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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Prozeugma

Posted on June 8, 2026 | Leave a comment

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.

I went to the grocery store. To the place she calls home. To where the meat, the vegetables, the fruit, the bread, the canned goods, the baked goods, the dog food darken the bins and fill the shelves and coolers. To the scene of her cheating ways.

I hid behind the nut display across from the butcher counter. I heard her say, “Can you slip me some salami between my buns?” My head nearly exploded—I could feel my brain bubbling. In fact, I could hear and feel it in my spine. Then the butcher said, “Sure Mrs. Wolf, I’ll slip it right between those two buns.”

When I heard that, my brain actually exploded. It was a small explosion. So small that I survived. I was taken by ambulance to the hospital for observation. My wife came to visit me. She told me she had something for me and pulled a sandwich out of the paper bag she was carrying. It was salami on a Kaiser roll, slathered with mustard.

I gasped. With my mildly exploded brain I couldn’t think clearly, but I knew she was trying to cover up her cheating ways. I decided to confront her at the grocery store when she was making another order from the butcher. I hid behind the nut display.

She said, “You’re probably the wrong person to say this to, but I think your nuts are rather small. Let’s have a look at them.” He said, “Okay, we’ll see.” He came from behind the counter and he and my wife walked toward the nut rack where I was hiding. It was a revelation—they weren’t talking about the butcher’s nuts. She wasn’t cheating!

I held tight and they didn’t see me behind the rack. They walked back the counter and the butcher went back behind it. I bought a big can of shelled pecans and made my wife a pecan pie. She called me to tell me she was standing in the grocery store parking lot with a Red Hot wiener in her hand. A wheel had fallen off her shopping cart and it tipped over and spilled everything on the parking lot. The package of wieners had torn open and she was picking the scattered wieners up and putting them in a shopping bag. That’s when I heard the butcher say laughing, “Look here!I’ve got a wiener that’s pink and smooth—no dirt.” Did he pick it up or whip it out?

I told her I loved her and that I had a big surprise for her. It wasn’t pecan pie.

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Pysma

Posted on June 7, 2026 | Leave a comment

Pysma (pys’-ma): The asking of multiple questions successively (which would together require a complex reply). A rhetorical use of the question.

“There are more questions than answers in this life.” Sore

Sore (Valde in Latin) was a Roman philosopher who practiced his art sometime in 1 A.D. He earned his nickname from the nearly terminal case of diaper rash he had when he was 11 years old. A Soothsayer told him to stop wearing diapers and work with a professional potty trainer, and he would be cured. He followed the Soothsayer’s advice and the rash was gone, but not the nickname.

The quotation above is the only “answer” he ever gave. He held lessons during the summer months under an ancient fig tree; a representation of aged wisdom, a site of sunlight dimmed by leaves and branches giving the area beneath them a quality of gravitas and a lower temperature than the hills outside their embrace, and there were branches laden with delightful sweet fruit snacks, there for the picking & eating. Across global cultures and ancient history, the fig symbolizes “fertility, abundance, prosperity, spiritual enlightenment, and hidden wisdom. Because the flower blooms entirely out of sight inside the fruit, the fig is also a powerful metaphor for going inward and uncovering inner truths.” (Google) Our saying “Figure it out” is attributed to 16th century English fig worshippers.

The tree was located on the Palantine Hill about 100 meters down from the Lupercal, where Romulus and Remus were found by the she-wolf Lupa (Wikipedia). Sore filled his flask every day from the Lupercal, a bubbling con gasso spring. The water fizzed on his tongue and sustained him as he did what he did.

When his students had gathered under the fig tree, Sore began the lesson. Unlike other philosophers who favored dialogue, Sore favored monologue. He would rapidly ask questions nonstop for forty-five minutes, eat a fig, and leave. His rapid fire delivery of questions precluded students from answering him.

Below is a partial listing of some of Sore’s philosophically powerful questions:

What is the sound of one hand?

How many toothpicks can dance on a bald man’s head?

Where do the roots of all evil grow?

Why does the wind cry Mary?

Who put the bomp in the bomp bompa bomp?

Does reality consist of glitter and the annoyed?

Have you drunk a Piña Colada and taken a walk in the rain?

Are you experienced?

Does anybody know what time it is?

Who is John Gault?

Are you a person or a participle?

What do you like about bullhorns?

This is a partial list of questions from Lesson 413. The entire list consists of 114 questions asked in rapid sequence, leaving an unbroken strand of wonder woven into student’ heads.

One of the last places Sore’s strategy is employed is in the questioning witnesses in House and Senate hearings, where Senators and Representatives have little time to question witnesses and wait for their rambling, obfuscations. Sore’s strategy is used mainly to “go on the record” with concerns—sort of like “begging” the question to implicate witnesses in the misdeeds the questions imply. For example, “When will you stop screwing your intern?” “When will you stop stealing taxpayer dollars?” “How much did you pay Epstein to ‘meet’ underage girls?”

Good questions may take us down more, more exciting, and better slippery slopes than answers ever will. They enhance a speaker’s ethos by seeming to encourage and empower listeners to find their own answers, if they can remember the hundreds of question posed in a given discourse.

Anyway, “There are more questions than answers in this life.” Sore

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Ratiocinatio

Posted on June 6, 2026 | Leave a comment

Ratiocinatio (ra’-ti-o-cin-a’-ti-o): Reasoning (typically with oneself) by asking questions. Sometimes equivalent to anthypophora. More specifically, ratiocinatio can mean making statements, then asking the reason (ratio) for such an affirmation, then answering oneself. In this latter sense ratiocinatiois closely related to aetiologia. [As a questioning strategy, it is also related to erotima {the general term for a rhetorical question}.]

