Syntheton

Posted on May 23, 2026 | Leave a comment

Syntheton (sin’-the-ton): When by convention two words are joined by a conjunction for emphasis.

“Love and marriage go together like a horse and carriage.” Maybe love and marriage go together like a horse and carriage, but I’m dealing with a baby carriage. Sure, it might go together with marriage. But with love? Not for me.

We had just turned eighteen. We’d been out of high school for a year. Neither of us were going to college—I wasn’t smart enough, and she couldn’t afford it—her father ran the roller coaster at the local amusement park and fed the swans and ducks at the lake at the lake in the park. He was non-union, so he made next to nothing. Perty’s mother was a housewife, but had a part time job loading delivery trucks at the bakery. She would steal jelly donuts and eat them on the job. They made her fat and unhappy, but she couldn’t stop.

My father had died on my high school graduation day. He dropped us off at the high school gym and parked the car. He was walking across the parking lot and was run over and killed by Billy River who was drunk and smoking a joint when he hit Dad. The school janitor left him lying in the parking lot until commencement was over so people could pay their respects as they headed for the parking lot. The school janitor handed me Dad’s car keys and we went to look for our car.

Billy River was sentenced to ten years community service. Whenever I see him picking up dog poop, or something like that, he winks at me.

After Dad was killed, Mom had to get a job. Now she works as a bus girl at Belbert’s Dog House. I’m still unemployed. Perty shines shoes at the Mal-Mill Mall. All she makes is tips. Mr.Toney, the owner of the shoe-shine stand, gets everything else. He’s trying to get Perty too. But Perty’s all mine.

Before we got married, there was only one thing we did for fun: we had sex. Without going into detail, we tried everything you could imagine. Most of the time we did it in the shadows of the woods in a place where a lot of furry moss grew. We had so much energy and stamina. I felt like if there was an Olympic event for screwing, we’d win a gold medal. That’s where the baby came from.

I thought Perty was on the pill, but she wasn’t. It was just one of those things—life is like that. Neither of us wanted to have a baby, but have a baby we did. Little Tripper was born on December 23rd a 6:30 am. As a consequence, Perty and I got married. We still enjoy our Olympic screwing events, but the spark of love is missing.

But, maybe it isn’t. When Perty has to work overtime at the shoe shine stand, I miss her a lot and I worry that Mr. Toney is banging her.

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Synzeugma

Posted on May 22, 2026 | Leave a comment

Synzeugma (sin-zoog’-ma): That kind of zeugma in which a verb joins (and governs) two phrases by coming between them. A synonym for mesozeugma.

Is it my mind I’m losing or my marbles, or my girlfriend, or all three? I really don’t know what losing my mind and my marbles mean. I mean, if I lose my mind, where does it go that I can’t find it? How can I know I lost it, if I lost it? Something’s wrong here. Will I get a new fresh mind to replace it, or when I say “I don’t mind” is it because my mind is lost and consequently “minding” is beyond me. Then, when somebody tells me to “mind your own business,” I’m on board because I can’t/don’t/won’t mind. Also, the upside is if I’ve lost my mind, it’s likely that I can find it. I was thinking of going to the Lowe’s lost and found for starters, to look for my mind.

“Losing my marbles” is a whole other cup of tea. I do not, or never, have had any marbles. Ok, when I was a kid back in the 50s I had a small bag of marbles containing cat’s eyes, puries, aggies, and one big fat shooter. It’s 2026 now and I lost those marbles back in the sixties because my parents sod them at a garage sale when I was in Vietnam. They also sold my baseball card collection which would be worth at least $100,000 if I still had it.

There were other things of mine they sold, all near a dear to me. When I got back from ‘Nam and found out my most prized possessions were gone, I went around the bend. So, maybe literally “losing my marbles” affected my sanity, not to mention the mind-blowing affects of the war.

Now, we come to the present. I can talk about it because my lithium is kicking in. I’m 80 and I’ve had nine divorces since I’ve travelled around life’s bend with my mind blown all these years. Presently, I have a girlfriend who’s 38. We supposedly love each other. She pushes my wheelchair and never complains. She’s a whiz with the microwave oven and makes me coffee every morning, bathes me, and watches TV with me. But, yesterday morning I saw her talking naked with a man on her cellphone. I sort of believed it when she told me he was her gynecologist and he was doing a remote Zoom examination. I asked what that pink wand in her hand was all about. She told me it was a gynecological examocam. I said “You are making me suspicious of your fidelity.” She responded “Oh Bucky you’re such a drama queen. Let me take you for a roll in your wheelchair down by the river.” I couldn’t resist. Down by the river, she would hand me stones and I would throw them at the geese and the ducks.

When we got there, the Zoom gynecologist was there! They started arguing. He yelled, “You can’t just dump him in the river! What the hell is wrong with you?!” She sad “Go fu*k yourself” and turned and wheeled me back home. On the way home, she told me it was all a misunderstanding, that she would never even think about killing me ever again, let alone, actually do it down by the river.

I’m giving her a second chance, not to kill me, but to prove her love for me. Still, I’m nervous. There are clear signs that I’m losing her. I didn’t smell any coffee brewing this morning when I woke up. I’m stuck here in bed with my laptop. She must be sleeping in late this morning.

Oh look, there’s a Zoom call for me! I smell smoke.

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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Systrophe

Posted on May 21, 2026 | Leave a comment

Systrophe (si’-stro-fee): The listing of many qualities or descriptions of someone or something, without providing an explicit definition.

Tall, smart, blue eyes, obvious meat eater, freckles, tattooed, big boobs. I’m wondering now why I didn’t list her boobs first? Usually, with women, I look at them first. Also, I haven’t even listed her ass yet. That’s always number two. Maybe I’m just getting old—losing my mating verve. But, there’s something about her though that afeected the order of my listing of her characteristics.

What could be drying up my hormones? I’m 29 so that shouldn’t be happening yet. Maybe I’ve got Alzheimer’s or dementia. No—can’t be—too young. When she smiled at me yesterday I almost shit my pants.

I work behind the counter at MacDonald’s. It is impossible to screw up an order, but I screwed up hers. I was so affected by her smile, I told her to go to a table and I’d be there in a couple of minutes with her order. I was in some kind of trance.

I put the tray down too close to the edge of the table and it spilled all over her lap—Big Mac, large Coke, small fries. I apologized. She said “That’s alright—a wee mishanter.” She spoke with a Scottish accent! In fact, she mixed in a Scottish word! I was smitten! Head over heels! Blown away!

