chase was on,

After circling my laundry basket three of four times, I landed a swat on his head as I yelled “Fly!”

He disappeared.

Then, I heard this pitiful voice in the laundry basket say “Please don’t hurt me, I’m only a fly!” Oh my God—it was a line from “The Fly!” I was shitting bricks.

I looked down, and there, on the rim of the laundry basket, was a fly with my brother’s head on it! It was “The Fly” all over again. Only, I wasn’t going to crush my little brother/fly. I was going to let him be a free range fly in my bedroom. I would bring him table scraps and water.

Then there was rapid knocking on my door. I opened it and was filled dread and shock—it was my little brother with a fly’s head, I nearly shit my pants. He had written on a scrap of paper: “I want my head back!!!”

I told his fly self 1 to sit on his fly self 2’s head. When fly self 1 landed, fly self 2 instinctively swatted at him, but missed. Thank God. On take-2 fly self 1 landed unmolested. I picked up my apparently magical fly swatter and swatted fly self 2’s head, landing the blow squarely on fly self 1. As I brought the swatter down, I said, “Put the heads back where they belong.”

There was a puff of orange smoke that smelled like rotten banana, spoiled clams, and bean dip. When the smoke cleared everything was restored. Given that fly 1’s head had once been attached to a human head, it was smarter than average and became the world’s smartest fly. I named him Elvis. We travelled the world together amazing people with his tricks. One of his best tricks was dive bombing a piece of chocolate cake. He’d stay buried in the cake until the last minute, then, he’d burrow out the other side loudly buzzing and do 10 loop-de-loops around an audience member’s head. They loved it.

My brother wasn’t so fortunate. His “Fly” experience had inculcated the garbage gripping/eating sensibilities of a fly. He was like a raccoon at night—rummaging through our neighbors’ trash cans making an annoying buzzing sound.

The smell of excrement was like cocaine to him. He kept some in a zip lock bag and would pull the bag out for a sniff 10-20 times a day. As he got older, he was arrested several times for sniffing butts on the subway.

In order to publicly sniff butts, he would drop something on the floor and surreptitiously take a butt-sniff as a he bent to pick the object up. It was disgusting. He joined “Sniffers Anonymous” when he was 22, and has been sniff-free for the past 2 years. When he feels the urge to sniff a butt, he takes a snort of ground black pepper to kill the urge.

POSTSCRIPT

I am currently in a “rest” home, where I sit with my fly swatter Jim, saying over and over “It really did happen,” I am allowed visitors if I promise not to swat them.

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Periergia

Posted on June 21, 2026 | Leave a comment

Periergia (pe-ri-er’-gi-a): Overuse of words or figures of speech. As such, it may simply be considered synonymous with macrologia. However, as Puttenham’s term suggests, periergia may differ from simple superfluity in that the language appears over-labored.

He looked like a baseball bat. He smelled like a two-day old taco. He was like a bungee chord that had lost its elasticity. He was like a raccoon on crack. He was like a jackhammer with a leak in his air-hose. He was a tornado. He was lighting bolt. He was a tsunami. He was an asshole.

He was my father.

He always had a lesson for me to learn. For courage, he put me in a cage with a huge Pit Bull and gave me a rock to defend myself with. Luckily, I had the remains of a baloney sandwich in my backpack. I made friends with the Pit Bull. I survived.

To teach me to endure pain, he threw me naked into a tub full of live lobsters. They pinched the hell out of me, then, we invited a few friends over and ate them. I was covered with red pinch marks, but I enjoyed the feast.

To teach me to think for myself, he put me in a room with three doors. Unbeknownst to me behind Door 1 was an alligator. Behind Door 2 was a grizzly bear. Behind Door 3 was my mother yelling “Choose me! Choose me!” My choice was obvious. I chose Door 1 and lost three fingers on my right hand. Luckily, the alligator had been recently fed. I learned nothing, except how to function with a missing pinky and ring finger.

One last example: To teach me to be humble, he rented 10 monkeys to hurl their shit at me for 30 minutes. When covered with shit, I felt sick, not humble.

I learned more when I was asleep than I did under the tutelage of my father.

He was locked up for abuse when I was 16. Now, he’s being taught a lesson.

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Period

Posted on June 20, 2026 | Leave a comment

Period: The periodic sentence, characterized by the suspension of the completion of sense until its end. This has been more possible and favored in Greek and Latin, languages already favoring the end position for the verb, but has been approximated in uninflected languages such as English. [This figure may also engender surprise or suspense–consequences of what Kenneth Burke views as ‘appeals’ of information.

My name is Pedro Montoya Gonzalez Skipski. I am Mexican-American. My mother is Mexican and my father is from New Jersey and moved to Texas when he was a teenager. He ran away from home in Morris Township, near Morristown.