I had been working for a billionaire Canadian for ten years. I live in Toronto.

Not only is he a billionaire, but he is “slow.” His father had dropped a chainsaw on his head when he was just a little tyke. The grip handle struck him on the side of the head. The blow made him deaf in one ear and mildly addled his brain, affecting his decision-making skills, but also making him an idiot savant in two areas: 1. In minutes, he could count the number of leaves on a maple tree, 2. He became a beaver whisperer and built a real estate empire, employing beavers to erect his inventory of shopping malls, theater complexes, and three-bedroom homes.

We made a lot of money with maple leaf scam. We go to a gambling casino and find a well-heeled player. We’d get to talking while my boss stands there looking like the idiot that he is. I laugh and tell him my rich brain-damaged brother thinks he can count the number of leaves on a a maple tree. At that point my boss steps in and says “Wanna bet?” Usually the mark shows no hesitation. There were small maple trees growing by the casino, so we went outside for the “count” but not before the $5,000 bets were made. The mark picked out a tree.

My boss had a leaf-counting app on his phone. It was developed initially for landscapers to use to estimate the cost of removing leaves from customers’ properties. Anyway, after the boss said his leaf count, he’d run the phone app to see who won the bet. The app was humorously named “Leaf it to Me.” The app’s count and his count were always identical. We won the bet every time without cheating. We had always followed the seasons so he’d have maple leaves to count.

But isn’t this a kind of cheating? Not disclosing the boss’s unique ability makes it seem like the odds are stacked way in favor of the mark. But, the boss was given a special gift. He should use it. If the gift does more harm than good, though, he should probably quit using it. He should realize that his beaver building empire is netting more income than Greenland’s GNP. In addition, he could find a socially responsible use for his maple tree leaf counting genius. We couldn’t find one, but the boss was still compelled to count leaves—he would become homicidal if he couldn’t count for one month. We took that into account. If he abstained he would eventually kill somebody. We started down the road of the lesser of two evils: Cheat or murder?

Eventually, we came up with a solution we would give the marks their bets back. We rejoiced and the boss made us his special barbecued beaver tail with potato salad and baked beans.

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Repotia

Posted on June 5, 2026 | Leave a comment

Repotia (re-po’-ti-a): 1. The repetition of a phrase with slight differences in style, diction, tone, etc. 2. A discourse celebrating a wedding feast.

Time was running out. Actually time was dripping out. The water clock on my mantel was slightly clogged, keeping it from pouring down the time-drain. In about 160 drips, I was going to get married. I was about to become a “forever man.” My wild days had hit a brick wall when in met Chlarine. She was at the mall giving out free cheese samples on toothpicks. The toothpicks were sharp and she stuck me in the butt with a skewered piece of aged cheddar. She giggled and said, “It’s made in New York like a bunch of other great things—mostly tall buildings on Manhattan Island. I’m here to please with cubes of cheese: cheddar, Swiss, Brie, Camembert, Blue, Gorgonzola, and Never-Never Land.

I’d never heard of Never-Never Land cheese before. I associated Never-Never Land with Peter Pan’s island.

I ate a cube and sat by the mall’s fountain. I felt like my perception of reality was being run through a painless blender. It was being mixed up. I felt myself diminishing. I was like a puddle evaporating in the sun. Then, I disappeared. I reappeared wearing a tuxedo checking the time in my living room. Chlarine called me to make sure everything was set for our wedding. I assured her it was. I looked at the calendar hanging in the kitchen and noted that a year had elapsed since I had eaten the cheese. The year was a blank to me, but I wasn’t going to let that slow me down! I loved Chlarine. I couldn’t wait to be pronounced “husband and wife.”

Everything went well. At the reception feast, I gave this speech:

“Dogs run free why not we?” The great poet songwriter sang Bob Dylan this, strumming his guitar and blowing on a harmonica. It is a rhetorical question, but I’ll answer it anyway—I’ve always been something of a misbehaviorist.

We don’t run free because we have relationships with other people, unlike packs of dogs, we maintain our unique identities. They’re based on our unique trajectories through life. These trajectories differ from everybody else’s’s and pose the prospect of conflict. In marriage, it’s even worse than friendship. You’re locked in legal cage that is costly to be freed from. The key can cost you everything. So, you stay.

But, you discover that marriage is like aged cheddar. It gets better with time.

I look forward to the vexations of time, when Chlarine pokes me in the butt with a toothpick, letting the good times roll in our king-sized bed.

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Restrictio

Posted on June 4, 2026 | Leave a comment

Restrictio (re-strik’-ti-o): Making an exception to a previously made statement. Restricting or limiting what has already been said.

“You think life is a basket of cherries sweetly beating under your chests.” That’s what my Creative Writing teacher told us on the first day of class. I was high on weed so it made total sense. She was trying to tell us not to put all our eggs into basket metaphors or the chickens will come home roost and we’ll have egg on our faces and weird names like “Rhode Island Red,” “Leg Horn,” or “Bantam.”

I disagreed wildly with my own interpretation. This happened when I tried to reason with myself on weed. I would revise my thoughts six or seven times and then give up and take another hit. My introduction of chickens had steered my interpretation erroneously toward what I called “The fog of bore.” In the fog, I would bump into words as if I was sleepwalking. I would utter them, intending to induce comfort and joy. Instead, they induced snoring and drool.