I wondered if I’d ever see her again. Suddenly, there she was back at Mac’s! I tucked in my shirt, straightened my hat and tried to look my best. I said “Hi.” She said “Are ya goin tuh dump muh piece on muh lap mugheen?” I promised not to. She laughed and ordered a chocolate shake and that was it. I put the shake together and put it on her tray with a smile. She smiled back, paid, and found a seat.

I got off my shift about two minutes later. I went over to her table and asked her if I could sit with her for a little while. It was a bold move, but it worked. We talked and talked and ended up staying at the table for nearly two hours. I asked her over to my place to watch “”Braveheart” and she agreed. When she got up and turned around to pick up her purse, I got a good look at her ass. It was a dream ass. Big boobs and a dream ass! But she was way more than that.

I stoped off and bought a box of “Lorna Doones” on my way home from work. This could be the most important night of my life!

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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Tapinosis

Posted on May 20, 2026 | Leave a comment

Tapinosis (ta-pi-no’-sis): Giving a name to something which diminishes it in importance.

Diaper Daddy was at it again. He was President of the United States of America, but we called him “Diaper Daddy” because he wore diapers, pooped himself and threw temper tantrums like a toddler. In addition, we hate him. Most people are happy to call him “asshole,” “shithead,” or “loser.” In fact, the list of derogatory nicknames extends for miles and miles.

Some use alliterations to cast their spell: “Turdy Trump” is a favorite. Then, there’s “Tuber Trump,” “Temper Tantrum Trump,” “Twisted Trump,” and “Tubby Trump.”

Our club is devoted to removing Trump from office. We don’t believe in violence, so impeachment is our goal. If we can give him bad enough names that circulate around, and are used by the electorate, our purpose will be served. Our organization is named: “Nickname. Defame. Reclaim.” MAGA (formerly known as the “Republican Party”) had to be soundly defeated in the midterm elections so the Democratic party could re-emerge as the keeper of democratic flame. It has nearly been blown out by Typhoon Trump and his huffing and puffing minions.

Growing up, I was teased all the time. I was called hurtful names that drove me into life’s shadows. So, I know teasing’s power and the power of nicknames to deplete a victim’s ethos and sense of self-worth. It doesn’t matter what their status is, hurling an insult or a debasing nickname diminishes. Even the Dali Llama was called “Doily Llama” by a rival sect. Santa Claus has been called “Satan Claus” by parents who don’t want to spend money at Christmas time. The list goes on.

I was born with one hand and skin like an alligator’s. I was called “Lefty” (I was missing my left hand), “Handy,” and “Slots” after slot machines, also known as one-armed bandits. My name is Rudy, so I was called “Reptile Rudy” after my skin. I was also called “Everglades,” “Snapper,” “Grungy Gator,” and “Gator Boy.”

Nobody liked me. Nobody was my friend. So, I started making up insults and demeaning nicknames for other people. I became known as “Self-Esteem Exploder” and left hordes of broken people in my wake. Nobody was above me. I once called the principal of my high school “Dr. Foreskin.” I called my mother “Saggy.” I called sister “Slutty Pants.” There was no stopping me.

I founded “Nickname. Defame. Reclaim.” when I graduated from high school. So far, I have one other member. She is malicious and even sadistic. When I interviewed her she told me that inflicting pain was her greatest pleasure, and that words are the safest way to do it. She’s called “Whip Lip” by her peers. Her specialty is the “tongue lashing,” a very specialized form of verbal abuse. When we meet, we brainstorm together, insulting Trump and giving him demeaning nicknames.

We’re composing a demeaning rap song together called “Humpy Trumpy” focusing on Trump’s wicked lifestyle. it is composed solely of demeaning insults and nicknames. I’d give you a teaser, but right now it’s top secret. We’re hoping it will push Diaper Man off the face of the Earth.

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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Tasis

Posted on May 19, 2026 | Leave a comment

Tasis (ta’-sis): Sustaining the pronunciation of a word or phrase because of its pleasant sound. A figure apparent in delivery.

Ooooh. Aaaah. It was Fourth of July and the bombs were bursting in air. They gave proof that night that Dollar General could be looted with impunity. The whole damn town was watching the fireworks behind the Peter Max Middle School. The time was right to do what I came to do.

I was inconspicuous in my Continental soldier uniform. I had marched in the parade pulling an effigy of a Redcoat along the ground with a rope around his neck. Now, I was carrying a baseball bat to break a window and crawl inside the Dollar General.

I had my eye on the giant lawn sprinkler for about a month. It cost $100.00 so there was no way I could pay for it. I remember back in the day when the store was called “Everything for a Dollar.” Those were the days. I could afford anything I wanted: chewing gum, socks, toilet paper, even a frying pan. But, like everything else, things change, prices go up and people like me are forced into a lives of crime. Last week, I stole money from the offering basket at church. The week before that I wore a woman’s Halloween wig into the grocery store, stuck two coconuts under my shirt, and walked out without paying.

After Dollar General, I’m thinking about purse snatching outside “Joey’s Jewelry.” Lots of rich women shop there—perfect targets for theft. If they don’t have a purse, I’ll ask them out on a date. Haaaaa Ha.

There it was—the giant lawn sprinkler lurking in the shadows in front of me. I reached out and grabbed it. It was chained to the shelf. So instead, I grabbed a box of fifty rolls of toilet paper. “Better than nothing” I said to myself as I climbed back out the broken window.

My lawn would probably die in the drought from hell we were having, but at least I could wipe my ass all I wanted. Sweeeet!

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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Thaumasmus

Posted on May 18, 2026 | Leave a comment

Thaumasmus (thau-mas’-mus): To marvel at something rather than to state it in a matter of fact way.

I was filled with wonder and hope. When I heard the gunshot, I felt free. It was the sound of liberation from my travails. I had imagined hearing it before and was elated. I went downstairs and looked around but nobody was home. My chains reached to the living room, so I sat on the couch and watched “The Daily Show.” It was so funny and politically charged that it often clouded my trepidations and made me forget the state of my life for awhile.