When he came to Texas, without stopping or look for a normal job, he became a Coyote. He smuggled Mexicans across the border somewhere near Ciudad Juárez. He got caught about once a month by ICE. He knew all of the agents where he “worked” from their Army days together, and they let him go.

He had a four wheel drive pickup. He transported four “passengers” at a time in the truck’s bed. He would cover them with a tarp with holes punched in it so they could breathe. That’s how he met my mother.

She was a brown-eyed beauty who would not get in the bed of the truck. She said she was insulted and wouldn’t ride to her new home like a pig going off to slaughter. My father was so taken by her boldness and tenacity that he let her ride up front in the cab with him. They made it into the States without incident.

They fell in love in the cab of the truck. She pulled her harmonica out of a dirty old red napkin and played and sang Dylan’s “Freight Train Blues” and a string of Box Car Willie classics, finishing up with “Streets of Laredo.”

When I was 15 Dad died when he got lost in the desert and drove his truck at 50 MPH into an arroyo that was 12 feet deep. He died instantly the coroner said. I think he suffered before he was found by another Coyote.

Now, I live between a rock and a hard place—between my abuela Jacinto Margarita Gonzalez my mother Zoe Carmen Gonzalez Skipski. Jacinto spent her days watching Tv and smoking. She went out once-a-week to meet with her social group—a bunch of Mexican ex-pats who wanted to give Mexico back to Texas. They spent their time buying guns and plotting, and dancing the Texas “Bullshit” dance—the “Cotton Eye Joe.” They voted for Gregg Abbot. They were insane.

My mother Zoe spent her days drawing pictures from her “mind.” They looked like spiders with human heads and were all named “Charlotte.” She tried to sell them at the farmer’s market and was scoffed at for years until GW Bush discovered her and she became famous and works as an Instructor in fine arts at Juarez Community College.

I’m what they call a self-loather. I hate my mixed heritage—mostly the Mexican half. I work for ICE. I eat only Chinese and Japanese food. Since my Dad died, I’ve been plotting to blow up every Mexican and Tex-Mex restaurant in Texas—from “Laredo Pedro’s” to “Taco Bell.” I am beginning my rampage on the next San Jacinto Day. Dallas is my target. I will hit “Roja Verde’s Tex-Mex Eatery” first. They exemplify all all that’s wrong about mixing cultures. I would always ask my mom, “Why don’t they call it ‘Mex-Tex’ in the right alphabetical order?” She would tell me to shut up and eat my crispy puffy taco and drink my “Modelo.”

I’ve got some C-4 explosive. I’m going to make a C-4 burrito sculpture, hollow it out, fill it with nuts and bolts, and top it off with a cherry bomb stuffed in one end for a detonator. I should take out around four peopled and wound a few more. I’m taking a sculpture course at JCC. My burrito bomb with be so realistic that my victims might try to eat it and accidentally blow their heads off. Quoting Bella Lugosi’s diabolical laugh: “Moo hooo ha ha ha!”

Get ready to read about me on San Jacinto Day, Tuesday April 21, 2027.

But, to some extent, I’m changing my mind. I’ve been thinking of myself as Mestizo lately, like: Zapata, “El Inca” Garcilaso de la Vega, “Pancho” Villa, or Magdalena Carmen Frida Kahlo y Calderón. I visited Kahlo’s house in Mexico City and was deeply moved by here art work and ideology.

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Periphrasis

Posted on June 19, 2026 | Leave a comment

Periphrasis (per-if’-ra-sis): The substitution of a descriptive word or phrase for a proper name (a species of circumlocution); or, conversely, the use of a proper name as a shorthand to stand for qualities associated with it. (Circumlocutions are rhetorically useful as euphemisms, as a method of amplification, or to hint at something without stating it.)

I was “Iron Jug.” It was my code name used to complicate searches for my true identity. I was a door-to-door dildo salesman, and concealing my true identity was a necessity. My services were available solely to women by private appointments only. I thumbtacked my business cards on laundromats’, nail salons’, hairdressers’, and day spas’ bulletin boards. They were coded and offered “Dreams cum true with my magic wands.” My business was called “Good Vibrations.”

My sales strategy was like Tupperware’s. A woman would contact me and we would put together a “Magic Wand Party” with all of her friends at her home. I had two suitcases filled with dildos. I had a female assistant who travelled with me. when requested, she would demonstrate different products. It was rather risqué, but it was an integral part of the sales pitch. After years of marriage, Silky could fake an orgasm with her husband like a pro.