My teacher continued, “I will cure you of your dependence on a thesaurus and a dictionary for inspiration and meaning. You must stand in the shade waiting for Goddo—waiting for that special synapse that will give voice to your creative thoughts—without the protheses of coffee, acid, or shrooms. Alcohol and weed are all you need to unlock your doors of conception and stumble into the light, clutching your laptops, ready to write. Welcome to Lemongrass College, Creative Writing 190. I am your instructress Dr. “Hot May” Maloney. You may address me as “Dr. Hot.” Let’s get started. Hold up the Voodoo dolls you were given by my assistant Barbie as you entered the classroom.”

I was so fu*ked up that most of what Dr. Hot had to say was deeply inspirational. Oh, but wait, I wasn’t so fu*cked up that I couldn’t tell Dr. Hot that I was inspired, inspired to tell her she should forget about the “doors of conception” and dive into the Blue Lagoon of Love Undone, instead—the giant hot tub in Iceland—where failed writers go to drown. But, when they hit the water they temporarily turn into different colored floaty noodles, bobbing blissfully in the steaming blue water. After five minutes of finding their bliss, they all transform back into humans and go home to be mathematicians and lumberjack’s wives.

I could see that Dr. Hot was heating. Sweat ran down her forehead and wet circles were appearing under her arms. Her hands were trembling. She looked at me with her beautiful blue eyes—I could actually feel her gaze kissing my lips. She said: “Class dismissed. Mr. Kent, meet me in the back seat of my car in Parking Lot B at 7:00pm. It is a Delorean with California license plate “WOKE 69.”

I brought my iPad and some of my best weed.

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Sarcasmus

Posted on June 3, 2026 | Leave a comment

Sarcasmus (sar’kaz’-mus): Use of mockery, verbal taunts, or bitter irony.

I love you more than a carrot up my ass. I love you more than snake shit. I love you less than God and Country. I love you more than a peanut butter and sardine sandwich, but less than my bicycle Lily. She’s built to last. She is 35 years old and she’s hard as a rock. You’re 25 and you’re soft as a slug. Your hair looks like a wet mop peppered with grit from a garage floor. Your nose looks like a sawed-off hot dog. Your hands look like giant fly swatters with fingers. Why do you keep showing up?

I was really letting it rip. I was standing naked in front of my motel room’s dressing mirror. I was talking to myself. As usual, I berated myself. Every once in a while, I would throw something positive in for variety’s sake, but 99% of what I said was nasty, brutish and short—like Hobbes the big-time asshole philosopher said. In my “Odes on a Motel Mirror,” I hit all three notes: my insults are nasty, my demeanor is brutish, and I am barely five feet tall. I have a custom t-shirt that says “I’m Nasty, Brutish, and Short” on it for the whole world to see.

Suddenly, there was pounding on my motel room’s door. My so-called girlfriend Dirty Laura (aka Di) yelled, “Let me in Shorty, you nasty brute.” It was time for our monthly tryst. It went the same ay every month. I’d begin by insulting Di with a recent quote from my podcast “You Suck!” This month I used “You’re no better than jock itch.” It was nasty. Then, Di would wash my mouth out with soap for a full five minutes. After that, I would run around the room foaming at the mouth with soap suds—like a rabid dog. Di would yell “Bad dog!” and I would try to hump her leg. She would push me away and yell “Lay down on the bed you filthy mutt! Roll over! Beg!” Then, we would have sex while we repeatedly yelled out two passages from Paul’s Epistles: “Who will render to every man according to his deeds? As it is written, There is none righteous, no, not one!” Di She is the daughter of a Methodist preacher and insisted on integrating religion into our sexual activities. After all was said and done, Di left and went home. I stood in front of the mirror again, alone. I continued berating my self until I went to bed at 11:00.

I am ready for a change. I need to something about my self-image. Accordingly, I’m enrolling in the Trump Self-Esteem Academy. The brochure promises that after two weeks of “zooming with confident Don” I will become a “total narcissist.”

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Scesis Onomaton

Posted on June 2, 2026 | Leave a comment

Scesis Onomaton (ske’-sis-o-no’-ma-ton): 1. A sentence constructed only of nouns and adjectives (typically in a regular pattern). 2. A series of successive, synonymous expressions.

“Dog, cat, cow, dynamite, turkey.” I didn’t know what else to tell the jury. My attorney said, “See! It is just like I said, He’s selling bananas. He’s nolo logo. He’s grinding beef. He’s so far around the bend that he’ll never find his way back. In short, esteemed members of the Jury, he’s nuts, bonkers, Bozo, and that’s just the short list. Today, I intend to prove that he has lost his marbles, that he is a certified lunar module that will be found not guilty of murder by reason of insanity.”

My attorney was the best. Sam “The Sham” Budweiser had an international reputation. He had gotten war criminals off the hook at the ICJ (International Court of Justice). One of them was a warlord (Miklo Mocklavit) who forced defeated townspeople to watch him juggle their loved one’s severed heads while he danced on their national flag to the tune of Talking Heads’ “Psycho Killer.” If he dropped a head, one of his minions would run outside and get another one off the pile, and throw it to Mocklavit. He would not stop juggling, but would catch the head, add it to the other three heads, and keep on juggling.