The state of my life was bleak. He had been picked me up hitch-hiking 2 years ago. I was on my way to a job interview at “Billy Bill’s Catering.” I never got there. He took me home with him and put me in chains. He was my father and I was a runaway. I was 12 and I had skipped out 11 times already. I wanted adventure. I wanted to see the world. But, all I saw were cops picking me up and calling my father. He hadn’t intended to pick me up that day, but he lucked out. He was on his way to “Skinny’s” his favorite hangout. It was a sleaze bar frequented by the dregs of Prong Port, where we lived. We drove straight home.

He chained me up to keep me home. He was home schooling me. This week we would be studying “Chrome Plated Things.” We were examining a hubcap from a ‘56 Chevy, a steam iron, and a ballpoint pen. We would hold them up and move the around in the light and talk about the positive connotations of “shiny” as an adjective. On the last day of “class” we each had vegetable soup served a hubcaps with crackers and grilled cheese sandwiches that Dad made with the iron. It was festive, but I wanted to leave. I was 14 and believed I could fend for myself. Four years later my dream came true.

I had put a sign in my window that said “Shoot the man who mows the lawn.” Nobody ever did. But, I had graduated from “How Now Home School.” In addition to my diploma they had mailed me a wooden plaque with a key glued to it that said “Your future is the key.” Dad handed it to me and said “Congratulations.” I took it and ran up to my room. In addition to the diploma and plaque, the envelope contained a plane ticket to Las Vegas where Mom worked as a pole dancer in a nursing home. Somehow, she managed to pull this off. It took her long enough!

I pried the key off the plaque with my fingernail clippers. I inserted it in the lock holding my chains. The lock went “click” and I was free. The plane was leaving for Vegas 1:00 am. I didn’t even pack a toothbrush. I had to hitch-hike to the airport.

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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Timesis

Posted on May 17, 2026 | Leave a comment

Tmesis (tmee’-sis): Interjecting a word or phrase between parts of a compound word or between syllables of a word.

He had more medical malpractice suits than Canada has geese. Once he sewed his surgical gown to his patient’s leg. It’s weird that none of the attending nurses warned him. But, he’s a tyrant, and would’ve yelled at them, breaking the solemn spell of surgery. Besides, he was a joker. Why interrupt him?

Once, as a joke, he mailed a man’s heart that he’d removed during a transplant to San Fran-friggin’-sisco. The address and return address were bogus. He was trying to get the heart “lost in San Fransisco” like the song says. It is against the law to mail human organs without a special permit. He had risked his license to practice medicine. He didn’t get caught. He thought it was funny.

I think the height of his malpractice ingenuity came when he did a lung transplant. The patient had irked him in the run-up to the surgery. The doctor had a daughter who worked at the office’s reception desk. Whenever the patient came in, he would try to make a move on his daughter. He would lean over the counter and wheeze all over her asking if she wanted to go back to his place when she got off work. Of course, she told him no, but he persisted.

The doctor was incensed and told his daughter he would “take care of this guy.” On the day of the surgery, the patient was wheeled into the operating room and anesthetized. The doctor pulled a rubber ducky out of his surgical gown, squeezed and squeaked it a couple of times, and set it on the table. When the surgery was almost complete, the doctor picked up the rubber ducky and removed the squeaker, sterilized it, mounted it inside the new lung, and sewed everything up. Now, whenever the man bent over he would squeak like a rubber ducky. Also, if he breathed quickly in a state of excitement he would squeak like a rubber ducky.

Of course, the doctor was sued three ways to hell, but he didn’t lose his license to practice medicine because the state medical board thought what he had done was hilarious. In fact, he won the “Scappy Medal” from the Australian Union of Surgeons, a collective of renegade surgeons who want to “bring a degree of humour to the fair dinkum rubbish that passes in surgery as fun as footy.” The medal is sculpted as a laughing scalpel and says “Let’s hit the coast” with an Aussie accent if you press the button on the bottom.

So, the doctor goes on. Slicing, but not dicing, bringing levity to the operating table. We understand he’s operating on a convicted “Peeping Tom” next week. Can you see what he might be up to?

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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Topographia

Posted on May 15, 2026 | Leave a comment

Topographia (top-o-graf’-i-a): Description of a place. A kind of enargia [: {en-ar’-gi-a} generic name for a group of figures aiming at vivid, lively description].

I live in a cave in Stanhope, New Jersey. It used to be an iron mine. It sheltered Revolutionary War soldiers from the British. In World War II it served as a bomb shelter for the mayor. Fugitives have hidden out there. The most famous was Chick Bultaco. He stole hubcaps for a living. He didn’t make much money, but he reigned supreme. You’d go to bed at night and wake up in the morning to see your Ford Pinto in the driveway, stripped of its hubcaps. He sold the stolen hubcaps to hippies who decorated their windows and bedrooms with them. He had the audacity to install them. That’s how he got caught. Two police officers disguised themselves as hippies and put the word out on the street that they needed some hubcaps to hang in their windows and bedrooms. The cops rented a house and Chick showed up with a boxful of Chevy Bel-Aire hubcaps to install and collect the money. He was arrested, tried and convicted and was sentenced to to three years. He was famous! After he served his sentence, he opened a junkyard in Morristown, NJ. He could pull and sell hubcaps legitimately. End of story,

It was difficult, but I’ve wallpapered the cave with horizontal striped green and blue wallpaper. There’s a mirror on the wall. I have a brown metal folding chair and a small white plastic end table. I have a green candle embedded in dripped wax on top of the table. It is my sole source of light. I’ve hung a table cloth over the cave entrance for privacy and to keep out the weather. I sleep on sandbags covered with a rubber tarp. It gets cold in the winter, but I don’t mind. Bathing is tricky.

I work delivering newspapers. They are dropped off every morning. I fold them up and deliver them. Sometimes, I wish I had graduated from high school.

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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Traductio

Posted on May 15, 2026 | Leave a comment

Traductio (tra-duk’-ti-o): Repeating the same word variously throughout a sentence or thought. Some authorities restrict traductio further to mean repeating the same word but with a different meaning (see ploce, antanaclasis, and diaphora), or in a different form (polyptoton). If the repeated word occurs in parallel fashion at the beginnings of phrases or clauses, it becomes anaphora; at the endings of phrases or clauses, epistrophe.

Flavor is the flavor of flavor, whatever it is. 24/7 your tongue is alive, swimming in a sea of taste. Sugar. Spice. Everything nice. Bitter. Sour. Spit it out. Love it. Hate it.

