Homoioteleuton

Posted on February 8, 2026 | Leave a comment

Homoioteleuton (ho-mee-o-te-loot’-on): Similarity of endings of adjacent or parallel words.

“Q: What waddled and made weird sounds? A: My wife.“ I couldn’t make this up. What had attracted me to her in the place? Her face? Her grace? Forebrace? She was a sailing woman. It seemed like she loved her sails more than me. The ocean was her home. Sometimes she fished, but most of the time she was fiddling with ropes to make sails go up and down.

I suspected she was having an affair with Bilge Jackson the President of the Yacht club where my “Ducky” hung out and had a part-time time job selling nautical-themed items in the club’s gift shop. The big seller was Sperry Top Siders, non-slip deck shoes. The number two seller was a black hoodie with a drowning man imprinted on the front with the caption “Lose Him At Sea.” It was suggestive of murder. I noticed most of the club members were women and many of their husbands had been lost at sea. I thought nothing of it. I had been married to Ducky for 10 years and we never had any problems.

However, I had started teasing her about her short legs and her waddle. Sometimes, I would quack at her in the morning and ask her when her bill would be arriving. I thought I was being funny—engaging in good-natured humor.

Then one day I went sailing with her. She picked up a gaff hook and told me she was going to tear my guts out if I didn’t promise to stop teasing her. Suddenly, Bilge Jackson popped out of the cabin holding a saber and wearing an eye patch and big rubber boots. Ducky called him over to her and yelled “You’re a plague on my life you crazy fu*k!” and pushed him overboard, raised the sails, and left him in the water yelling for help.

I didn’t understand what had happened, but I was ok with it. Bilge was a total pain in the ass who constantly tried to make a move on my precious Ducky.

After the murder, our lives came together. I kept my promise to Ducky. I never teased her again. I was afraid 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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Horismus

Posted on February 7, 2026 | Leave a comment

Horismus (hor-is’-mus): Providing a clear, brief definition, especially by explaining differences between associated terms.

“Time: Passes. Not eternal or forever. Measure of temporal insistence and increments, past, present and future.” This was my definition of time. It is part Mr. Rogers and part Dr. Einstein—two of my childhood heros.

Ever since I was a little boy, I was fascinated by time. My least favorite time was “time out” when my mother made me sit in the cat’s bed, often for 30 minutes. Now that I’m grown up and two days away from serving out my 9 years in prison for armed robbery, time has taken on a whole new meaning. “Doing Time” is an interesting concept. It reminds me of “making time” with my girlfriend, so long ago. Doing time and making time are polar opposites of the net that time throws over our lives. As I get close to my release date tomorrow, I feel like time is on my side, as I take a stitch in time putting my jump suit in good order—they misplaced my clothes so I’ll have to wear my jump suit when I’m released.

Time consciousness is always on duty except when we pass out, go into a coma, or go to sleep; where we may have dreams that trick us into thinking time is present. For me, every once in a while, in dreams, I am a horse winning a race, or a chef boiling an egg, or a sack racer hopping over the finish line in third place. But, this is all an illusion, like time might actually exist. Yes! A ticking illusion, like an empty time bomb: fake, no boom.

What absolute proof do we have of time’s existence? Chronological instruments, like stopwatches, wall clocks, stopwatches, sundials, and bedside alarm clocks have increments on their faces that are traversed by what are called “hands,” ticking, humming, and in the case of sundials, coursing with the apparent movement of the sun. We have longer and shorter days and nights that are actually useless measures of the sun’s daily disappearance and return. The same goes for seasons—we actually feel them on our skin! Isn’t that enough? Yes! Summer, Winter, Fall, Spring! Call them “times of the year,” but they are actually SEASONS, not times. It is a disgraceful mischaracterization of the natural order of things. Wake up clock heads of the world!

The only reason we need time is because our overseers impose it on us. Time is money! Not our money, but their money.

But, then it happened! I’m out. I’m on the street. I completed my prison sentence. I did my time.

After succumbing to the angst my anti-time stance has caused while I was in prison, I’ve decided to give up my “chrono-rebellion.” Upon being released, I realized all this anti-time sentiment comes from my inability to be on time. It’s what got me caught robbing the Dairy Queen. I dawdled in the getaway car listening to ELO in the parking lot across the street. By the time I arrived for the robbery, my partners had started it and the police were already there. The Dairy Queen guy had called them. The cops took one look at me wearing a balaclava and arrested me. I was late to my trial. I was convicted. Off to prison I went.

No matter how hard I’ve tried, I’m always five-ten minutes late. But, now that’s going to change. I’ve become a chronophile after listening to the podcast “Time is Sublime.” It is hosted for a subscription fee by Brother Time. He shakes an hour-glass like it is maracas, making a “chugs-chuga” that sounds like a clock ticking that he accompanies with time-oriented chants. My favorite is “Tick-Tock You Are A Rock.”

I have purchased one of those military-grade watches for $12.00 advertised on Facebook. I’ve also started drinking 6 cups of coffee in the morning. Taken together, the watch and the coffee have gotten me down to an average of three minutes early!

For me, this is like amazing grace—“How sweet the sound” of my kitchen clock ticking on the wall.

I have gotten a job at “Wheelers Jewelry” replacing watch batteries. Brother Time has aligned me with “The Big Mainspring.” Now I know that time is not “a thief.” Time is a ticking Santa Claus shouldering a sack full of possibilities.

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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Hypallage

Posted on February 6, 2026 | Leave a comment

Hypallage (hy-pal’-la-ge): Shifting the application of words. Mixing the order of which words should correspond with which others. Also, sometimes, a synonym for metonymy (see Quintilian).

“Hark the angels herald sing.” I want to say “Hark the angels Harold sing.” I envision a group of angels named Harold who met each other at “Heavenly Friends,” a social connection internet site for spiritual entities. 100 angels named Harold singing “Hark the Harold angels sing” would be an amazing musical performance to witness. I envisioned God in my row at Carnegie Hall tapping his foot and bobbing his head to the music.

Well, this is just a fantasy. A wish. A hope. It stems from my damaged hearing. I am a disabled Vet. My hearing is bad and I refuse to wear my hearing aids. I don’t like how they feel riding on my ears for everybody to see. I’m almost 80 and I don’t want to be a cyborg in my twilight years. When I die, I don’t want my ear holes plugged by stupid little plastic ear buds.

My mishearing has led to insights from time to time, along with revelations that take me to a higher place, and misunderstandings that have cost me three marriages. Once, I thought wife number 2 was yelling “turnip” at me. In my usual way I said “Huh?” three or four times. She became furious, walked over to me, and threw the radio at me, fracturing my skull and requiring 80 stitches. She had been saying “Turn it up,” referring to the radio next to me on the table by the couch. I had heard “turnip.” It was a rough experience.