In his trial, “The Sham” pointed out that Mocklavit was not read his rights when was arrested in Cambodia. The ICJ had to let him go. Now, Mocklavit’s in Africa spreading the Ebola virus with hijacked wind turbines—blowing the disease across Congo and demanding a ransom to stop doing it. There’s more to the story, but suffice it to say Miklo Mocklavit is truly evil. No moral compass gives him direction as he trample the true, the good, and the beautiful wherever he goes.

I’m not as evil as Mocklavit, but the newspapers say I’m “shockingly evil.” “Shockingly evil” is pretty darned evil. I think I’m playing in Mocklavit’s league. I was a so-called “serial killer.” I was called “Driller Killer.” I would capture people walking late at night, drug them, and drill them to death in the forehead with the brace and bit that I had inherited from grandfather. I used a one-inch auger to bore a nice clean hole. I would mount different things in the holes I drilled. For Eva mole, and a door knob, an organic carrot, an American Flag, and an empty toilet paper roll. My favorite was the red-blinking flashlight. I’d turn it on and shove it in. It lit up the bushes with its flashing light, giving them a tone of emergency that attracted attention. I always got away and never got caught. Until. . . .

I was caught red-handed when I was drilling Father Jehovah, who I had drugged down by the river. I had barely gotten my auger going, when the cops came, guns drawn, pointed at me. Father Jehovah was old and wore one of those things around his neck that transmits the message “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” It broadcast loudly out of the device, and also, directly to 911. It was GPS equipped and could track the message’s geographic location. End of story. I was screwed. I was caught.

“The Sham” said that I didn’t even need an attorney to prove that insanity played the central role in my 42 murders. I hired him anyway because I was too shy to represent myself. We won our case and I was remanded to the eponymous “Scarecrow Federal Penitentiary for the Criminally Insane.” Scarecrow was one of Batman’s many nemeses. His desire to inflict “pure fear” is a key personality trait for a penitentiary’s naming. But really, that’s not what it’s like. There is no fear. We all live in a medication-induced la-la land drooling and twitching and waiting for the next meal.

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Sententia

Posted on June 1, 2026 | Leave a comment

Sententia (sen-ten’-ti-a): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegem, gnome, maxim, paroemia, and proverb.

Every night, when she tucked me in Ma said, “He who wrangles clouds gets rained on,” and then she’d read me “Why Was the Rancher Jolly?” or “Grandma is Stranger Than Fiction.”

She repeated this bedtime ritual over, and over, and over. I asked her countless times what the saying meant and she told me she didn’t know, but a smart man said it. Ok, I thought. When I asked her who the “smart man was,” she shrugged her shoulders. When I asked her why she said it to me every night, I got the shoulder shrug again. I asked her how I could use it to make me wise. She told me, “When you get older, you ‘ll know.” “Thanks Ma,” I said sarcastically. This was my life until I went off to college. It was odd that my mother tucked me in, read me the same bedtime stories over and over, and recited the saying until I was 17. I didn’t care. I had tuned out the entire ritual when I was around 14. I had a counter-saying that I would repeat over and over in my head to drown everything out. It was “Two things are certain: Death and Taxes.” I could get my head around that. I liked it. It wasn’t all hoity-toity. There was no mystery. It was humorous too. I think it preserved my sanity.

When I hopped on the bus to College Town and was waving goodbye out the window, my mother yelled “He who wrangles clouds gets rained on!” It was ironic that it was raining and that I got rained on boarding the bus. I thought it might be some kind omen, but I was unaware of any “cloud wrangling” that I had done. But, the saying had inspired me to study meteorology and become a weatherman. I guess some good had come from Ma’s saying. She had given me a pointer when we got to the bus station. It was collapsible and could be used to point out things on the screen when I reported on the weather. She didn’t know that was done with a mouse in the 21st century. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings so I didn’t “point” that out to her. Ha ha!

I graduated at the bottom of my class after five years. I had some “issues” that had slowed me down, but that didn’t stop me from getting my dream job at Channel 227 as one of the weather people. I changed my name to Stormy Wrangler and wore very tight pants with my shirt unbuttoned four buttons down, and a golden cloud emitting a lightning bolt hanging on a golden chain around my neck. I was hot.

I began every weather broadcast with Ma’s saying “ He who wrangles clouds gets rained on.” I would bow my head and hold a burning candle. I was very solemn. Then, I would raise my head and smile, blow out the candle and say “Two things are certain: death and weather. Let’s get started with the snow—whoops I meant show.” Then I would say something like, “It looks like we’re not going to die, but there’s a warm front headed our way again from Mexico.”

Now I have a fan base of 2,000,000 viewers. It all reminds me of a saying attributed to the Greek philosopher Skeptikus Pathetikus: “You never know.”

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Simile

Posted on May 31, 2026 | Leave a comment

Simile (si’-mi-lee): An explicit comparison, often (but not necessarily) employing “like” or “as.”

We called him “Van.” He thought he was a Chevy van. In fact, most of the time he made revving sounds like an engine. He’d downshift when he was slowing down like his body had four-on-the-floor. He bathed at the car wash. He slept in his parents’ garage like a proper van. Sometimes, he’d go to the drag races and compete in the quarter-mile. He’d rev up and make peeling-out sounds when the light turned green. Then, he’d just stand there and walk away when his competitor crossed the finish line. His antics were a major attraction, so “Raceway Park” let him do his thing. Sometimes he was an ATV. Once he was a tank! He clanked around the mall parking lot, firing his 105 mm gun at the parked cars. But mostly, he was a van.