I had a vast array of dildos for sale. But, by far, the highest selling dildo was the “Towering Tornado,” 9” long with three vibration settings: balmy buzz, bumble bee, and God’s cicada. These almost sold themselves, especially when Silky showed it off, going through the speeds and hitting “God’s Cicada.” When she hit GC (God’s Cicada), she went berserk with orgasmic passion, rolling around on the floor and moaning loudly. It was all faked, but it convinced many women to buy a “Towering Tornado” for $50.00.

Second to the “Tornado,” was the “Double Dealer.” It was a two-person dildo for world-rocking two-person pleasure. It had all the electronics—variable speed vibration, multi-level warmer, multi-flashing led lights (optional), and thruster—all operated with Blue Tooth.

The most interesting dildo was the old fashioned “Boom Stick.” Made of non-splintering olive tree wood, it is modeled after a dildo found in the ruins of Pompeii, and seen being used, painted on the bedroom wall of a villa. It had “Pax Romana” engraved on it—probably the brand name. It has no electronics. It is old school all the way. For its simple design, Silky tells me it is remarkably efficient.

Well, that’s what I do. One huge downside is parent visits to my kid’s classroom to tell their fellow Sixth Graders what I do for a living. The difficulty s doubled by the fact that their teacher is one of my clients, and I’ve never told anybody in my family how I earn a living.

I meet the challenge by lying.

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Personification

Posted on June 18, 2026 | Leave a comment

Personification: Reference to abstractions or inanimate objects as though they had human qualities or abilities. The English term for prosopopeia (pro-so-po-pe’-i-a) or ethopoeia (e-tho-po’-ia): the description and portrayal of a character (natural propensities, manners and affections, etc.).

I was in day 26 of acid tripping, raising money for my charity “Happy Trails.” The charity does research on restoring visual, aural, and olfactory hallucinations to LSD-impaired trippers.

I had committed to 30 days on acid, being paid $1,000 per day by an anonymous donor from Kazakstan. I also worked as an “acid model” dancing to “Inscense and Peppermint” playing on my boom box at the entrance to the “Sloop Wagon Mall.” I picked up another $100 or so daily from people going into, and leaving, the mall.

I took a half-hour break every hour and browsed around the store and shops in the mall. Sometimes, I’d score a smoothie and ride the Merry-go-Round. It was great fun. Everything blended together when I rode in a circle—changing colors and playing what sounded like Deep Purple’s “Highway Star” on the calliope. The poles holding the horses turned into golden snakes going up and down, the horses came to life. The whole setup said to me: “Ride, baby, ride,” and I would yell “Rawhide!” holding up my smoothie like a torch.

I had some time left on my break so I headed for “Gil’s Gadget Shop.” Gil sold gadgets. I went in and picked up a tool he sold to loosen your laundry load and make easier to lift from the washer tub. I looked at it and it said to me “You need me,” so I bought it. The hard-boiled egg peeler was a work of art! I picked up and it said: “Buy me. You need me.” How did it know I couldn’t peel a hard-boiled egg to save my ass? It was $200, but I bought it anyway. Then, something shiny caught my eye. It was a mixing bowl with built-in solar-powered propellers for mixing what was dumped in it. Clever!. It was inhaling and exhaling and whispering: “You need me. I need you. Buy me now.” I put it in my cart.

I had to check out before I started spending donor money. I went up to the counter & Gil looked a little stiff while he rang up my purchases. He said, “I am the Gil Gadget, please tap your credit card.” I looked over the Gil Gadget’s shoulder and saw Gil gagged and duct-taped to a chair. I knew what to do. I clapped my hands and Gil Gadget turned off and fell down.

I freed Mel, who looked like a duct tape mummy. As a reward, he gave me a free “Ant-vac” used to vacuum up ants that have invaded your home. It is the size of a lipstick tube and is solar powered and holds 135 dead ants! Pretty cool. It said to me “I won’t vacuum your aunts, but I will vacuum your ants.” Clever little devil—a punning Ant-vac.

Time to go back to work. As I waded knee deep in vibrantly glowing lollipops back to the mall entrance, as I went back outside, the Sloop Wagon Mall said: “You don’t need any of that shit you bought—well maybe you need the mixing bowl, it will make a good helmet.” I laughed and put the mixing bowl on my head and stepped outside. The propellers were uncomfortable so I tore them out and gave them to a kid.

The cars in the parking lot turned into piles of diamonds.

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Polyptoton

Posted on June 17, 2026 | Leave a comment

Polyptoton (po-lyp-to’-ton): Repeating a word, but in a different form. Using a cognate of a given word in close proximity.

There were only two gummies left. The bag was soon to be emptied and I’d be in the bag—saying “Wow” too much, eating cups of strawberry yogurt, and wondering about things that bought me wasted time:

*How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

*Why is the sky blue?

*Who is John Gault?

*Is that thing really alive?