Then there was the time I heard “leek” instead of “meek” when Pastor Palmer was reading the Bible—the passage saying “The meek shall inherit the earth.” When I heard “leek” I was startled. Then I thought, ah ha! It’s “leak” not “leek.” I thought about all the plumbing that could go bad and flood the earth. I vowed to build an ark, like Noah’s and load it with two of everything—tires, shoes, chopsticks, socks, etc.

Suddenly, it seemed like there was an earthquake. It was my wife trying to wake me up. I had fallen asleep for most of Pastor Palmer’s sermon “Sinners in the Hands of a Masseuse.” She said “Get the fu*k up and meet me out front with the Turk.” As usual, I sad “Huh?” She yelled what sounded to me like Turk, Turk, Turk dumb ass.” I said “I don’t know any Turks.” She yelled, “Ok, give me the keys to the Turk shit for brains and I’ll meet you around front.” Ah ha! I got it when she asked for the keys—it was the truck. I went out front and waited. She came roaring around the corner and hit me straight-on with the truck. She was arrested on the spot and is now serving 10 years for attempted manslaughter.

To some extent her murderous rage was my fault. If I had worn my hearing aids all the time, none of this would have taken place and we’d be living a rage-free life together, retired in our cozy little home on a hill.

But, I had screwed up. That said, I still don’t wear my hearing aids. Every now and then, wife number 3 berates me pushing me against the wall and pounding on my chest with her fists.

I tried wearing my hearing aids for two days. It was horrible. Not only did I look like a robot, but I heard sounds that disturbed me—the rushing sound of the forced-air heat, the clicking of the door knob, my cat snoring, the toilet refilling after flushing. I ripped out my hearing aids and the dull ambience of the hearing impaired soundscape returned, comforting me. Ironically, I felt whole, but wife number three didn’t. She said “You start me going. I want to kill you!” I said “Huh?” I heard: “You tart me going. I want to krill you.” I told her what I had heard, She pulled out a gun and yelled “If you say so, I’m going to KRILL you!”

She pulled the trigger and nothing happened. She ran out the front door and I didn’t chase her.

I had done it again. I decided to give up on having a wife. Things have gone pretty smoothly ever since.

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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Hyperbaton

Posted on February 5, 2026 | Leave a comment

Hyperbaton (hy-per’-ba-ton): 1. An inversion of normal word order. A generic term for a variety of figures involving transposition, it is sometimes synonymous with anastrophe. 2. Adding a word or thought to a sentence that is already semantically complete, thus drawing emphasis to the addition.

I knew things weren’t going right—catastrophic, cataclysmic, disastrous. It made me remember a joke my uncle Earnhardt had told me: “Q; What happened when the woman was hit by a train? A: Disaster!” A brilliant pun for “dis-assed her.” Just like I did when I was nine, the joke made me laugh, but it couldn’t erase what was going on before my eyes: my 1946 Cadillac had a rust spot on the right front fender. As a collector of vintage cars, this was like a one-way street to hell.

The spot wasn’t there yesterday. It must’ve taken hold during the night. My worst nightmare was starting to unfold: a rust war. Yes, a full-blown “Rust War.” Caesar Voletick was on the rampage again. We were the two most revered car collectors in the United States. As such, you’d think we would be friends. Instead, Voletick has constructed himself as a competitor. He plagued my peaceful collection with his antics. I knew it was him, but I couldn’t catch him. Over the years, my collection was hit with spray paint, keying, denting, and now, rusting. My beautiful Cadillac was in pain. I knew Voletick was just getting started.

I had heard that Voletick had hired a brilliant renegade chemist named Micky Curie, who had been denied tenure at MIT. While on the faculty, he had developed a yellow mold that instantly aged cheddar cheese. It could no longer be advertised as “Aged 10 Years” on the package. Now, the package was required to say “Seems like it’s been aged 10 years.” Actual ten-year-old cheese been wiped out by Curie’s aggressive yellow mold which had devastated 10 year-old-molds with the war-like toxicity of “Quick Cheese.” This was detrimental to cheddar cheese sales: people wanted 10-year-old cheese, and that was final. Kraft cheese is one of MIT’s biggest donors. Accordingly, MIT ODERED Curie to give up his mold patent and cease from producing “Quick Cheese.” Citing academic freedom he refused and he was denied tenure.

Curie was furious. He vowed to invent things in the future that only did harm. The first invention was a candy coating that indelibly dyed peoples’ lips when they consumed jaw breakers. Then, there were the perfumed floor mats for cars. The oder distracted drivers and they would hit trees or the vehicles in front of them.

Curie was having his way!

Curie’s most recent invention (of course) is “Rust-On.” You use a paintbrush to apply it. You paint it on and a rust spot instantly appears. That’s what had happened to my Cadillac and fifty more cars of my 200-car collection.

I met with Curie and cut a deal to hire him, and also, help him wreak revenge on MIT for what it had done to him. But first, we had to take care of Voletick. We rented a “Water Scooper” airplane from the US Forest Service. We filled a small pond with “Rust-On” and scooped it up. Then, we “bombed” Voletick’s car collection, turning the two-acre parking lot into a rust-scape of destroyed vehicles. Voletick raced out into the lot and a scoop of Rust-On soaked him. He started choking and writhed around on the asphalt for a couple of seconds. He was in poor physical condition and died of a heart attack spitting Rust-On. Ha! Ha! Too bad Voletick!

Now, I needed to follow through on my offer to help with Curie’s revenge. I provided the financial backing and Curie provided the brains. After four moths of arduous research, Curie developed what he called “Stupid-Ass Spray.” It was delivered as a mist and anybody who inhaled a single tiny drop became stupid. We hired a cadre of ex-ICE agents, who were already stupid, to mist the halls of MIT with “Stupid-Ass Spray.” They were successful in their mission—rendering MIT stupid.

Given the new stupidity of MIT, it lost its accreditation, and then, its donor base. It declared bankruptcy and was sold at auction to Kraft Cheese. The irony of Kraft’s purchase of MIT didn’t escape Curie. He developed a powder and clandestine delivery system that turned all of Kraft’s cheese products into Velveeta.

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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Hypozeuxis

Posted on February 4, 2026 | Leave a comment

Hypozeuxis (hyp-o-zook’-sis): Opposite of zeugma. Every clause has its own verb.

I went to the store. I walked through the door. I headed for aisle five. I picked up a loaf of bread. Then, I felt the dread—the roiling, boiling, swirling dread. It was induced by the bread—by the screaming white bread displaying its burly crust and biting my hand. I threw the bread to the floor. It’s wrapper split. Things had gotten really dangerous. Now that the bread had broken free due to my panicked hurling, slice by slice it would terrorize the grocery store. Already, I could feel the panic sweeping through aisle five. I could hear the jars of peanut butter and jelly rattling in aisle six—shivering with fear!