One time he couldn’t get started. It was a cold morning and he was standing in his driveway making a sound like a battery without enough juice to get him started: “Rrrrruhrrr.” He asked me to go into his garage and get the jumper cables hanging by the door. He told me to clamp them on his hands—red on the left, black on the right. I followed his instructions. The sharp teeth on the clamps sunk into his hands like he was being bitten by some kind of metal predator. His hands were bleeding and he still couldn’t get started. “Take ‘em off,” My battery’s totally dead. I need a new battery.” He pulled an AAA battery out of his pocket with his bloody hand. He said, “We’ll need some lube and my needle-nosed pliers.”

He couldn’t move, so he told me to go and get the pliers out of the toolbox in the garage and the lube from his parents’ bedroom—from the top drawer in the nightstand on the right hand side of their bed. This was like some kind of science fiction movie—maybe titled “Battery Boy: The Kid Who Ran On AAAs.”

Suddenly, fear and disgust washed over me like a polluted river!

Pliers? Lube? He was going to ask me to pull a AAA out of his ass and replace it with a new one. I could play along with just about anything, but not this! No way was I going battery diving up his ass with a pair of pliers.

When I got back outside I handed him the lube and pliers and said “You’re like some kind of perverted psychopath, buddy. You can stick both of these up your ass yourself!” He started to sniffle and I heard laughter coming from the shrubs in front of the house. Gordon “Sting” Brookfield stepped out from behind a rhododendron doubled over with laughter. In fact, he had wet his pants like a toddler. He was called “Sting” because he set people up to be suckered into doing bizarre things. Some, they regret for the rest of their lives. Like the time he told a kid if he poured ammonia on his head it would attract the tooth fairy and he would get rich. The kid ended up in the Emergency Room and almost went blind. He had set me up with Van. Sting thought it was funny, but he had not totally succeeded.

Fu*k him, I was already thinking of my comeback. Sting loved splashing barefoot in puddles after it rained. There was an especially big puddle he favored. After a downpour, it was like a little pond in front of my house. He loved splashing in it.

After the next rain storm, I would fill it with broken glass.

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Skotison

Posted on May 30, 2026 | Leave a comment

Skotison (sko’-ti-son): Purposeful obscurity.

I was going for all the right reasons. I could could not do otherwise. I had to go. I grabbed a spray can and sprayed. They crashed to the floor. I put my head down and ran for the door. They grouped in front me blocking my way. I called 911, but all I heard was a whining sound—like a high pitched squeal. Then, Lt. Brockwart broke through. “What have you done now jingle-bell brain? Spagworth, you are a blot on the human race, not to mention the entire universe. I . . .” The whiny sounds increased. I could hear Lt. Brockwart alternately laughing and choking.

I wondered how he came to the conclusion that I have a “jingle-bell brain.” I envisioned my brain “dashing through the snow, riding in an open cranium, Ho, Ho Ho,laughing all the way.”What was wrong with that? I was starting to think that Lt. Brockwart did not like me. There may be a few things in the past that I did that irked him. But, they were no big deal—he is a pimple on my ass. The things I did wouldn’t even be noticed by a truckload of blue-haired nuns. Ask him if you want to know what they are. But suffice it to say, they’re like grains of sand in the grand scheme of things.

Lt. Bozonuts walked out of CVS completely intact. The girl behind the counter had been tickling him and he had choked on the cupcake he was eating (that he had “picked up” at the high school swim team’s fundraiser). I sprayed him like I had sprayed them and all was well. The spray made him sticky. The wind kicked up and litter in the parking lot stuck to him as the wind blew it in his direction. He had an empty pack of Marlboro 27s stuck to his forehead, and a used condom stuck to his cheek dripping on his shirt. Although it was totally disgusting, I couldn’t help laughing.

I hated his guts.

He has constructed the entire police force as a permanent SWAT team. All the cops wear helmets and Kevlar every day, all the time. They all carry MAC-10’s all the time, along with two canisters of bear repellant, 9mm Berettas, and Kershhaw OTF automatic knives. They wear fancy black tactical pants, black jackets, black hats, and black steel-toed Justin Ropers. With all that gear, all they do is write fu*king parking tickets. What a joke!

Some of them are assigned motorcycles—black and white Harleys. Our town’s Main Street is about two football fields long, they patrol it all day and all night, making a racket and taking turns and going up and down the street every 15 minutes. The foot patrols were pretty much the same. Lt. Brockwart called it a deterrent. A deterrent? A deterrent to what? Common sense? Everybody called the police force a joke. I called it a trigger—it kicked in my PTSD.

I had learned coping mechanisms and they helped a little bit. But always lurking under the surface were memories of being attacked by the motorcycle gang “Death’s Door” and the nonexistent rescue attempt by the police who conveniently took their coffee and donut break just as Death’s Door was closing in on me. They said they’d be right back, but that was a lie. They never came back. I was found two days later in a ditch on FM 26. We don’t need to talk about what I had done to deserve the beating, but suffice it to say it was worse than shady.

I’m going to run for Mayor so, among other things, I can turn the police force into a police force. I will put Brockwart in charge of watering the plant baskets hanging from the town’s light poles on Main Street, and also, checking them for vandalism or if they’re being used as undercover marajuana planters. In winter, he’ll guard the town Christmas tree, and also, supervise snow removal from the police station’s sidewalk and parking lot, also, work as crossing guard holding the rank of private.