It’s all about my tongue. It is four inches long. I have a compulsion to lick things. I went to the Lingua Institute in Brussels. They fitted me with a tongue condom. It’s based on the idea that shielding the tongue from flavor will kill the desire to lick. It worked for about a week. I got tired of wearing a tongue condom whenever I went out. Plus, my tongue was calling to me “Lick it, lick it, lick it.”I first tore it off when my tongue zeroed in on a tree in the park I was walking past. My tongue had an uncanny ability to see. It made me stop and it yelled “Lick it!” five or six times. I tried biting my tongue, but the condom protected it. So, I pulled off the condom and licked the tree. The bark was rough. It was a maple tree. I was hugging it and licking it like my life depended on it. The feel of the bark and the taste of the wood were enchanting. My tongue loved it and we licked for about twenty minutes and walked away.

I was so glad I was licking again. It was like being healed. We passed a deli that had a huge glass window. Glass was one of my favorite flavors. My tongue yelled “Lick it!” I faced the glass and started licking, and licking, and licking. I had my eyes closed at first, but then I opened them. The people in deli were all looking at me. One was on their cellphone, so I figured she was calling the cops. It had happened several times, but I’d never been arrested or charged with a crime.

The last time was “apprehended” was for a glass licking incident. I was in PetCo licking the Angel Fish aquarium. The fish seemed to like it. They had clustered around my tongue on the other side of the glass. I told the police officer I was checking my compatibly with fish before I bought them. He told me to get out of PetCo before he fed me to the pirañas. I put my tongue back in my mouth and quickly left PetCo. My tongue was silent for three days after the incident.

Then we were in an elevator with three or people. I was eyeing the button panel, specifically, the fifth floor button. My tongue yelled “Lick it!” I got down on my knees and started licking the button. The people in the elevator ignored me. I was in NYC at time where nobody notices anything. I was grateful for that. I licked frantically until we reached the third floor and I got off.

I was going to see a surgeon to have one inch removed from my tongue. I told him about my problem. He agreed to the surgery, but insisted I get a licking post after the surgery and keep it in my living room. If I worked out on it for one hour every day, along with the surgery, I would be cured.

I went to purchase a licking post at Tongue Tips. I met woman there who was there for the same reason I was. We were Lickers. I invited her back to my apartment for a lick. We spent the afternoon licking each other. Now, I’m having second thoughts about the surgery. Licking each other quells our desires. I’ll have to talk to the doctor again. I think me and Beth can be each other’s licking posts and I we can skip the surgery. She has a five-inch tongue that reaches all the way to my soul.

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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Tricolon

Posted on May 13, 2026 | Leave a comment

Tricolon (tri-co-lon): Three parallel elements of the same length occurring together in a series.

I won. I lost. I left. This is the story of my life. It started at Falling Star Casino. I would win—way ahead after a night of blackjack. Then, I’d bet all my winnings on the wheel of fortune—one spin. I would never win. Then, I’d leave and go home. This same pattern occurred over and over again. I didn’t care. I am bipolar, and that’s the way I rolled.

I had won my wife in a competition with Jerry Flax. We were the “Wooing Kings.” We both wanted her. She would trade back and forth between us. When she was with Jerry, I’d pace the floor, smoke and watch porno carrying my laptop around my living room. When I got tired of that, I’d sit at the kitchen table and clean the .357 my dad had given me for high school graduation. He handed it to me with a box of bullets and said, “Kill some’thin son.” After I finished cleaning my pistol, I would just sit there and anguish.

It was my turn to be with Lucretia on Friday night. I had to win her once and for all. I came up with a plan! I would pay her to marry me! I took out a loan from the local bank for $10,000 with a ten year payout. $10,000! She couldn’t resist!

We were making out in my car when I pulled away and asked her “Lucretia, how would you like $10.000?” She said, “I don’t care how much you pay me, I’m a good girl and you can keep that thing in your pants.” I said, “No, no. You misunderstood me. I want you. I need you. I love you. I want you to marry me. I thought $10,000 would pave the way to a life of bliss.” “You want to pay me to marry you? That is the stupidest idea I ever heard of. What am I, a Big Mac? Take me home!” I said, “Wait! How about we just get married without the payout?” She said yes. It was crazy, but that’s how it happened. I won!

Two weeks after we were married, she ran off with Jerry Flax. He had offered her a house, a new car, a sewing machine, and a couple of kids. I made one last stab at getting her back. I went to their house and used a bullhorn to beg her to come back to me. She stuck her head out a window and yelled “Take a hike ant brain—Jerry’s the one!”

I lost!

I gave up.

I left and went home. I cleaned my .357 and listened to Hendrix’s “Hey Joe” over and over 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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Abating

Posted on May 12, 2026 | Leave a comment

Abating: English term for anesis: adding a concluding sentence that diminishes the effect of what has been said previously. The opposite of epitasis (the addition of a concluding sentence that merely emphasizes what has already been stated. A kind of amplification).

I was an influencer, but not the kind I wanted to be. I made people sick. I had terrible bad breath. I had a five foot radius. I was grateful for the Covid epidemic, when wearing a face mask was normal. It filtered my oral stench and I was able to get as close as one foot before the stench was barely detectable.

I was born with “Oral Stink Syndrome,” an extremely rare genetically-based medical condition. it is manifest as an inoperable cyst in the brain with a duct in the roof of the mouth dripping on the tongue. The smell is beyond words, but “rotting flesh” comes close. The best thing to temporarily quell the stench is smoking cigars. Accordingly, I smoke 10 cigars per day.. I prefer DeNobili cheroots—an Italian-style cigar that I’ve been smoking since I was eleven. When I was a kid, I had a physician’s note permitting me to smoke in school.

When I was a baby, my mother had a six-foot grabber-stick specially for bottle feeding me. She had a high-powered fan mounted on her chair so she could blow away my stink when she cuddled me for five minutes every day. She wore an Army surplus gas mask when she changed my diaper and took me for walks in my stroller. As I got older, I wore a laundry bag with two eye holes cut in it. It would filter the stink. We would go for walks. We called the laundry bag my “Ghost Suit.” I fit right in on Halloween. As I got older, I wore a balaclava with a filtered mouth hole. But, when the Pandemic hit, I discarded it in favor of a face mask. Besides, I was sick of being taken in by the police every time there was a robbery. When I took the baklava off in the police station for questioning, they would run away coughing from the stench. They never learned.

Now I wear nothing. Right after the pandemic, I went to a self help workshop: “Be Yourself Whimpo!” I was still wearing face mask. It was frayed and dirty.