But then, things stood still for a couple of seconds while I tried to understand the reaction of the peanut butter and jelly. They had a strong partnership with bread. The sandwiches they made together were renowned throughout the Western Hemisphere. My first sandwich was a PBJ: crunchy peanut butter and grape jelly. It was exquisite. What happened?

I couldn’t get my head around it. It wasn’t working. My therapist was standing next to me. She had accompanied me to the grocery to directly observe my reaction to bread. She told me: “As far as I can see, you should probably check yourself into ‘Barking Cardigan,’ plug in, bite the rubber ball, and have your mind swept clean. Then, you can have lobotomy or get on some powerful mood-making medications and anti-hallucinogenics. Finally, stay away from bread. Although bread is generally considered ‘the staff of life,’ for you it is ‘the highway to hell.’ You must abstain from sandwiches—from tuna salad to grilled cheese to Fluffer-nutters. Never touch another submarine sandwich, meatball sandwich, taco, or muffuletta sandwich. When your sandwich days end and you are able to abstain from them forever, it is possible, but not likely, that your craziness will end.”

This came as a blow to my soul. Even though it repulsed me and made me crazy, I loved bread, like my mother who had the same effect on me. So, I followed my therapist’s regime. Now, I am comfortable with bread, and my mother too.

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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Hysterologia

Posted on February 3, 2026 | Leave a comment

Hysterologia (his-ter-o-lo’-gi-a): A form of hyperbaton or parenthesis in which one interposes a phrase between a preposition and its object. Also, a synonym for hysteron proteron.

I was flying, in the middle of the night, over the pool hall. I could hear the pool balls smacking into each other from 100 feet. I could hear them being racked up and poked by a pool cue—well-chalked and ready for action, like me.

Although I was a superhero with superpowers, I was not all that interested in thwarting robberies and murders, and saving people from natural disasters like earthquakes, or from things like being held hostage, drowning, or choking to death.

I preferred, instead, using my superpowers to win at pool, dice, and blackjack. When I walked into Rosie’s Pool Hall there was a notable sigh. Everybody put their cues down and started to leave. They had all lost to me so many times that they were no longer interested in competing against me. I fixed that. I looked at a beautiful young woman and said “Buddy-bye and tweedle dee, you will play pool with me.” My superpowers made my pool spell work every time. She nodded her head and said “Yes master. I will play one game of eight-ball for $5,000.” I laughed. It was money in my pocket, so I agreed.

She beat me.

I had to fork over the $5,000. Unbeknownst to me when I had picked her out that she was the goddess Fortuna able to summon good luck to all of her competitive enterprises—not only for games, but for life-in-general. I wasn’t surprised. As a super hero, I frequently crossed paths with deities, mostly from the ancient Greek and Roman pantheon. I came from another planet, so they found me interesting. I teamed up with Fortuna for a while. She got a red-spandex body suit that matched mine. I learned that there’s more to being a superhero than winning games all the time. I became a better superhero.

I phoned my dad on Zoomidoor and told him that I was maturing and that I had fallen in love with Fortuna. He told me to watch out—all fortune isn’t good fortune—there’s misfortune too. As soon as he said that, my red spandex body suit disappeared and I was wearing overhauls that smelled like cow shit standing in a pen. I was shocked and started crying. Suddenly, Fortuna was hovering above me. I was saved! So I thought.

Fortuna said, “Bad luck is the other side of good luck and good luck is the other side of bad luck. Both are temporary, changing places as they will. There’s nothing you can do anything about it. There’s nothing I can do about it.” Then, she disappeared.

She was full of shit. She could give back my good luck if she wanted to. I never should’ve dumped Fortuna for Fama—the goddess of rumor and fame. It was short-sighted. Now, by the good graces of Fama, I’m famous for the productivity of my milk cows. I guess that’s some kind of good luck, but not much.

I cursed Fortuna and my barn went up in flames.

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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Hysteron Proteron

Posted on February 2, 2026 | Leave a comment

Hysteron Proteron (his’-ter-on pro’-ter-on): Disorder of time. (What should be first, isn’t.).

The wall clock that was my great-grandfather’s goes “tok-tick,” not “tick-tok.” Otherwise, it keeps good time, but it was driving me nuts. I’d had it for a year and I wanted to burn it in the fireplace. I took it down off the wall and looked at it carefully, turning it over. It had an almost invisible little door on the back that was secured shut by what looked like a very small paper clip latch.

Suddenly, I could feel tapping coming from inside the clock. I pushed the latch up and the door flew open. A carved wooden bird shot out of the door and landed on the end of my nose. Although the clock was not a cuckoo clock, the bird perched on my nose was clearly a cuckoo bird straight from some Black Forest cuckoo clock factory.

As soon as I released the cuckoo bird from inside the clock, things got weird. The sun came up at night and went down in the morning! People got dressed instead of undressed! People backed up when they drove instead of going forward. People walked backwards in the grocery store, wrestling with their shopping carts and bumping into displays and knocking things over as soon as the stock boys had put them back up.

It was a disaster and it was all my fault. I walked backwards rapidly all the way home. I was going to remedy what I’d done, or die trying. I got home. When I opened the front door the little cuckoo, crying “cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo” flew at me and embedded itself in my eye. It hurt like hell, but I pulled the cuckoo bird out of my eye, and squeezing it tight, ran to the kitchen, stuffed it back into the clock and locked the little door.

I went to the emergency room and they couldn’t save my eye. But, I had saved the world! Everything is back to normal, except my clock still goes “tok-tick.” When people come over to visit, they tell me the clock sounds normal. That’s when they start looking like giant wooden cuckoo birds pecking around my apartment going “koocuck” to ridicule me. If they weren’t my friends, I’d kill them all with charcoal fire starter and a blowtorch.

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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Inopinatum

Posted on February 1, 2026 | Leave a comment

Inopinatum (in-o-pi-na’-tum): The expression of one’s inability to believe or conceive of something; a type of faux wondering. As such, this kind of paradox is much like aporia and functions much like a rhetorical question or erotema. [A paradox is] a statement that is self-contradictory on the surface, yet seems to evoke a truth nonetheless [can include oxymoron].

I can’t believe anything—not even my own name. “Dolly Mitten.” But really, I do believe it: my parents call me Dolly Mitten, my teachers call me Dolly Mitten, my friends call me Dolly Mitten, and the so-called “authorities” call me Dolly Mitten. So, I’m Dolly Mitten. I guess I can still say “I can’t believe it.” I can’t believe that my parents named me Dolly Mitten. What the hell were they thinking? Did they think I would be teased? I guess they did, because they teased me. Yes, it’s true. That’s why I came to think of them an abusive parents. My father would as me if he could wear my “little”Dolly Mittens. It humiliated me and made me want to hide in the hall closet. Mom didn’t help. She’d ask me if I was a hand truck because she needed help moving some boxes.