The rest of the police force will get a new wardrobe.

Wish me luck!

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Syllepsis

Posted on May 29, 2026 | Leave a comment

Syllepsis (sil-lep’-sis): When a single word that governs or modifies two or more others must be understood differently with respect to each of those words. A combination of grammatical parallelism and semantic incongruity, often with a witty or comical effect. Not to be confused with zeugma: [a general term describing when one part of speech {most often the main verb, but sometimes a noun} governs two or more other parts of a sentence {often in a series}].

My house was cold and so was my heart. It was winter. It was four below zero and I had that urge again—that cruel ruthless urge that consumed me when the temperature dropped below 1 degree. I could make the house warm again almost instantly and get rid of my pain in the ass family at the same time. Gasoline and a BIC lighter were the key ingredients in my diabolical desire.

I stopped taking my lithium one week ago. I do that every six months or so. Every time, before I can “warm things up” my wife calls 911 and I’m put under observation at Manson Memorial. The dose me up with a fresh round of lithium, and then, they turn me loose, a changed man. Appropriately dosed with lithium, I’m “John Boy”—the nicest guy in town—he loves his wife, he loves his kids, he goes to church every Sunday. He tells the funniest jokes in town, and he sings like Dean Martin. Where would Long Point, Ohio be without me? Safer.

Little do they know that “John Boy” is chemically induced and available be prescription only. At the alpha and omega of my being I am a lilt and a dirge. Today tiptoeing through the tulips, tomorrow soaking them with gasoline and sending them up in flames.

I went out to the garage to get the gas can. I had filled yesterday afternoon. I could feel the urge for instant heat. Working at the bank wasn’t enough. Watching “Fox News” wasn’t enough. Only smoke, flames and my family’s screams could satisfy my craving. I couldn’t name my craving, but I didn’t care! I didn’t give a shit! Maybe I was looking for fame as “The Monster Who Fried His Family,” or “Mental Patient Torches Family For Instant Heat. ” Front page news. History made.

I splashed gasoline all over the living room floor, soaking the carpet. I reached in my pocket for the BIC and it wasn’t there. I quietly looked all over the house. Damn! I’d have to go to Cliff’s and buy one. It was 2:00 am, but they were open around the clock. I went to Cliff’s bought a red BIC, a Red Bull, and a box of Smith Brothers cherry-flavored cough drops. All red. Ha ha! I couldn’t wait to get back home.

When I got back home I was greeted by three police cars with flashing lights, a fire truck and my wife on the lawn in her bathrobe yelling “That’s him!” But it wasn’t me. It was non-medicated Maniac Man. Ha ha! They handcuffed me and took me to Manson Memorial, where I would be re-drugged and counseled until I was “good old” John Boy again.

When I got back home we returned to our normal daily rituals. My favorite was leaving the bedroom doors open at night and yelling “Good night” to each other: “Good night Ma. Good night Mary. Good night Joseph.” They replied one by one, “Good night John Boy.”

My only regret regarding my latest “episode” is that I didn’t buy a lotto ticket at Cliff’s. I love the “Take Five” scratch offs.

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Symploce

Posted on May 28, 2026 | Leave a comment

Symploce (sim’-plo-see or sim’-plo-kee): The combination of anaphora and epistrophe: beginning a series of lines, clauses, or sentences with the same word or phrase while simultaneously repeating a different word or phrase at the end of each element in this series.

I was expecting a catastrophe. I was destined for a catastrophe. Catastrophe is my middle name. So are “Dead Meat” and “Blown Away.” Moros, the Greek God of doom, is “with me” day and night as I wonder when He’s going to seal my fate.

My death was impending when I was born. For some reason, Moros hasn’t let Thanatos or Ker put me away yet. Maybe he’s too busy meting out doom to the victims of pandemics and wars to get around to alerting Thanatos or Ker about the little old man from New York.

Every day could be my last day. That’s the case for everybody, but they don’t think about it. For me, it’s my guiding light and sets the tone of my existence. I realize that any laugh may be my “last laugh.” I realize that every hurrah could be my last hurrah. I know that every supper could be my last supper. All my words could be my famous last words. I know what’s in store, but it is continuously delayed.

Death is like a train, taking me to Heaven or Hell, that never leaves the station. I anxiously sit there, clutching my hopes and fears, waiting—waiting for the departing lurch of the car, the trip, and my arrival at the place where I’ll spend eternity. Heaven? Hell? I won’t know until I get there. So, I wait impatiently, sometimes crying, sometimes yelling, sometimes drinking.

Every day I wallow in speculation, expecting to die. I should’ve developed an immortality complex by now. My life is stalked by narrow escapes. I have survived so many catastrophes that I should probably think I’m blessed, but I’m smarter than that—it’s Moros’s neglect that keeps me going. I was the sole survivor of an airplane crash in the Andes in 1956. I lost my parents and sister, but I survived. I was shot in the head in Saigon during the Tet Offensive in 1969, but I survived. My house burned down in 2000, killing my wife child, but I survived. Currently, I have skin cancer. Will I survive? This could be the one that gets me the hell out of here. I’ve been waiting here for 80 years. Enough is enough. If the skin cancer doesn’t take me, I’m going to give Ebola try. I need to travel more anyway.

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Synaloepha

Posted on May 27, 2026 | Leave a comment

Synaloepha (sin-a-lif’-a): Omitting one of two vowels which occur together at the end of one word and the beginning of another. A contraction of neighboring syllables. A kind of metaplasm.