When I sat down in the group, the Facilitator pointed at me and yelled “What are you, the Lone Ranger? Take off that mask and be yourself!” I was freaked out and ran out of the building. When I got outside, I yelled “Fu*k it!” and tore off the mask. This is actually how I came to go open-face: it wasn’t about post pandemic norms—it was about my lust to be me—to broadcast my otherness from my stinking mouth.

As I walked down the crowed sidewalk people got out of my way, retching. Nobody messed with me. When I said “Hi” people would double over and sometimes scream and faint. Once, a man ran into the street and was run over by a Fed-Ex truck. He was badly injured

I discovered from a similarly afflicted uncle that sheep are affected by his breath and he herds them for a living. He leads a solitary existence as a shepherd. He bothers nobody, and nobody bothers him. So, that’s what I do now. I am quite happy as a shepherd, but lonely too. I have volunteered to be a subject in a scientific study where they introduce a cyst-eating worm into my brain.

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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Abbaser

Posted on May 11, 2026 | Leave a comment

Abbaser [George] Puttenham’s English term for tapinosis. Also equivalent to meiosis: reference to something with a name disproportionately lesser than its nature (a kind of litotes: deliberate understatement, especially when expressing a thought by denying its opposite)

Hey “boss” how does it feel to be duct taped to the floor—you’re my toy, my squirming worm, my dirty bird. Ha ha! You thought your wig was so big—big enough to put hair on the whole office.

You treated us like obedient ants. We had no voice in the running of the paper mill, like we were dummies operated by you. No decision power. No autonomy. No brains.

Smell the smoke? That’s Newark burning, you sobbing pinworm. The revolution has come. Soon, you capitalist pig dogs will be replaced by AI babes with big boobs and nice asses. They are being delivered by our Chinese allie’s to make our lives better. The AI babes will be programmed to listen to our ideas for improving employee morale and productivity. They will pat us on the head when we do well, and hug us too.

So scumbag, get ready for the end. You will be stabbed to death with mechanical pencils. Employees are lining up to bid for the privilege. These are good pencils made by our Chinese allies! Squirm you dirty dog! Ha ha!

Sears is burning! Lowe’s is burning! Salvation Army is burning— that’s a mistake, but it will be corrected. Piggly Wiggly is burning! Dick’s is burning! America is burning! Soon we’ll all be eating the revolution’s Kung Pao Chicken and Cantonese dim sum, with chopsticks carved from tress cut down on the White House lawn. Ha ha!

POSTSCRIPT

This missive was written by a lunatic from his hospital bed. He was the former CEO of “The Peoples Pilates.” He was apparently filled with self loathing, given that the missive vituperates the “boss” and sets a revolution. In 2026 there was a short-lived revolution in Reno, Nevada when the “Slot Machine Maintenance Worker’s Union” briefly occupied the mayor’s office demanding “a bigger piece of the action.” After an exchange of gunfire with “temporary workers” from New York, the union’s demands were granted.

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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Abecedarian

Posted on May 10, 2026 | Leave a comment

Abecedarian (a-be-ce-da’-ri-an): An acrostic whose letters do not spell a word but follow the order (more or less) of the alphabet.

I was entering the “International Abecedarian Contest” sponsored by “AI, AI, OH: Solutions for Slow Minds.” Abecedarian is an acrostic whose letters do not spell a word but follow the order (more or less) of the alphabet. Abecedarian is my hobby. I had written 62,000 and stored them on my computer. I had been entering the contest for the past ten years and have spent $10,000 on entrance fees. Always being cast down, eagerly fearless, generally hopeful I jabber knowingly. Somehow, after ten years of rejection, I am eager to compete again.

The top prize is a dictionary autographed by Gomer Pyle, USMC. I was a fan of his from day one—he was an idiot savant like me. He was a bumbling, stupid Marine recruit who could sing beautifully. I felt like I had a friend whenever he broke into song. I am an idiot savant —I could memorize a restaurant menu in one glance. I had a job standing at the door of “Miggle’s Fine Dining” reciting the menu over and over. My favorite dish was “Only Baloney.” It was inspired by Roy Orbison’s “Only the Lonely.” It was a single slice of baloney sprinkled with chopped onion and garlic.

Although I have a photographic memory, I can’t write. I record everything and computer software transcribes it into print. I am also unable to tell time, even with a digital clock. Also, I say “Bluto” over and over, sometimes for an hour.

My nose, oblong, protruding, querying and sociable is worthy of note too. When I read, I use it to turn pages. I mount a “Costco Fingerpad” on the tip of my nose to facilitate page turning. I’ve cut my reading time by five percent giving me more time to craft Abecedarian. By the way “Bluto” is being eclipsed. I have started speaking in Abecedarian.

For the contest, I am going to try to craft an Abecedarian based on my nasal reading device—my Costco Finger Pad. I spend so much time with it, that I am filled with its spirit as a prize-winning inspiration. So, here I go:

“A big careening dolly exited, firmly goosing her impressive jellybean kingdom—looming mystically, neglecting open pitfalls, quite ribald, tantalizingly undulating, veering with zgenetic yapping zeal.”

Well, there you have it. Somehow, my nose got left behind in my yapping zeal. But, this my 2026 entry. I think I have a pretty good chance of winning because I’ve crafted an intriguing tale highlighting the existential tensions between fate and choice, hope and fear.

POSTSCRIPT

Two days after submitting his Abecedarian to the contest, forgetting to remove his Fingerpad from his nose after reading, his nose got stuck in an elevator door and he was killed when the elevator went up. All of the fail-safe devices had been disabled and his skull crushed.

He left his 62,000+ Abecedarians to the New York Public Library. They were rejected and are currently scrolling on a small computer screen at “Green World Bottle and Can Return Center,” Millville, NY which is owned by the author’s brother. On another note, his contest entry was rejected due to its incoherence. His tombstone reads: “Ant Being Crushed: Delightful Event.”

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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Accismus

Posted on May 9, 2026 | Leave a comment

Accismus (ak-iz’-mus): A feigned refusal of that which is earnestly desired.

We all have something to be grateful for, but offering me a drumstick goes far beyond what I merit, which is probably a wing. We both know that the drumstick is my favorite part of the turkey, but I can’t accept it. What have I done to deserve it?

I paid to have your roof replaced and hand grips installed in your tub. I paid for Dad’s cremation and bought you a new car and fishing boat for Little Timmy.