This was nearly the last question I ever asked. I was in the jungle in Vietnam, stoned on my ass, smoking “Ho Chi Red,” the strongest pot in the world. It turned your brain inside out and squeezed all the reason out of it.

I had come to Vietnam to study a rare snail, accurately named the “Nixon Snail” by Vietnamese malacologists due markings on its shell that looked like Nixon’s face. It fed on an orchid known as “Dầy tớ của nhân” (Servants of the People). Their roots ran deep and ensured that the underground waters of Vietnam ran their courses smoothly, providing ample water for farming, drinking, cooking, and sanitation. The Nixon Snail, if left unchecked would seriously disrupt the water supply.

I was there to figure out a way to control and eliminate the depredation of the Nixon Snails. I was down on my hands and knees crawling around on the jungle floor, all gummyfied, looking for Nixon snails to take back to my lab. Given my condition, I was struggling with reality when I saw what I thought was movement out of the corner of my eye. Holy shit! It was a goddamned Banded Krait, affectionately known as the “Two-Step” snake, because that’s how far you’d get after you were bitten. This isn’t true—10 Step is more accurate. If you were bitten by a Krait, it was likely you’ll travel home in a crate. Even though it is deadly, with its alternating black and yellow bands, it is quite beautiful.

I clapped my hands and it slithered away. I was relieved. Now I could return my attention to the snails munching away on a lily in front of me.

Without going into detail, I discovered if you yelled “Watergate” at the Nixon snails, they died instantly and fell the ground. Now, they weere harvested by peasants, baked in nước mắm, garlic sauce, and fatalii peppers. The snail meat is picked with bamboo toothpicks, served with rice, and washed down with 33 Beer.

This is what the angels eat in heaven. The “Servants of the People” lilies are saved. The waters flow, and the beer is great, all by one word: Watergate.”

C-130s fly over the jungles daily with loudspeakers blaring “Watergate” and killing millions of snails. Older Vietnamese have always known how toxic Nixon was. He was an enemy of the people, with no soul, shame, or sense of Justice just like the snail that bears his name.

Watergate!

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Polysyndeton

Posted on June 16, 2026 | Leave a comment

Polysyndeton (pol-y-syn’-de-ton): Employing many conjunctions between clauses, often slowing the tempo or rhythm. (Asyndeton is the opposite of polysyndeton: an absence of conjunctions.)

Your breath stinks, and your farts art like death knells, and you grunt all night long, and worst, you lick your balls in the living room while I’m trying to watch “Green Acres” on TV. You could be a contortionist in a porno carnival. But, you’re my brother, and I take care of you, and I’m sick of it. Either move out or change your habits. Go get a fu*in’ job!

The next morning, he farted his way out the door to look for work. Somehow, he got a job as a bookkeeper at the local Dairy Queen. He wasn’t unintelligent, he was just totally annoying.

Free ice cream came with the job, so we started eating breakfast, and lunch, and dinner there every day. My brother sprinkled some kind of dust he made on his ice cream and the combination cleared up his breath problem! He claimed that the secret herb he added to the ice cream brought out the bad-breath killing reaction. He went into negotiations with Dairy Queen. They closed a deal for $6,000,000.00. Now we were rich.

Meanwhile I had fallen in love with Carmen, one of the cone makers at the Dairy Queen. Every time I saw her pull the lever and make the ribbon of ice cream twist it’s way out, I thought maybe someday we could be two twists melting together on a king size waffle cone.

Unbeknownst to me, my brother paid Carmen $50,000.00 to propose to me. She took the money and proposed to me the next day. I accepted. We were going to be married on Friday. It was Monday—we had some planning to do.

Our wedding cake would be a chocolate ice cream cake, and it would be 12 feet tall, and it would be covered with red, white, and turquoise jimmie’s, and it would be topped with statues of the bride and groom, and they would be dipped in chocolate and wearing waffle cones on their heads.

Choco-Frosted Blizzards will be served as beverages (unlimited refills), and healthy Banana Splits will be served as the celebratory dinner, and Buster Bars will be served for dessert. Revelers can wave their Buster Bars around like tambourines while they dance—“one arm waving free.”

My future wife told me what she had done. We got married any, but revenge was written all over my heart. Then, two years later, after a lot of procrastination, I killed her.

I drowned her in a Chocolate-Frosted Blizzard. I dumped the Blizzard in a bowl and stuck her face in it. In court, I claimed it was an accident—that Carmen used Choco-Frosted Blizzards for her facial treatments, and unfortunately she drowned when a box of canned milk fell on her, and pushed her face down into the Blizzards.

She liked being handcuffed to her chair when she did her facials, and couldn’t push the box off, and I had stepped outside for a smoke. I had fastened the handcuffs like I had done countless times before. I deeply regret stepping outside for a smoke. There were no witnesses, so I was exonerated.