Thechoes in my head wouldn’t stop. It was like I had a reverb generator embedded in my brain. Conversations got crazy. Everything said would overlap with everything else. I jokingly called my problem “Pink Floydosis” after the rock band who frequently used a reverb echo effect in their music.

People who knew me knew they needed to make a five second pause between words when they spoke to me. The five seconds let the reverb fade between words so I could understand them. This was a huge accommodation and I was extremely grateful.

I desperately wanted my impaired hearing fixed. I went to an audiologist who told me I should be happy I could hear anything at all. I shopped around and was pretty much told the same thing by all of them. So, I started seeing neurologists. I must’ve seen fifty of them. They told me they could not detect any abnormalities in my brain. Finally, I went see a neurologist who recommended a neurotologist—an ear surgeon, not an audiologist; a simple hearing tester. The neurotologist’s name was Dr. Drum and he was working with Thomas Edison’s Great, Great, Great Grandson, Watts.

They were trying to create a micro device capable of “dereverberating“ sounds. It would be implanted in the ear “just on the other side” of the eardrum. They had been experimenting by reading “Mary Had a Little Lamb” into a dummy ear with the device implanted in it. According to Watt, they were close to being successful in their trial runs. They had managed to find a way to keep the ear from catching on fire during dereverbration.

I volunteered to be their guinea pig. Two months later Dr. Drum summoned me to their laboratory for a test run of the “Devreverberater 1776.” They paid my way to Panama and picked me up at the Panama City Airport. We went directly to the laboratory they had set up in a storage shed with running water and electricity. There was an operating table set up under a bright floodlight.

I put on a white gown and laid down on the table. They prepped my left ear. We were only doing one ear in case the operation failed, so could save the other ear. I felt like an experimental rat. The anesthesia kicked in.

When I woke up, I had a giant tropical-patterned bandage on my ear—I couldn’t hear anything through it. The bandage was removed two weeks later. The reverb was gone! But there was a slight downside. Now, everybody sounded to me like they had been sucking helium. I didn’t care. The doctors operated on the other ear, and I flew back home.

Six months later a side effect emerged that nobody could’ve predicted. When I get excited, my voice becomes a helium voice! So, I’ve learned to be quiet until I calm down.

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Synecdoche

Posted on May 26, 2026 | Leave a comment

Synecdoche (si-nek’-do-kee): A whole is represented by naming one of its parts (or genus named for species), or vice versa (or species named for genus).

My collection consists of 150 blades, from switch to Boy Scout. My favorite is the Swiss larynx ripper. It shut the victim up, and killed them at the same time. Now, the Swiss only make their multi-bladed, multi-colored toys, but I’ve got them in my collection anyway.

There have been many innovative knives made over the course of history. I like the flintlock pistol with the OTF spring assisted knife under the barrel. You get one shot with the flintlock and finish up with the OTF if you have to. Then there’s the push button blade disguised as a pair of fingernail clippers. Sinister.

I also like the credit card with the sharpened edge. It passes right through airport security—if you’re crazy enough, you can use it to “make a payment” to a victim on the plane! Anybody can make one. What about you?

Right now, I’m bidding on the dagger that actually killed Cock Robin. I have it on good authority that the sparrow didn’t actually kill him with his bow and arrow. In a manuscript predating the 1754 edition of Cock Robin (and other earlier manuscripts), Cock Robin was “killed with a dagger by a rogue named Wagner.” It wasn’t a fellow bird who killed him at all. They were hard times back then—there was famine throughout the land and the peasant Wagner killed Cock Robin to feed his family. At least, that’s what the provenance of the dagger asserts. I just put in a bid for $50.00.

I named my knife collection “Cutting Edge.” It is a cutting edge collection of cutting edges. Ha ha! After I win with the dagger auction and mount the dagger under glass in my showroom, I am going to search for a Scythian “blood brother” blade—a special knife used in the ritual making of blood brothers by mingling their blood, pressing together incisions in their forefingers made by the knife. This ritual has largely died out, but it resurfaces from time to time for reasons studied by psychologists. It has been rumored that certain political factions in America require the “blood brotherhood” ritual to prove loyalty, gain membership and the right to run for office.

Well, I’m going down to the basement to my workshop to do some whitlin’ with my Wooden Boy 50. It belonged to Geppetto, and he used it to carve Pinnochio’s head. It is priceless. I’m using it to make a carving of Jeffery Epstein’s head that I’m going to burn in the fireplace at my cabin in Maine.

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Synonymia

Posted on May 25, 2026 | Leave a comment

Synonymia (si-no-ni’-mi-a): In general, the use of several synonyms together to amplify or explain a given subject or term. A kind of repetition that adds emotional force or intellectual clarity. Synonymia often occurs in parallel fashion. The Latin synonym, interpretatio, suggests the expository and rational nature of this figure, while another Greek synonym, congeries, suggests the emotive possibilities of this figure.

It was a huge, gigantic, jumbo, colossal pimple. It had popped up on my stomach. I had never heard of anybody getting a pimple on their stomach. But, there it was.

It was shaped like the famous Matterhorn located on the borders on Switzerland Italy. I had never been there, but I knew what it looked like—especially its sheer face that mountain climbers relished.

Suddenly, I could hear distant yodeling. I had a fever. I knew I was losing my mind. Then, a tiny, micro-flock of sheep ran across my stomach and disappeared in the bedsheets. I was freaking out and shaking with chills.