But none of these things merit the drumstick. I have lots of money and I’ve spent lots on you. None of my spending is any kind of sacrifice for me—a key criterion for judging the merit of deeds, and their reward. If I had given you my kidney when you needed one last fall, that would be meritorious. But I had to go on a business trip to Thailand with my secretary. Instead, Little Timmy was your kidney donor. When your cat Mew-Mew died, I didn’t lift a finger to help you replace him. I hated Mew-Mew. In fact, I hate cats in general and always hoped that Mew-Mew was in the driveway when I backed out my car. I have no merit. I don’t deserve that beautiful golden brown Turkey limb. Give me the wing! Keep the drumstick for Little Timmy. He is so much more deserving than I. He should have the drumstick and a pile of white meat too. I really don’t want, or deserve, it.

But, on the outside chance, with the odds 100-1, if you can summon the rhetorical power of Abraham Lincoln, and the forgiveness of Jesus Christ, the compassion of Mahatma Ghandi, and the insight of Albert Einstein, and the moral compass of Plato, and try t persuade me, I may bend my beliefs and allow myself to accept the drumstick, eat the drumstick, and feel blessed.

POSTSCRIPT

His mother nodded her head. He grabbed the drumstick and ate it like it was his last meal. Everybody at the table thought he was a puffed-up self-absorbed jerk. His “Drumstick Acceptance Speech” went on so long that the mashed potatoes got cold.

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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Acervatio

Posted on May 8, 2026 | Leave a comment

Acervatio (ak-er-va’-ti-o): Latin term Quintilian employs for both asyndeton (acervatio dissoluta: a loose heap) and polysyndeton (acervatio iuncta:a conjoined heap).

Time, lawyers, karma, dead bluebirds, and pianos, and chainsaws, and fake Botox, stalking, and revenge. I was out on a ledge holding on with my fingernails, ready to plunge to the end. The end, fini, smoosh. I had so many problems, this was probably the best thing that could happen to me. It seemed wherever I went bad things followed me—beyond my control and beyond my dreams. In fact, I didn’t have dreams, either as waking hopes, or nighttime hallucinations. When I slept it was like I was dead, and during the day, my hopes and dreams had been trampled. It was over a decade ago that they were flattened like a cheese pizza. I never recovered. I still love her. They call my continuing interest “harassment”—if love is harassment, so be it. I disguise myself with costumes so she won’t recognize me when I follow her—what I call “Taking a walk together.” It helps Mr cope.

Yesterday I dressed up as John Wayne, the famous movie actor cowboy. We ended up at a restaurant where she was having lunch with her lawyer. If all goes well, he’ll mysteriously disappear like the last four. I invite them to meet me for a consultation down by the river. Then, I shoot them and roll them in. It’s a wonder that nobody suspects me, especially since their bodies have surfaced downriver and they were working with my former girlfriend to have me jailed for leaving dead bluebirds on her porch, sawing up her piano with a chainsaw, and sabotaging her Botox treatment with maple syrup.

But, related to the disguise, I follow the rules of “Stealth Interdiction” that I learned in CIA school’s advanced coursework in preparation for a clandestine operation in Mexico. My job was the destruction of piñata factories throughout the country. I was the leader of a group of Mexican malcontents of German ancestry who wanted to “Rip the heart out of Hispanic traditions” and make Mexico great again. They believed that piñatas are the most effective instruments for the advancement of Hispanic culture, eclipsing Teutonic culture—cancelling out lederhosen, oompah bands, precision marching, Snitzel, pretzels, etc.

We burned down four piñata factories before I was extracted on a bus to Tijuana, where I crossed the border back into the United States. I had hidden a captured Donald Trump piñata in my luggage. It was discovered by customs. They reported me and I was fired for “Possessing an effigy insulting to the shining light of our revered and godlike leader.” I was sentenced to one month in prison. That’s where I met my girlfriend. She was a volunteer with the “Conjugal Visit Corps” an organization providing “relief” to nonviolent prisoners. We bonded in the trailer in our one-hour together. We stayed in touch.

When I got out of prison, everything went wrong. We moved in together. She wouldn’t cook, clean house, wash the car, change lightbulbs, do the laundry, or mow the lawn. She was a loser, and her refusal to treat me like a real man stoked my ire to an inferno. I left her and started harassing her, pursuing a path of righteous retribution for the sake of my broken soul and wrongly wronged men everywhere. But, I still love her in my own special way.

My next harassment gambit will be stealing tomatoes from her stupid little garden.

POSTSCRIT

He let go of the ledge. It was a five foot drop to the ground. He sprained his ankle. He called her and begged her to help him while he recovered. She agreed on one condition: that she could beat him over the head with a baseball bat. He agreed on the condition that she use a whiffle ball bat. Out of frustration, she shot him five times instead. She still imagines he’s following her.

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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Acoloutha

Posted on May 7, 2026 | Leave a comment

Acoloutha: The substitution of reciprocal words; that is, replacing one word with another whose meaning is close enough to the former that the former could, in its turn, be a substitute for the latter. This term is best understood in relationship to its opposite, anacolutha.

I wanted to be normal. That was the only thing normal about me. I tried to hide my weirdness by wearing skinny Levi’s, Birkenstocks, and t-shirts with slogans on them like “I eat my Spinach,” “I Floss,” and “Can I look in your window?” The t-shirts were white with black block lettering. I only had three, so I had to do my laundry twice a week. I didn’t mind. I would do anything to fit in. Well, actually, anything I was able to do.

I had certain “issues” that were out of my control too. One, was eating boogers. If I didn’t have at least twenty boogers a day I got homicidal. The proof is that there are two Jehovah’s Witnesses buried in my back yard. I took care of them with a kitchen knife. It could’ve been hard killing two people at once, but they wanted to go to heaven together, so it was easy,

I am so lucky that my mother works as a cosmetician in a funeral home. She picks boogers from the dead people and collects them for me. She packs them in a Tupperware container for my school lunch. She sprinkles then on my PBJ sandwich and nobody’s the wiser. I get my daily dose and I feel normal. It’s gross, but I don’t want to kill anybody ever again.

I know my mother won’t be around forever, so I’m preparing to be a mortician too so I can pick boogers on my own. I’ve decided to use a Coke spoon to scoop out the boogers and then put them in a baggie and take them home, or just eat them nostril-fresh from the cadavers. I’ll figure that out when I come to it.