When I turned 21 I was going to change my name and escape the ridicule. I like bringing things together and planned on opening a smoothie shop when I graduated from high school. I had stayed back a few years due poor study habits and poor attendance, and worse, having a very public affair with my woodshop teacher, Mr. Plane. He was 60 years old. He got fired and I had to go into therapy. But, due to my screwing up, I would be 21 when I graduated. I put up a “Go Fund Me” site to raise money for my smoothie shop “Mix N’ Mingle.” I had to go to court the complete my name change.

I petitioned to change my name to “Blenderella” a combination of blender and Cinderella. No more “Dolly Mitten.” Blenderella was the perfect name for the owner/operator of a smoothie shop. The judge disagreed. He told me he couldn’t believe I wanted to be named Blenderella. I assured him I did and I was granted the name change. I kept my last name: Timbersquat. My dad traced “Timbersquat” back hundreds of years to 16th-century England. It was granted by royalty to my great-grandfather five generations ago.

He discovered that if you sat on a log with your naked butt hanging over it, you could poop in so much more comfort than simply squatting. It was an especially beneficial discovery for elderly people who would often fall over in their own poop due to weakening leg muscles brought about by aging. He became a “Hero of the Shire” and sold poop logs throughout the land and installed them in little huts on the commons for peasants, for free. Royals paid handsomely for his poop logs and installed them in the woods adjacent to their manors.

Anyway, the grand opening of Mix N’ Mingle was at hand. It was situated in a high traffic area of the mall. My first customer was my dad. I almost started puking as he studied the menu. He said, “although it sounds dangerous, I’ll have a large strawberry banana Blenderella.” I was pleased that he used my new name. I whipped the smoothie up and handed it to him and told him it was on the house. He said, “No. take this.” He handed me a gym bag with some random high school’s logo on it—it was a Tiger surrounded by stars. I put it on the floor and spent a very busy day making and selling smoothies.

I brought the bag home. I made myself a vodka tonic, sat down with the bag on my lap, and unzipped it. It was filled with little dolls and mittens. I yelled “Fu-kin’ asshole!” and threw it on the floor. A small gold-colored bar flew out of one of the mittens. It was real gold! I emptied the gold bars from all of the mittens. The bars were imprinted with their weight. I googled the price of gold. I couldn’t believe it—each bar was worth nearly $10,000.

My father had given me a shitload of money. I was shocked. I called him to find out what the hell was going on. Mom told me he had disappeared.

I’ll never understand what this was all about. I just can’t believe 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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Intern se pugnantia

Posted on January 31, 2026 | Leave a comment

Inter se pugnantia (in’-ter-say-pug-nan’-ti-a): Using direct address to reprove someone before an audience, pointing out the contradictions in that person’s character, often between what a person does and says.

“Let our cat be my witness!” I called him and he jumped up on the kitchen island. Everything was ready.

“When we met at the gas station five years ago, you told me you loved me. And here I see you at 2:00 a.m. eating a half-gallon of Rocky Road—my Rocky Road. You have a chocolate ring around your lips and a giant serving spoon in your hand, dripping on the kitchen island.

If you loved me you wouldn’t secretly work on bloating yourself while I sleep. When do you think you’ll fill out enough so I notice it? Well, it’s happened already— I can tell when I hug you. It’s like hugging a pillowcase filled with peanut butter—the only thing missing is the smell of peanuts. Even your voice has changed! The fat buildup around your vocal cords has made you into a soprano—no more sultry whispering in my ear. You could join the Vienna Boys Choir! I am diasappointed, disgusted, and distraught over your bogus profession of love while you’ve drifted into fat-blivion, making yourself so unattractive that I know you don’t love me—you’re trying to drive me away with your disgusting fat-hood. Your legs look like Crisco columns. Your breasts are like watermelons rotting on the vine. Your face looks like a marshmallow soccer ball. Your stomach is like a huge pile of mashed potatoes soaked in your smelly sweat.

All of the insults I just hurled are intended to motivate you to get back in shape again, as a sign of your love for me. I want my svelte little honey back again. I’ll pay you $5.00 for every pound you lose on the road to recovery. If you refuse to go it on your own, I’m sending you to “Liposuction Junction.” You know what that means! Daily full-body liposuction and room temperature gruel! You might die! In fact, I’m pretty sure you will. I have to know by tomorrow whether you’re going to go to “Liposuction Junction” so I can “adjust” your life insurance policy.

So, now you know how much I love you—giving you options for becoming whole again. Now, it’s time for you to put that serving spoon down, wipe off your mouth, and let me know how much you love me. If you don’t take my offer of “Liposuction Junction you’ll be moving out to the garage and chained alongside my lawn tractor. I have several recipes for lawn clippings

Your choice: ‘Roses are red. Violets are blue. Your fat ass means trouble for you.’ Moby looks like he’s endorsing my plan, laying on his back purring and kicking his legs in the air. What about you?”

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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Intimation

Posted on January 30, 2026 | Leave a comment

Intimation: Hinting at a meaning but not stating it explicitly.

I was listening to my old Bob Dylan records. The song I was listening to said, among other things, “The answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind.” That’s how Dylan responded to the string of questions leading up to “Blowin’ in the wind.” What about a hurricane or a tornado? What kind of answers are blowin’ in those kinds of winds? Their “answer” can kill you. So, there’s something potentially lethal in looking for answers in the wind. You should probably just sit inside and let the answers blow away, knocking down a couple of trees as they go. Do you get it? Do you get what I’m telling you? Maybe I should be more blunt.

Answers are dangerous. They can ruin your life. I was really happy until I started looking for answers in the wind. I started being frustrated. I couldn’t sleep. I lost my friends. I lost more socks than usual and I thought my girlfriend moved out of the United States so she could get away from me “forever.” She is missing. I haven’t seen her for five years and I’m still looking for the answer “Why?”

But, I’ve invented a device to help me get answers from the wind. It is a giant ceiling fan. I call it “John’s Behemoth Fan.” It is mounted over my bed and has 8-foot blades. I use it to look for answers blowin’ in the wind. I put on my pajamas, lay on my bed and use the remote to flick the fan to “Gale Force Wind.” The wind blows 43 MPH and is supposed to spit out answers to my questions. I keep asking it where my girlfriend Mary is. The fan makes a sound like “Reykjavík.” I’m not sure if Reykjavík is just a squeaking sound in the fan drive shaft, or the city in Iceland. I’m going to lubricate the fan’s shaft this afternoon and see if it still makes a gale force wind that sounds like “Reykjavík.” I keep wondering why my girlfriend would be in Iceland, but if the answer “Reykjavík” is blowin’ in the wind, it’s likely that’s where she is.