Then, I heard the distintive sound of the alphorn. I knew what it was from the Ricola herbal drops advertised on TV when I was a kid. Some guy in lederhosen would yell “Ricolaaa” with a Swiss accent and the guys behind him would blow their alphorns. I didn’t care. I was dying. Death by pimple was unheard of. But I was probably going to die. I was terminally stupid.

I never should’ve gulped down that Nutella, cream cheese, marshmallow, cake frosting, and maple syrup smoothy. I knew my body would react, but not like this. In retrospect, it wasn’t worth the risk—my body is sugar intolerant—worse than gluten intolerant. There was no place for sugar in my body. Abstinence, continence, self-denial sum up what should be my reaction to it. I shouldn’t even look at sugar, let alone, drink concoctions containing it.

God! Now there were micro men and women doing the Swiss hambo dance around my belly button. That did it. If I survived I swear I will never, ever, ever eat a grain of sugar again.

With that, the whole mess disappeared, although there was still yodeling coming from under my bed.

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Synthesis

Posted on May 24, 2026 | Leave a comment

Synthesis (sin’-the-sis): An apt arrangement of a composition, especially regarding the sounds of adjoining syllables and words.

My alimony payment was late again. When would I learn to do something with my paycheck aside from gambling it away on payday behind the laundromat shooting dice? I used the ritualistic chant “baby needs a new pair of shoes” when I rolled the bones, brimming with hope and meting with despair. I hardly ever made my point without crapping out. “Seven” was heaven and hell—what mattered was when you rolled it. On the first roll, you won. Anywhere else, you lost your ass. I shot craps so many times I could fill a septic tank.

I was playing against this guy “Zagger Lee” and a few of his cronies from Philly. Zagger Lee took his nickname from the Zig-Zag papers he used to roll his joints. My name is Willy. Some people say I make mountains out of molehills, but actually, I make bird houses for a living out of plastic sand buckets, like you give your kid to play with at the shore.

After Zagger Lee rolled six successive sevens, I decided the dice were loaded. I had an honest pair in my pocket and pulled them out. I offered to switch them out with Zagger Lee’s dice without saying anything about hm cheating. Zagger-Lee said, “What? You don’t trust me mother-f*ker?” He pulled my money out of my hand, and scooped up all the bets. His cronies had their gun drawn, all aimed at my head. “I guess this is quits then?” I asked sarcastically. “Fu*kin’ A,” said Zagger Lee.

I took a picture with my cellphone of him and his cronies with guns drawn. I ran like holy hell out of the alley. They chased me down the street until I turned into “Peppy’s,” a pizza place owned by my former best friend. He was called “Peppy” because he was hooked on amphetamines in high school. He was my “former friend” because my former wife was his former wife too. She had run away with me, but we had never gotten out of town. Then we had a divorce. I got jailed for burning her clothes in the driveway.

Peppy asked, “What do you want rat dick?” Just to piss him off, I told him I wanted a slice with just pineapple on it—no cheese, no ham. He swung his pizza paddle at me and his sister Squeegee pushed me out the door and kicked me in the ass and said “Let’s meet again down by the railroad tracks at 11:30. I’ll give all the pineapple you want.” I thought to myself as I flew out the door and hit the pavement, “Fu*k.” Not again. Damn.” I can’t begin to describe what we did the last time by the tracks. Suffice it to say it was “indescribable.” I rolled over and nodded, got up, and headed down the street to my ex-wife’s to make some new excuses. She lived alone in an abandoned A&W Rootbeer stand on the edge of town,

She bought it for next to nothing and fixed it up nicely with my money. As usual, she would be unhappy, even angry, to see me. I walked up to one of the outside call boxes and said “Ding-Dong Avon calling.” She said, “Ok rat dick, come in with your hands up and kiss my ass.” I followed her commands.

She was sitting in her BarcaLounger watching “Jeopardy” on her jumbo plasma screen TV that I had paid for. “What do you want Fu*k face? I want m fu*king alimony” I told her I didn’t have the alimony. She went into the kitchen and came back out holding a shish-kabob skewer. “See this? I’m gonna stick this up your ass on Main Street if you don’t pay me by Friday.” I knew she wouldn’t make good on her promise—she threw up once when she came into the bathroom and saw that I had cut myself shaving. But, people change, and I wasn’t taking any chances.

The next day I sold my car to make the payment. I was a loser. I lost at marriage and I lost at dice. What else could I lose at? Two days later I lost my watch. Now, I didn’t know what time it was and I was late for work at “Bluebird Bucket Bird Houses.” Yup. I lost my job. Mr. Bird had a zero tolerance policy for “late bastards.” So, I lost at marriage, I lost at dice, I lost my watch, and now, I lost my job.

I decided to kill myself.

I got a piece of rope and headed down to the railroad tracks. I planned on tying myself to the tracks and being run over by a train. When I got down to the tracks, I saw a suitcase in the bushes by the tracks that somebody must’ve thrown off a train. Out of curiosity, I pulled it out of the bushes and opened it. It was filled with neatly bundled $100 bills.

I wasn’t a loser any more! I was going to call my ex-wife and tell her, but I had forgotten my cellphone. Then, somebody yelled, “FBI! Stop where you are. Put the suitcase down. Put your hands behind your head. Get down on your knees!”

I was still a loser.

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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 Dad 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 full-time job. Now she works as a bus girl at Belbert’s Dog House. When people want service they yell “Hey fatso.” 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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