Now, I work for my brother making “Come Here!” Chocolate-flavored breath cleanser. I print the bottle labels.

I probably should’ve killed him instead of Carmen.

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Procatalepsis

Posted on June 15, 2026 | Leave a comment

Procatalepsis (pro-cat-a-lep’-sis): Refuting anticipated objections.

I’m a what? Don’t say it. They call me “Pin” because I’m as neat as a pin. They call you “Marks” because of the skid marks on your underpants. But that’s beside the point. The point is: I’m not a slob.

Even thought you can’t properly wipe your ass, your standards for neatness are from the Moon, where everything stays the same and nothing moves. Your concept of neatness follows the rationale of a display—everything posed outside of time, just right: Do not touch!

We live in a world of change. We change our clothes. We hurry. Imperfection and malleable dreams make happiness possible—but happiness too is touched by time’s hand.

I get up. I have breakfast. I shower. I brush my teeth. I put my toothbrush in a convenient place on the sink. You tell me it doesn’t go there. It doesn’t belong there. It belongs out of sight in the medicine cabinet. You call me the “S” word, pick up my toothbrush and put it “where it belongs.” Sacrificing convenience for the medicine cabinet does not make it for me. We should make “convenience” the rationale of where things go. I admit they have to go somewhere, but “out of sight” is not always the right place.

Now you know where I’m coming from. If your anal soul urges you to “put things away,” go ahead. Don’t expect me to do the same. Look! I dropped my underpants on the floor. Do you want me to put them in the hamper all the way down the hall in the bathroom, or jump into bed together for some fun RIGHT NOW?

POSTSCRIPT

She made me crazy, but she reformed me. I’m so neat. I even clip my nails once a week and made myself a cubby and bought a dresser. She’s worth it. The one thing I don’t like is the spanking I get when my neatness score drops on the tote board in the living room. The spanking is brief and painless, so it’s no big deal. Also, I have to admit I never was as neat as a pin. I was called “Pin” because of my obsession with bowling.

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Prodiorthosis

Posted on June 14, 2026 | Leave a comment

Prodiorthosis (pro-di-or-tho’-sis): A statement intended to prepare one’s audience for something shocking or offensive. An extreme example of protherapeia.

If you’re squeamish, you better leave. Euphemism is for pussies. Avoiding the truth just because it’s gruesome is taking a ride in the wuss-mobile. Better you should know the truth in its whole conspectus, not through the tiny peephole fear that keeps you from actually KNOWING THE TRUTH!

Ok. I’m pulling no punches. I’m not sugar coating it. The curtain is up. The lights are on. Visibility is unlimited.

When he jumped his parachute flew off and his head was almost severed by his static line. His head was pulled off by the crotch of the tree he landed in. His brain was pulled out through his throat like a sponge pulled from the ocean floor. His tongue was sticking out like a big fat bloody sausage—drip, drip, drip, still quivering a bit. His eyes popped out of their sockets from the impact. They dangled on his cheeks like little pendulums, or two of those little pinkie balls mounted on a rubber band that you hit with a paddle. His jaw was broken, hanging like a hinge that had become unmounted, lying close to his throat. His nose was missing, torn off by the tree’s crotch. His ribs were crushed—sticking out of his shirt, where blood was still dripping. The tree’s rough bark had torn his gut wide open. His organs were strewn around the tree. You could see his liver hanging in the underbrush, dripping bile. His stomach was torn open and his breakfast was on display—it looked like grits seasoned with blood. His intestines were stretched out like a ghoul’s jump rope, beginning to stink in the summer heat of the North Woods.

This man was an idiot. He did not think ahead. He failed to navigate life’s challenges with well-considered plans. He would just jump, and that’s what he did here. He put his parachute on and failed to secure the harness buckle. It went undetected during the pre-jump equipment check. The skydiving school “Down to Earth” was notoriously lax on safety. But, he should’ve known the difference between secured and unsecured. Acting like an ass on the aircraft, doing the village people dance, he wrapped his static line around his neck. He was an idiot. His colleagues were idiots. “Down to Earth” is an ensemble of idiots. Recreational parachuting is for idiots.

You are not idiots. You have steerable parachutes. Use that function to steer away from trouble.

Ok! Stand up! Ok! Sound off for equipment check & I mean it goddamnit. Ok. Staaand in the door. Go! Go! . . . .

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Proecthesis

Posted on June 13, 2026 | Leave a comment

Proecthesis (pro-ek’-the-sis): When, in conclusion, a justifying reason is provided.

I went to the bank. I didn’t have any money but I enjoyed going there and seeing all the solvent people busy with their money. I was sort of practicing for when my ship came in. Now, only my shit came in. My apartment had bad plumbing. Things returned that should’ve gone down to the river to feed the fish. Let’s just say, I’m poor.