My other problem was “Blurter’s Syndrome” (BS). BS is a speech problem where you say whatever is on your mind—you have no filter. I discovered I had it when we were discussing the “Gettysburg Address” and I raised my hand. My teacher called on me and I said “Let’s fu*k baby.” I was suspended from school for one week. My mother and I discovered that if I was drunk, my thought process narrowed and controlled my Blurter’s Syndrome. The only problem was I would be drunk in school. Mom loaded me up with breath mints and gin in a water bottle and told me never to raise my hand. But the breath mints didn’t work. My teacher smelled alcohol on my breath and sent me to the principal’s office. I was suspended for a week. Then, my mom found the solution. My mom found these things called “ball gags” on the internet. I started wearing one. It was a godsend. It controlled my Blurter’s Syndrome. People looked at me, mostly with repulsion, but I also met a few women who liked to restrain me on a table in their basements, or hanging from the wall. It was richly rewarding. I was humbled and I’m grateful that mom found my ball gag on the internet.

With Mother’s Day looming, I want to let mom know how appreciative I am for the boogers and the ball gag. She’s wanted to kill dad for a number of years. So, I will be giving her a Smith & Wesson so she can realize her dream. I will be hiring 2 men from “Forensics-Be-Gone” to clean up after the shooting, run dad through a wood chipper, bag him up, and dump him to the fish.

We do not have to be victims of our genes. Together with people we revere and who revere us, we can bypass our defects with innovative measures borne by the harmonious beating of our hearts. I love you mom!

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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Acrostic

Posted on May 6, 2026 | Leave a comment

Acrostic: When the first letters of successive lines are arranged either in alphabetical order (= abecedarian) or in such a way as to spell a word.

P ink

A ngora

R amakin

K iller

His insanity overflowed like a defective pipe in a public park’s restroom, spewing its steaming lethal thoughts on the floor and walls. One minute, he claimed to be a German Shepard, another minute he claimed to be Jesus Christ. I read about him in the newspaper. He was my role modei: “Stammering Bill.”

My nanny had knitted me a pink angora ramekin and fireproofed it, soaking it for a week in “Fire Gone.” It smelled like chemicals, but I was able to cook scalloped potatoes and macaroni and cheese in it. It was stretchy too. I was able to wear it on my head as a sort of beanie/watch cap: a pink angora ramekin headpiece.

When I put it on I got urges—inappropriate urges. I would go to the park and expose myself to picnicking families. With my hat on, on I felt like it was harmless fun. But it wasn’t. I was chased and beaten several times.

I built a shrine for my hat. I got down on my knees and prayed to my hat to make me attractive to women and kind when I wore it. My hat levitated and spun around. I took that to mean my prayers were answered. I put on my hat and headed for the park.

By the time I got to the park, there were 10 women following me begging for my “favors.” They all wanted to have my child. I tore off my hat and they all looked like they had just awakened from a trance.

I went home and put my hat back on. My new-found kindness struck. I put the contents of my home out on the lawn with a big “Free” sign by the sidewalk. My worldly goods were gone in 20 minutes. I took off my hat and I felt like the biggest fool whoever lived.

I still had my shrine. I needed to fix things. I placed my hat on the shrine and prayed “please hat, make me uncaring and selfish so I can’t be hurt.” My hat levitated and spun around. I put it back on and a dagger appeared in my hand. I had a strong desire to kill my neighbor Ed. I rang his doorbell and stabbed him in the chest several times when he opened the door. He was dead. I killed him for no reason and felt really good about it. I had become a serial killer. I’ve been one ever since.

My hat fell off in a struggle to kill an old lady once, but I kept on going. I’ve decided there’s more to me being a serial killer than my hat. I don’t need it as a motivational prop any more. Being self-directed means the world to me. Now I know why I’ve always admired Stammering Bill. But I mustn’t forget my grandma for my pink angora ramekin. It got me started to where I am today.

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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Adage

Posted on May 5, 2026 | Leave a comment

Adage (ad’-age): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings, or traditional expressions of conventional wisdom.

“You are the wings beneath my weed.” This was my entry in the international Adage Contest. The “best” adage won $10,000 and and an all-expenses paid trip to the Holy Land, the home of pithy sayings, many of which were published in the Bible in the book of Proverbs.

The Proverbs’ True Author was recently discovered by researchers at the “We Dig It Institute of Archeology.” The school was founded by a wealthy narcissist who was obsessed with finding the one rumored saying that could grant him eternal life, when spoken from behind the wheel of a 1968 Jaguar speeding toward OK New Jersey—an abandoned town in the middle of the Pine Barrens.

The millionaire benefactor called himself SG, short for “Stable Genius.” He was a narcissist, and like all narcissists he believed he was the samarest man alive. Since the trove of sayings had been discovered by his archeologists, SG had driven to Ok, New Jersey in his Jag reciting 100s of different adages. As far as he could tell, so far, no eternal life.

SG’s archeologists hadn’t really found any sayings, but to keep their jobs, they made up a saying every day and emailed it to SG. The ruse worked perfectly. Every day, SG would get in his Jag, put on “The Ride of the Valkyries” and take off at 80 MPH down the Jersey Turnpike, getting off at Exit 4.

The archeologists weren’t very creative: “A dog without a bone is like an actor out on loan,” “Life is like the toilet paper stuck to my shoe,” “Gin will make you win,” “Don’t trust a puddle,” “ When the goose honks, it’s time to fly south,” “If it looks like a pig and oinks like a pig, it could be your mother.”

SG caught on to the ruse. It was the pig-mother saying that did it. It was an insult, not a wise saying. Moreover, his mother was obese and has a breathing problem that sounded like she was oinking when she breathed. The parallel in the saying to his mother was no accident—he was being taken for a fool.

He got on his jet at Teterboro Airport and headed for the Holy Land. He found his six archeologists sitting in a circle in an ancient tomb sharing a hookah loaded with Jerusalem Gold. SG yelled “You’re all unemployed.” His minder gave each of them a one-hundred dollar bill and a plane ticket back to Newark. They were so grateful they cried. They were all killed by “militants” at Aleppo International Airport.

When SG read the report, he thought of the adage: “What the fu*k?”

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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Adianoeta

Posted on May 4, 2026 | Leave a comment

Adianoeta: An expression that, in addition to an obvious meaning, carries a second, subtle meaning (often at variance with the ostensible meaning).