POSTSCRIPT

He lubed the fan and it still said “Reykjavík” when he turned it on. He dropped all his other questions and flew to Reykjavík. He brought his small battery operated hand held fan. He believed that when he was in close proximity to an answer its meager wind would pull him through. It didn’t.

Shortly after arriving, he got caught in one of the gale-force winds that Iceland is known for. They blow the open doors off of cars! He was blown off of a cliff and died a broken mess on the rocks below. If he had listened more carefully, he would’ve heard the wind telling him he was going to die. Instead, he thought it was “crying Mary” and he just stood there, leaning into the gale until he was blown off the cliff. His media player was found next to his body still playing Jimi Hendrix’s song about the wind making a “Mary” sound. He had made a fatal “listening” error—wishful thinking inducing an interpretive catastrophe: the downfall of many obsessed hermeneuts.

His former girlfriend Mary is living in Portland, Oregon where she sells imported clothing. One of her top products is the “66 Degrees North” brand clothing imported from Iceland.

Mary’s shop is named “Windbreakers.” This is ironic.

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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Isocolon

Posted on January 29, 2026 | Leave a comment

Isocolon (i-so-co’-lon): A series of similarly structured elements having the same length. A kind of parallelism.

I had made a mistake. I had screwed up bad. I was going to die. I had betrayed my psychotic brother. If he got wind of it he’d make me into cube steak and cook me medium rare on his new gas grill. He was like that.

I was scared of him and that’s why I got involved in what he called “our endeavors.” Basically, our endeavors spanned the sum of crime.

Our first crime was receiving “tribute” from the town’s paperboys. It was a per-paper tax we charged them. The more customers they had, the more they paid. We had an enforcer named Moby who helped us collect. Moby carried a length of lead pipe and waved it, making growling sounds. This usually did the trick, but every once in a while there was a wise-ass who refused to pay. Moby would break their knuckles on their paper-throwing hand, putting them out of business. We didn’t mind because the injury put out the word: “The Botarde brothers didn’t take any shit.”

The whole time I’ve been involved in crime with my brother, I wanted to quit. I couldn’t sleep or eat. I had nightmares. I had colds all time and I started stuttering. but I couldn’t quit. I was afraid to.

Over the years we’ve worked our way up to arson. Mainly, we torch small business and take a cut of the insurance payout. It provides a large income. I’m putting my daughter through Harvard with no financial aid, or loans. I’m paying full-tariff and can easily afford it. My wife gets whatever she wants. Last week I bought her a beach house down at the shore for $2,500,000 and a Gucci hat for $12,000. I’m beyond loaded.

Then it happened: We got a “contract” to torch a residence. The Tindles live on my block: a happily married husband and wife, a daughter nicknamed Bitsy, and a cat named Clapper. They are really nice people. In fact we exchange Christmas gifts every year. Last year, Chris and his wife gave me a cashmere bathrobe and I gave them season tickets to the Yankees, with limo transportation to and from Yankee Stadium.

Why would anybody want to burn their house down with them in it? My brother told me that Chris had “Stepped on somebody’s toes.” I asked for more detail and he wouldn’t give it. So, I got really mad and turned my brother in. I betrayed him to the police. They found him parked outside the Tindles with a trunk load of gasoline, rags, and a pocketful of Bic lighters.

He was arrested and convicted of arson, attempted murder, and hundreds of other crimes that I had disclosed for immunity from prosecution. He is serving 125 years in Northern State Prison. My family abandoned me when I squealed on my brother and the money ran out. Now, I oversee the produce stand at our local Hannaford’s.

Some days, I go bananas. Ha! Ha!

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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Kategoria

Posted on January 28, 2026 | Leave a comment

Kategoria (ka-te-go’-ri-a): Opening the secret wickedness of one’s adversary before his [or her] face.

I had been trying for years to make something of myself. It had to do with landing a prestigious job—maybe working for “Dilly’s Doilies” running a doily press. I had interviewed there and failed. The interview was my downfall. When they asked me in my interview what doilies are made of, I panicked. I wasn’t sure, I had never thought about it. I didn’t even know what a doily was—yes—that’s true. In my smug self-confidence, I thought if I was asked what a doily is made of, the answer would somehow magically come to me. So, when I was actually asked, I flubbed the answer big time. So, I said “toilet paper? ‘Doily’ and ‘toilet’ have the same ‘oi’ sound, so there must be some kind of connection.” Boy, was I wrong. They threw me out and told me to get therapy. I was devastated.

I had gone to doily interview because I was starting to think I was destined for greatness. I had enrolled in the local community college. My adviser had told me if it wasn’t for open admissions, I’d be sitting on a blanket on the sidewalk holding out a styrofoam cup asking for spare change. I didn’t know what to say, but I agreed with her. I kept a blanket and a styrofoam cup in the trunk of my car, just in case the community college changed its admission requirements.

Anyway, as I was leaving Dilly’s Doilies the day of my interview, I was looking for Human Resources so I could punch the Director. I was that kind of guy. If things didn’t go my way, I punched somebody. Often, I punched my little brother. But this time I knew who to go after: the Director of Human Resources who had set me up with the doily question. I was going to punch him. I was going to sneak into his office, hide under his desk, and spring out and punch him.

But I noticed something when I got into hi office. I ransacked his desk and found a half-smoked joint in a cough-drop tin in his middle desk drawer. It was 1959 and this was serious business. He could go to prison for 10 years. He thought he was made of Teflon, but now I had him. This would stick! The half-smoked joint was my job ticket! When he came back I waved the joint at him and said in a taunting voice “Now it doesn’t matter what doilies are made of! You’re going to give me a job!” He said, “When hell freezes over! That’s not mine. Get out of here or I’ll call the police!” I said “Not so fast” and held up the one- pound bag of weed I had found in his desk.

He started begging and I punched him. He offered me the job, and I took 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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Litotes

Posted on January 27, 2026 | Leave a comment

Litotes (li-to’-tees): Deliberate understatement, especially when expressing a thought by denying its opposite. The Ad Herennium author suggests litotes as a means of expressing modesty (downplaying one’s accomplishments) in order to gain the audience’s favor (establishing ethos).

I never thought when I invented flavored Magic Marker ink that anything would come of it, and nothing did except for the whole world was filled with people with colored teeth making the smile into a whole new thing. That’s not much when you think about it. The whole world isn’t that big a place—Jupiter is bigger.

My prowess as an inventor leaves a lot to be desired. What about the “Everything Vaccine” that immunizes people against every disease, even cancer? How great can it be? It only took me two days to perfect, and so far, it’s only saved 500 million lives. So what. That’s not even half the world’s population, for God’s sake.

Talking about God’s sake, it reminds me of the Cathedral I built that can hold the entire population of Baltimore. So, what’s that worth? While the whole town’s at church, nobody’s shopping. If I had thought of that I would’ve put a dozen or so small stores in the Church—definitely including a Dollar General. But, I didn’t have the foresight. I was too focused on building the world’s largest church. I apologize.