I had a job, so I had some money, but not enough to bank. I worked at Pinelli’s Dry Cleaners. Some days I’d make good tips. At my job pressing pants, I would rifle pants pockets and keep whatever I found. In a way it was a gold mine. One time I found an unopened bag of peanuts. Another time I found a lighter. Another time I found a twenty-dollar bill. I bought my wife a fake Rolex. She cried and had sex with me every night for a week. But, the truly unbelievable thing I found was a severed finger with a ring on it with a huge diamond mounted on it.

I couldn’t get the ring off the finger, so my wife boiled it and the ring slipped right off. I took it to the pawn shop. When I passed it over the counter, alarms went off and police flooded the shop. They asked the usual questions, but when I told them I found it in Sal Tanelli’s pants pocket on a severed finger, they all started cheering and jumping up and down, and yelling “whooo hoo!” The ring belonged to Sal’s grandmother. She was wearing it at a recent wedding. So, using their sharp reasoning skills, they deduced that, since her ring was on the finger, the finger was hers too!

Sal was a criminal’s criminal. He dressed the part. He talked the part. He walked the part. He was the whole damn thing. His main enterprise was making slugs—fake coins that would trick vending machines into delivering their goods He could trick the whole range of machines, from tampon dispensers to laundromats, and car washes too. Sal charged $5.00 for $20.00 worth of slugs.

Slugs are a dream come true for people suffering from inflation and the high cost of gasoline. Sal’s was a noble enterprise.

So, why were the cops so elated?

Sal had taken a six week break at Mar-a-Lago & left his customers in the dark. Since he was on vacation, he suspended slug production. They were elated that he might be found now that his grandmother’s finger was missing and he was probably looking for it. He would start making and selling slugs again, and they could resume their cut-rate vending scam and live fairly decent lives.

Sal’s 92 year old grandmother was increasingly erratic in her behavior as she faded into dementia. She cut off her finger while thinly slicing some veal with a straight razor. She was holding it perpendicular to her fingers. She picked up a 20 lb zucchini and yelled “Bona cannoli!” and slammed it down on the razor and cut off her pinky and ring finger. They wrapped a towel around grandma’s finger stubs. Sal’s “doctor,” Chicky Cerillo, stitched her up and she’s was as good as new, minus two fingers.

The cops were so grateful, I got to pawn the diamond. I got $160,000.00 for it. Sal has since gone into Bitcoins, although he still does slugs. He’s sort of like Robin Hood. He’s a real hero to all the people who struggle financially every day. Now they can eat. They can keep a roof over their head. They can wear clean clothes.

The finger got into Sal’s pocket when he went to “Stiletto” Mosconi’s butcher shop to have the ring taken off. He got distracted along the way and went Swan boating in the town park. He never got to the butcher’s and the finger remained in the pants pocket until I found it—a little smelly, with the diamond ring still on it. Sal had run the pinky down the garbage disposal, but was embarrassed by of losing his grandmother’s finger and ring. So, he bought her a replacement ring and two replacement fingers from a Canadian firm that sells “well preserved” severed body parts. The two fingers that Sal purchased were severed in a beaver trapping accident, frozen, and shipped t New York. Of course, Dr. Cerillo sewed them back onto grandma. They looked light-years better than her stubs.

My ship had come in. I went to the bank and bought a stack of CDs.

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Prolepsis

Posted on June 12, 2026 | Leave a comment

Prolepsis (pro-lep’-sis): (1) A synonym for procatalepsis [refuting anticipated objections]; (2) speaking of something future as though already done or existing. A figure of anticipatio.

Although unfinished, my ballroom is a shining beacon of wasteful spending, I am proud to say, casting shadows of fiscal irresponsibility across the White House lawn. It symbolizes my power and recklessness, starting construction without asking for funding, making a mess that needed to be cleaned up at any cost—by “cleaned up” we mean ballroom built, mission accomplished—displaying my wisdom and taste, modeling it after the renowned “Mara Lago MacDonalds.”

Flashing lights greet you as you come through the door. There is the heavy smell of beef patties in the air. As revealers dance to “YMCA” played over and over on a continuous loop cassette tape, to thrill their souls and work off the milkshakes. We play Celine Dion too, to bring the romancers on the floor to glory. Clearly, a noble move.

There are five cloakrooms reserved for “caucusing” with whoever the guests can get their hands on. There will be some incredible men and women on the floor to caucus with: Blondie, Mel Gibson, Joni Mitchell, Sylvester Stallone, Cher, sting, etc. It will be awesome.

You say I’m building a house of “woe.” I say I’m building a house of “WOAH!,” unique to the White House lawn, where my associates can let their hair down, and their pants down, without resulting in a Senate Hearing.