Her face was sheer, hard, immobile, and beautiful just like it.

The earthquake was hardly perceptible, but I could feel its vibration in my rope. I was hanging 300 feet above the “Lord’s Face Climbing Park” parking lot. The sheer face had been “discovered” by the Reverend Robert Jones in 1856. Hence, the religious name. As he stood there he was inspired by Jesus to push his wife off the cliff. He was going to tell the authorities that the Lord inspired her to jump. He pushed her. As she was plunging to her death, she ended up sitting on a tree root protruding from the cliff’s face, which broke her fall and saved her life. Like most women in the 19th century, she carried a small-caliber handgun. When Rev. Jones leaned over the cliff to have a look at her, she emptied the handgun in his direction. One of the bullets struck Rev. Jones in the shoulder. He recoiled in panic and panicked and ran away.

He became weak due to loss of blood and laid down on the forest floor. He was bleeding to death. Suddenly, a small pack of wolves came by. They smelled the Reverend’s blood and decided to eat him. The Reverend yelled in pain and then passed out: passed out forever. He was dead and the wolves howled as they dismembered him. The next day, the police found a big spot of blood and a hand laying on the forest floor. The hand had “LOVE” tattooed on the fingers, so they knew it belonged to Reverend Jones.

His wife was jubilant to find out her husband was dead. Now, she could consummate the relationship she had with Lars, the lumberjack who had recently moved to town from Minnesota. Ever since they had met, she had been knitting him a red watch cap like Paul Bunyan’s. She fantasized seeing him standing on her bed wearing only the watch cap and flapping his arms like a chicken.

Reverend Jones was buried with his funeral hosting an open casket, displaying his hand on a red satin pillow surrounded by yellow roses and baby’s breath. The hand’s tattoo of “LOVE” on the fingers was smeared with Vaseline to make it shine.

Things have a way of working out. But not for me.

Meanwhile back on the cliff: Two of my carabiners had snapped. They were actually key rings I had bought at Cliff’s to save money. They looked like they’d work just fine. I was almost in free fall sliding down my rope. Death awaited me in a few hundred feet. Suddenly, I was sitting on a root protruding from the cliff! OMG!

There was a cloud hovering above me that said “Get out your phone and call 911.” I did as I was instructed, and soon, a cherry picker showed up. I climbed off the root and climbed into the cherry picker. I was saved!

My hair turned white and brown and then white again. My doctor told me it was because I had had the shit scared out of me. When you have the shit scared out of you, all the shit color recedes from your hair and won’t come back. Hence, my white hair. My girlfriend has become rounded, pliant, and soft. She’s not like a cliff anymore, she’s more like a warm Jacuzzi.

I’m living with it.

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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Adnominatio

Posted on May 3, 2026 | Leave a comment

Adnominatio (ad-no-mi-na’-ti-o): 1. A synonym for paronomasia[punning]. 2. A synonym for polyptoton. 3. Assigning to a proper name its literal or homophonic meaning.

I worked out day and night. I had so many muscles, I could hardly move. If I wasn’t careful I’d rip my shirt if I raised my hand in class. My name was Jimmy, but everybody called me Gymmy. The two names sounded the same and everybody knew it was Gymmy, not Jimmy, that they were calling me.

I would give muscle shows in the school cafeteria, showing off my pecs while my classmates ate their lunch. I would pose like my idol Buffy Tinkton who was the 10-time world Champion Muscle Modeler. People would cheer when I did a bicep bulge, and when I made it bounce up and down, the girls would swoon and scream and beg to touch it. I used to say when I struck a pose, “Who wants to meet my meat?” When I asked that question, some girls started to cry and fell to their knees with arms outstretched. I found out that “meat” was a figure of speech for penis. I was shocked at the number of girls who wanted to meet my penis. I made dates with all of them and started to lose my “tone” after spending too much time out of the gym. Accordingly I put an end to the “Meet my meat” frolics. There were a lot of angry girls who were separated from my meat.

I started getting threatening letters from a girl named Blade Slicer. She kept threatening me with castration if I didn’t “give her the meat.” This was insane. I was a senior in high school and my antics were wearing me down. When I should’ve had an internship, I was waving my meat around in my backyard toolshed. I was through. But Blade Slicer wouldn’t relent.

I was out in the toolshed changing the oil in my dad’s ride mower. There was a loud and rapid knocking on the door. I couldn’t imagine who it was, but I opened the door anyway. It was Miss Ball my art teacher—the word on the street was “you can have a ball with Miss Ball.” She said “I am Blade Slicer and you’re about the become Stubby Pecker.” She had a battery powered carving knife. I asked her why she was doing this and she said it was because I gave her impure thoughts and I reminded her of her brother. I thought; “That’s pretty impure.”

She fired up the meat carver and told me to “take it out and stretch it out.” I complied. It was like my meat was cowering in my pants. It was just as scared as I was. She got close to me. The meat carver was humming in my ear. I pushed her as hard as I could. She fell backward and dropped the meat carver on her foot. It cut through her flip flop and carved off her toes. She screamed. I stuffed my meat back in my pants and ran outside and called 911.

Miss Ball was taken to the hospital to have her toes sewed back on. She filed a lawsuit against the School Board. She won the suit and got a $1,000,000,000 settlement for “aggravated temptation by gym-conditioned meat in the classroom.” With the payout looming, the school cancelled its lunch program. It was sad, but nobody starved to death.

I’ve stopped working out. I’m getting spindly and I have loose skin hanging under my biceps. Somehow, Miss Ball and I have developed a friendship. When she wants to get together she texts me “let’s meet.” We both know what the means.

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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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 last 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. She also told me because of my lying about bugs up my ass she wouldn’t heed my cries for help any more. I was panic stricken. Even though she never found any bugs, spreading my ass cheeks seemed to chase them away.

But, 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 little stinging bites. I yelled again, “Bugs up my ass!” No response. My mother had been good to her word: I was a liar. I didn’t really need her help. Like the little boy who cried wolf who was eventually eaten by a wolf when he had made himself look like a bullshitter and nobody came to help him. Like the townspeople, 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 realized for the first time that having a bug up my ass was a figure of speech—it wasn’t about literal bugs!

So, I wrote this:

“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 debugging and their beds frequent making with clean comfortable sheets. With all this, the bugs up peoples’ assess would be vanquished, people would no longer be bugged, and love and good will would rule the town.”

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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