At least it’s not as big a blunder as the free university. So many people have enrolled that we have to build additions to all the university’s buildings and expand the surrounding grounds. Now, we’re stuck with a baseball stadium bigger than Yankee Stadium—it’s ludicrous. The university is exploring an offer of a major league team. Can you believe it? What a joke! Major league team?

Now, I’m working on a longevity drug. It is made of a blend of crushed Christmas tree ornaments, Spam, Nutella, and furniture polish. It seems like an unlikely blend to induce longevity, but with the government’s approval, we’ve been testing it at nursing homes. The typical 78 year-old on the edge of death bounces back to 40 after one week taking the drug. We were hoping for 25, so we’re a little disappointed. But you can’t win ‘em all. I’ll probably be awarded another Nobel Prize anyway. That’s 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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Martyria

Posted on January 26, 2026 | Leave a comment

Martyria (mar-tir’-i-a): Confirming something by referring to one’s own experience.

“Been there, done that.” No matter what you told her, Annie’s response was “Been there, done that.” And then she’d tell an anecdote backing it up. At first, it was really interesting, but it got old after around 100 “been theres.” I started dreading talking to her. The first thing I would hear from her after “Been there, done that” would be “that reminds me of the time. . .”

I decided to start making up crazy stuff to see what she’d say. Maybe things would get interesting again. I told her I had flown to school yesterday. I landed in the parking lot and was early for school for the first time in my life. Annie said, “Been there, done that. It reminds me of the time I flew to Toronto.” She grabbed my hand and we took off and flew over Rochester and then Lake Ontario—it was frozen over and lake effect snow was pouring down. I felt like Scrooge being hauled through sky by one of the spirits of Christmas. We got to Toronto and circled the CN Tower. It was awesome, even though I was scared to death. We got back the Brighton, to my house, and landed softly. I was weak-kneed and almost fell down. I said “Wow! That was like finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.” Annie said “Been there, done that. That reminds me of the time. . .” Woosh! The end of a rainbow came through my bedroom window, followed by a pot of gold. I cowered in the corner and croaked “Help.”

Annie said, “Don’t worry, I’m your genie. You paid attention to me. You listened to my stories without making fun of me. You are so nice. I may look like a high school senior, but I’m actually thousands of years old. I will invest the gold for you in a hedge fund, you will make billions of dollars, but you won’t remember where it came from, and, nobody will believe you when you tell them about me. I will disappear tonight. You have one wish left. I told Annie I loved her and wanted to be with her forever. She said “Ok.” If she had said, “Been there, done that” I would’ve been heartbroken.

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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Maxim

Posted on January 25, 2026 | Leave a comment

Maxim (max’-im): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegm, gnome, paroemia, proverb, and sententia.

“If the cookie doesn’t crumble, it’s stale.” I learned this saying in day care. Ms. Mingle tried to instill us with wisdom to make us able to deal with what she called “the vicissitudes of life.” She tried to adjust her wisdom to our age-bound sensibilities. One day, she asked “Is your juice box half-full or half-empty?” Mine was neither—I had just barely poked the straw through the tin foil when she asked. I told her that my juice-box was full. She threw her juice-box to the floor and yelled “Too many cooks spoil the broth” and told me to put my juice-box on the floor. I set it down. She walked up to it and stomped on it. She said calmly “The poor need respect, and it begins with cleanliness.” I had to clean up the floor.

I was on a scholarship to “Little Winners” daycare. I was from the poorest family in town. I won my scholarship by walking to the mailbox in my socks through snow for one week. My mother had sold my shoes so she could buy beer and lotto tickets at Cliff’s. She got drunk and didn’t win anything.

I had to walk to school in my socks. Two days later, Ms. Mingle showed up with my shoes and put them on her desk. She said “Somebody might want these shoes, but I’m not sure who it is. ‘Find your sole mate’ and you will find your destiny.” She picked up the shoes and threw them at me yelling “Take a hike! You pants-wetting pony brain. They’re your shoes, aren’t they you little wart?”

I quickly put on the shoes. They felt so good—flexible and soft, like I wanted to be. My shoes were telling me to dance. I twirled and tapped my feet. My classmates clapped their hands in harmony. I felt like I was in heaven until Ms. Mingle started swatting me with a flyswatter yelling “I wouldn’t hurt a fly, but you’re not a fly.” She made a barking sound while she swung the fly swatter. I thought fast and tripped her as she came at me. The handle of her flyswatter plunged into her eye when she hit the floor. She pulled the flyswatter out of her eye. She rolled around moaning and crying in pain. I said “No pain, no gain” and stuck my red colored pencil in her other eye as she got up and came at me with her hole punch yelling “I’m going to make you into Swiss cheese, you low-class scholarship student! ‘The money you make is a symbol of the value you create’ you worthless prig!” She had been blinded, so she couldn’t find me to punch Swiss-cheese holes in me.

The mayhem settled and Ms. Mingle was taken to the hospital’s mental health ward for eye surgery and “counseling.” Ms. Mingle taught me that “Actions speak louder than words.”

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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Medela

Posted on January 24, 2026 | Leave a comment

Medela (me-de’-la): When you can’t deny or defend friends’ faults and seek to heal them with good words.

Here we go again! I’m such a sucker, especially when it comes to Jacky. It seems like we’ve been friends since birth. Our mothers were friends and they would dump us in a crib together while they sat by the pool. Teddy would make noises, wave his hands around, shake his head and then stop and point his finger. Today he was pointing at the tube of suntan lotion my mother had dropped by the crib.

I reached for it and grabbed it. The cap fell off and the lotion started oozing out. I squirted some in my mouth and handed it to Jacky. He took a slug too. It started to burn our mouths and we both started howling. My mother came running, saw the tube in the crib and the white cream on my lips and called 911. An ambulance quickly arrived and took us to the hospital. Our stomachs were pumped and we had to stay overnight for “observation.”

Now, it’s 15 years later and Jacky has a plan. He wants to charge a fee to scrape gum off of movie theatre floors. Then he wants to recycle the gum, repackage it, and sell it as “Jacky’s Blended Gum.” I let my guard down again for the hundredth time. Although he was insane, he was harmless and he was my friend. He had saved my life twice and I owed him. Once, I had put a couple of wires in a wall outlet and put the wires in my mouth to see what electricity tastes like. Just when my tongue started to smoke, he pulled out the wires and saved my life. The other time we were hiking and we saw a bear. I ran up to it to pet it and Jacky threw a rock at it and chased it away. That bear could’ve eaten me. Enough said. He saved my life.

Now, I was ready to make “blended” gum with Jacky. We collected five garbage bags of scraped gum. It was hard work, but it was time to blend the gum. We filled my bathtub with piping hot water and dumped in the gum. We figured the hot water would melt/blend the gum together.