“The Ballroom,” is named after Marie Antonette’s ballroom/bakery (Salle de Bal/Boulangerie) where she practiced philanthropy, baking cakes for the poor. Our “Ballroom” will donate the proceeds from the redemption of all its recyclable cans and bottles to the “Save the Trump’s Foundation.”

“The Ballroom” will be completed some time in the future. Be there!

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Protherapeia

Posted on June 11, 2026 | Leave a comment

Protherapeia (pro-ther-a-pei’-a): Preparing one’s audience for what one is about to say through conciliating words. If what is to come will be shocking, the figure is called prodiorthosis.

“Nobody can tell the future, but I’m sure I’m fixin’ to die.” These were the second-to-last words said by my Uncle Bud as the water in the drainage ditch where he had fallen rose above his neck. His last words were “Fu*king shit!” said with a gurgly choking sound. His head disappeared under the water—all I could see was his hair swirling around and bubbles coming up. Uncle Bud was drowned.

I was 12 and Uncle Bud was 38. He was a wild man. He didn’t commit crimes. Rather, he got drunk and did thrill-seeking daredevil stunts. Falling in the drainage ditch was a little different. He was tiptoeing along its edge singing “Jesus walks on water. He’s the lifeguard at my pool. Jesus saves, Jesus saves, Jesus saves.” He pretended to step out onto the water and he slipped.

I thought “It’s about time!” My father had appointed me Bud’s Monitor. I had to follow Bud around and make sure he didn’t hurt himself. The most recent save I made was at the “Bubbly Fenders Car Wash.”

Bud had decided he was a dirty Corvette. He stuffed $5.00 in the pay box and started walking toward the car wash tunnel. First, he washed his “rims” with a pressure hose. I thought that would be it, but it wasn’t—he tore off his clothes and ran into the tunnel. He had signed up for an undercarriage wash that I was sure would ruin his reproductive equipment. He was singing “Swannanoa Tunnel” like he knew what the hell the old folk song is about.

I ripped off my clothes and went in after him. The side brushes were too far from his hips to get him, but there was a giant spinning soapy brush descending toward his head. It was going to decapitate him. I tackled him and the brush missed us by inches. We ran ahead of the washing process, missing all the brushes. The only upside were the two college girls in bikinis with towels who the were car wipers. They dried us off. We got dressed and left.

That’s when I decided the next time Bud pulled a stunt that could lead to an accidental death, I would let the accident roll and say goodbye to Bud and my shitty job. Hence, the drainage ditch.

Even though Bud was a foolish risk taker, somehow, now that he was dead, I missed him. In my later years, I had a bronze statue of Bud erected by the drainage ditch where he drowned. He is standing there naked, holding a bottle of Gypsy Rose over his head with a college girl in a bikini holding a towel over his privates. The statue’s brass inscription plate says “Accidents Happen” with his name and dates of his existence on planet earth.

After hanging out with thrill-seeking danger ranger Bud for three years, I went to college and received dual degrees in studio art and engineering. I design and manufacturer amusement park rides designed to thrill the hell out of people.

My latest ride is the “Rotor-Ripper.” It is like a big metal drinking cup. People climb in and lean against the Ripper’s wall and strap in. The Ripper spins at 150mph and tilts on its side. It is released by the operator and rolls across the park at 150mph. Eventually slowing down, it falls flat again, stopping at the souvenir shop. We plan on manufacturing, and selling as souvenirs, miniature Rotor Rippers that people can use with pets or or give to their small children to play with and have a little backyard risk taking to toughen them up for the front yard, where life goes on.

I’m a billionaire now. People need their thrills. Like the proverb says, “If you want the ultimate thrill, you’ve got to be willing to pay the ultimate price.” For you, it could be $5,000 for a Mini-Rotor-Ripper for your cat or kid.

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Protrope

Posted on June 10, 2026 | Leave a comment

Protrope (pro-tro’-pe): A call to action, often by using threats or promises.

Back in the 17th century wolves were a big problem in Europe. They were like flesh eating lawnmowers, mowing down whatever bled—men, women, children, dogs, cows, chickens, sheep, cats, and even wee little mice! The wolves would raid day or night.

Royalty had bowmen to take marauding wolves off the list of living things. The peasants had only hoes, and shovels, and rakes to beat them over the head with. One peasant in Rimsky had a scythe. He had stolen it from Duke Fancooken—a lazy irredeemable sloth who only thought of himself, and was privileged beyond measure by his Royal blood.

It was rumored that in close combat Dieter Weißwurst, the scythe thief, had decapitated 200 wolves. He provided a remedy for his small village, but no other peasant could afford a scythe, and no peasant was willing to risk the dungeon or death for stealing one.