When we drained the tub, we had a giant lump of gum. It was so big we couldn’t lift it out of the tub. Then, I got my hand stuck in the gum when I was trying to pick it up. So did Jacky. He was able to get ahold of his cellphone with his free hand. He called the police. Almost immediately, we heard sirens. The police broke down our front door and scaled the stairs to the upstairs bathroom. The three police officers started laughing when they saw what had happened. They cut us out of the gum with their tactical knives.

The five of us couldn’t lift the gum. Part of it had gone down the drain and that was what had gotten stuck. My parents had to pay a plumber and an excavator to get the gum out of the tub. The plumber freed the tub and it was carried to the front lawn and a gas-powered ditch-digger mowed the gum out of the tub. The plumber reinstalled the tub, and all was well, except for my life.

Having gotten sucked in by Teddy cost me $2,500 that I have to repay my parents with monthly installments. With my job at “Golden Burgers” it’ll take at least a year. Jacky is an idiot, but so am I. We are best friends. He makes my life exciting.

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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Meiosis

Posted on January 23, 2026 | Leave a comment

Meiosis (mei-o’-sis): Reference to something with a name disproportionately lesser than its nature (a kind of litotes). This term is equivalent to tapinosis.

Gold is dirt. Silver is mold. Nothing is better than anything else. You say your cleanliness is next to Godliness, implying that my filthiest isn’t. I’m just as next to Godliness as you are. Have you ever seen God taking a bath in the tub upstairs? Have you ever seen him buying a bar of Dial soap at Kinney’s? Have you ever seen him cleaning his ears with a washcloth? What about between his toes? The answer is No! No! No! Never!

Maybe God’s a slob! Maybe his big white beard is stained with gravy or red kool aid. His Divine B.O. would stink up public restrooms, slaughter houses, and dog kennels. And of course, His butt would leave a strong smell of cheddar wherever her went. Some people say he lives in Wisconsin. I don’t know if that’s true, but I’m even more not sure that He’s spotless.

But you—you think God takes three showers a day. In your case, it’s to wash away your sinful romps with Mr. Carlisle. He’s 40 and you’re 19. I hear you grunting up in your room, right after he comes over and you go up to your room. How long is Mom going to buy your lies about why he’s up there? Helping you find a lost sock has just about had its day. Next, you’ll probably tell Mom he’s helping you make your bed. Mom may be mildly retarded, but there’s only so far you can stretch it, even with her. I’d rat you out, but Mr. Carlisle pays me $10 each visit to keep my mouth shut.

I’m saving the money. I’m saving the money to buy a Craftsman tool set, a cordless electric drill, a hammer, and a rubber mallet. I intend to go into the business of fixing things—from cars to bicycles. In the repair business, being dirty is a necessity—dirty fingernails especially. I’m studying repair at BOCES. So far, I’ve learned how to change a tire and replace windshield wipers. Next, we’re moving on to sewing machines. When I graduate, I will be able to fix anything—even a Minuteman ICBM! You’ll be in the shower washing away your regrets, while I’m in my garage, with grease under my fingernails, saving the world, one guided missile at a time, or ‘68 Ford, or kitchen appliance, or snow blower. I will be “Johnny Fix-It.” I will put the “R” back in in repair!

So, who’s more Godly? Squeaky clean soap-smelling you, or greasy, sweat-smelling me? I think we can both agree: “Cleanliness” is not a criterion of Godliness. Godliness is more complicated than taking a shower.

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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Mempsis

Posted on January 22, 2026 | Leave a comment

Mempsis (memp’-sis): Expressing complaint and seeking help.

It was my high school graduation party. “Which one of you goddamn lazy bastards are going to save me?” I was drowning in our above-ground back yard swimming pool. The pool was only 4 feet deep, but I had slipped on the algae slime coating the bottom. The water was a little green, but we didn’t mind. I was going down for the third time, struggling to hold my Tequila Sunrise above water. My friend Vitor was videoing the whole thing, yelling “Choke! Choke! I need you to choke for TikTok.”

I went down for the fourth time and dropped my drink in the pool. I was going to die! Suddenly, I was dragged from the pool. It was my neighbor’s wife Chicky. She gave me mouth to mouth. She stuck her tongue way into my mouth and twirled it around. And whispered in my ear “There’s more where this came from baby. Come and visit me when Sal’s at work.”

I was shocked. Chicky was beautiful—she looked like a brand-new Barby Doll, except she had black hair and wasn’t anorexic.. Clearly, she ate three meals a day and they went to all the right places. She was way out of my league age-wise and looks-wise. I didn’t get it. The only thing I could think of that would make me attractive to her was that I had won $500 on a scratch-off lotto ticket. I had the told everybody. I had cashed it at Cliff’s. I had five 100-dollar bills in my wallet—they were ready to rock.

I told Chicky I’d come by on Tuesday at 1:00. The day came. I shaved my chest and dumped Canoe cologne on my underpants. Chicky answered the door wearing nothing at all. I tore open my shirt to show her my shaved chest. She pulled me into her house. She started singing “I got you babe,” Sonny and Cher’s first big hit. I started singing along and pulling off my pants. The smell of Canoe cologne filled the air. She picked up my pants, folded them, and put them on the bed.

Then, suddenly, Chicky told me to get dressed and go home. She was adamant. I begged. She yelled “Get out!” I went home. When I got home, Mom asked me why my pants smelled like perfume. I couldn’t give her an honest answer.

All I can think of is Chicky—Chicky, Chicky, Chicky. What happened? Then I checked my wallet. The $500 was gone! She had stolen my lotto winnings when she had picked up my pants and folded them! She knew I couldn’t say anything to anybody about the theft. Given the circumstances, her prison guard husband would kill me. I was stuck.

I’ve been trying to figure out the lesson I learned from this sordid episode in my life. So far, nothing.

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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Merismus

Posted on January 21, 2026 | Leave a comment

Merismus (mer-is’-mus): The dividing of a whole into its parts.

It was making me sad to divide my family into parts. As a whole, we are a family. As parts, we are related—father, mother, brother, sister—relatives drifting through life wondering how we were born and where we’re headed—alone and dependent for our identities at the same time. But there are cultural magnets that bring us together—holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, and lawsuits. On these occasions, we are family.

Holidays, birthdays and anniversaries are a joy—singing happy birthday to Dad for the 78th time was moving. My 50th Christmas with the family was a memorable. I got everything I wanted! Mom and Dad’s 60th anniversary was a treasure to behold. Dad got Mom a new washing machine. I got her a magnifying glass so she could read her cookbook and keep on cooking for us all. I got Dad a subscription to HULU. He hasn’t stopped watching it!