This was a tragic scene, made doubly tragic by the boy Carl Steinbeller. He was the last of his line. In a way it was a good thing. When he died his malady-gene would die with him. He suffered from “Rückwärts Gesprochene Sprache.” He was fated to pronounce certain words backwards when he spoke. One of these words was “wolf.” Instead of wolf, he would say “flow.” Nobody knew what “flow” meant—it was Germany.

Carl had been adopted by Ma and Pa Pfluger, who enlisted Carl to work in their thriving potato stealing enterprise. They’d go to the fields at night and dig until dawn, sometimes depleting entire fields.

One night Carl wandered into the woods to pee. He was immediately encircled by a drooling pack of wolves. Carl climbed a tree and yelled “Flow, flow, flow, help me!” His co-plunderers heard Carl, scratched their heads, looked puzzled and then resumed digging potatoes. One yelled back, “What the f*ck are you yelling? What the hell is “flow?” Do you have the clap? Ha ha!” Carl responded, “Flow, Flow, Flow! Help me!” He was yelling a non-sequitur. He was scewed.

He fell out of the tree and was eaten. Unlike the story of “The Boy Who Cried Wolf,” the “The Boy Who Yelled Flow” died a brutal and bloody death. But at least it would never happen again. His genes had been eaten by the wolves, along with Carl himself. Now, Rrückwärts Gesprochene Sprache” would be a thing of the past. Thank dog! Also, given that they ingested Carl and his genetic material, the wolves no longer “heulen,” rather they cry nelueh. This is a non-sequitur, but it sounds Austrian and has led to several border incidents.

Of course, the moral of the story is “Don’t Dig Potatoes at Night.” It is a metaphor.

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Proverb

Posted on June 9, 2026 | Leave a comment

Proverb: One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegm, gnome, maxim, paroemia, and sententia.

My lot in life was low. But, I knew, as the tinker poet “Cup Banger” said: “Just because class rhymes with ass, doesn’t mean you have to be one.” I wasn’t an ass per se, but I used my ass to prepare the Duke’s inside chamber pot for pooping.

In the 17th century, dealing with human poop was a matter of social class. I worked in the manor house, overseeing the Duke’s “close stool,” an indoor chamber pot set in a throne-like chair. As a peasant with a notoriously warm m butt, I was taken on by Duke “Squatty” Marlborough to warm his close stool’s “seat” with my butt.

I was stationed 24-7 by the close stool with 20 minutes off once-a-week. I had a cot to sleep on. When I was on my break the Duchess, complaining loudly that she was royalty, would fill in for me. I wore a uniform appropriately colored brown. There were two openings in the back fitted to my butt-cheeks—my “warmers” as the Duke called them. I held a bottle of lavender water in one hand and a wiping cloth in the other hand embroidered with the Duke’s initials. I would put the lavender water on the cloth and hand it to him when he was done pooping.

Sometimes when he was in his cups, he would ask me to wipe him. He’d pay me 20p. And if he still had his bottle with him, he’d offer me a swig. For that kind of money I would do nearly anything. I gladly complied. I had saved almost 60p this year.

There was danger in the job though. The Duke’s son, Marquess “Spotty” of Marlborough, was a terror. For example, he had tampered with his father’s fox hounds, plugging their noses with cotton balls so they couldn’t smell anything, thereby ruining the fox hunt. How diabolical, especially since he was named after his father’s favorite dog “Spotty.”

I and the Duke were the subjects of Spotty’s most notorious, treacherous, and heinous prank: he put cayenne pepper in his father’s butt-cleansing lavender water.

I was standing by the close stool after warming it to a comfortable temperature with my butt. Of course, when I first sat down, I got temporary butt shock, but soon my warm hind-end rendered the seat comfortable. The Duke sat down and said “Ahhh my boy, you’ve never failed me.” I was quite proud.

The Duke did his usual grunting and farting. He said, “Boy, hand me the cloth, and make sure to give it a double soaking of lavender water.” I complied. He wiped and screamed in pain. The pepper had seared his anus. He yelled “Guards take this boy to the dungeon and somebody throw a bucket of water on my ass and give me a fresh rag!”

I was thrown into a cell that smelled like Armageddon. There was a man standing chains. His beard was three feet long and I could see his ribs. All he could say was “Don’t fu*k with the Duke.”

Spotty confessed to lacing the lavender water with ceyenne pepper. It was a trick he had learned at Ridley’s School for Clever Boys—a school founded by the Duke specifically for his son.

I was on the verge of being thrown into a pitiful of cockroaches when the Duke’s messenger arrived and yelled “Cease and desist! The boy is pardoned!”

As a reward for my faithfulness and perseverance in the face of injustice, the Duke had a burning candle tattooed on each of my butt cheeks, symbolizing the warmth my cheeks bring, and the light they shed.

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