It’s too bad, but our family is being sued. “The Copyright Corps of America” has filed a lawsuit against “every and all” members of our family, demanding $5,000 which would wipe out Dad’s retirement fund, making him work until he drops dead from old age, or a heart attack, or pneumonia.

What did we do to deserve being sued? I’ll tell you: we sang a song together and posted it on Facebook without paying royalties. Whoever thought that singing Depeche Mode’s “Just Can’t Get Enough” would cost us $5.000?

I did some research and found out “The Copyright Corps of America” was located in Canada. It consisted of Canadian malcontents who had been “screwed” by America. Their manifesto page said “in progress” which meant they were having trouble thinking up specific gripes.

I wrote them a scathing letter, pointing out how irresponsible it was for them to be filing cross-border lawsuits. They could damage Canada’s well-deserved reputation as a polite and honest country.

I received an almost instant apology along with two bottles of maple syrup and a deer antler.

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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Mesarchia

Posted on January 20, 2026 | Leave a comment

Mesarchia (mes-ar’-chi-a): The repetition of the same word or words at the beginning and middle of successive sentences.

Trouble doubles when you try too hard. Trouble looks at you as you try something new. Trouble is a knot you try to unravel with clumsy fingers.

Trouble besets us everywhere—on a doorstep, in the bathroom, on the highway, at the movies, on the dance floor, and around. This was how Billie Jean dealt with her unwanted pregnancy, nagging Michael Jackson, troubling him to write a song about it and share the song’s revenues with her.

I was no stranger to trouble. It started with having a tooth pulled when I was 12 years old. As a reward for not crying or screaming, the dentist gave me a silver dollar. I tried to buy some strawberry shoe strings with it at “Matola’s Atomic Candy.” It was the fifties and everything was atomic—atomic pizza, atomic socks, atomic lima beans, atomic cigarettes, etc. etc.

Anyway, Mr. Matola frowned when I handed him my silver dollar. He tapped on the counter and told me it was fake—he could tell by the sound. I went back to the dentist and told him the silver dollar he had given me was fake. He denied ever giving me anything, let alone, a silver dollar. He told me to get out of his office and come back when I had a cavity or something.

I reported him to the police, but I was the one who got in trouble for trying to pay for candy with counterfeit money. I was convicted of passing counterfeit money, fined $50.00 and received a suspended six-month sentence at juvenile hall. I had two months to pay the fine, and then, I’d be remanded to juvenile hall anyway.

I was big—six-foot three. Even though I was only 12, I got a job as a bouncer at “Pokey’s Hole.” It was the sleaziest bar for 500 miles around. The things that went on there are unmentionable. I had almost accumulated $50 when the police raided Pokey’s. I was arrested, and for an array of reasons, was sent off to juvenile hall to serve my counterfeiting sentence.

Trouble is my middle name. I don’t know how to stay out of it. When I get out of juvenile hall, I plan on becoming a stick-up man. I’ve ordered a balaclava from L.L Bean.

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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Mesodiplosis

Posted on January 19, 2026 | Leave a comment

Mesodiplosis (mes-o-dip-lo’-sis): Repetition of the same word or words in the middle of successive sentences.

I was bumping, bumping along. Mt father was pulling me in my wagon bumping, bumping over the sidewalk. My wagon had no springs—it was a hard ride. In fact, my butt was getting sore. I wanted to say something like “Daddy my behind hurts.” But, I knew he would become angry, pull the wagon faster, and prolong our trip to cause me more pain. He carried a Ruger .357 stuck in the back of his pants. He said he would only use it on dogs that attacked us.

I had to get out of the wagon! So, when we went over a big bump I pretended to fall out. I hit the pavement pretty hard. My ears were ringing. Dad pulled the pistol, spun around, and aimed it at my head. I was terrified. He said, “I know what you’re up to, you little shit.!” I knew too: I just wanted to get out of the wagon before my bottom started bleeding.” I said, “Oh yeah? Tell me what I’m up to.” He said, “You need a drink. If you get out of the wagon you’ll go straight to “Willie’s Bar. You’ll get drunk and your mother will kill me.”

First, I was only six years old—Willie’s was not an option. Second,,Mom had disappeared last week. That’s why Dad had come to take care of me. His idea of taking care of me was having a Dairy Queen swirl for breakfast and dinner every day. We didn’t eat lunch because “it makes you fat.”

Next:

Two things happened: 1. They found Mom tied up in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town; 2. Mom implicated Dad in her abduction. 3. Dad had recently escaped from a facility for the criminally insane where he had been incarcerated for stealing chocolate bars and feeding them to dogs. The ASPCA had offered a reward of $500 for his capture and imprisonment. It looked like maybe Mom was due the $500 for ratting out dad. She was already planning a weekend in Miami with the reward money. She was concerned that her rope burns were not very attractive.

For my part, I had gotten my hands on Dad’s .357 and I was really anxious to shoot something. There was a squirrel that irritated the hell out of me with its chattering all day long. It lived in the tree right outside my bedroom window. Easy shot! I put up my window and raised the gun. Holy shit! It was my father sitting there on the limb. He had escaped! He told me to give him the gun. I said “Bullshit” and threw the gun out the window. The gun went off when it hit the ground and shot my father in the foot. He screamed while I called 911. He was handcuffed and driven away in an ambulance while Mom yelled at him from the front porch.

I turned the gun in anonymously. At the age of 6 I had been through a lot. Now that I’m sixteen, I look back and thank God I got through it all. My only regret is that I wasn’t able to kill the damn irritating squirrel. It’s still going strong.

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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Mesozeugma

Posted on January 18, 2026 | Leave a comment

Mesozeugma (me’-so-zyoog’-ma): A zeugma in which one places a common verb for many subjects in the middle of a construction.

The parade of trucks, cars, motorcycles, skateboards, bicycles, scooters, steam rollers, baby carriages, lawn mowers, wagons, and many, many more wheeled conveyances rolled past my door on their way to the fairgrounds. It was the “200th Annual Things on Wheels Festival.” The “200th” was a really big deal.

Ely Marticks had been run over and killed by a hay wagon 200 years ago. The Fair honors him. He was what back then they called “slow” or “different.” He was a troublemaker—he drooled on his money before he paid for something at the general store. He would light things on fire just to watch them burn—nothing big, but little things like knitting needles and girls’ baby dolls. He would pee on peoples’ front doors and run away. He slept in the kennels at the dog pound, at dog food, and transmitted fleas to anybody he got close to.

Ely’s antics were tolerated because of his difference. The townspeople were God-fearing church-going people. They worshipped every Sunday, singing hymns, abiding by charity and forgiving Ely for his troublesome ways. However, there was one person who lived in town who was an atheist and believed it was a dog eat dog world: Barney Pinkston. He hated Ely and started a campaign to tar and feather him and run him out of town on a rail.

Nobody joined Barney’s campaign. Barney drove the hay wagon for Mister Bell’s farm. He planned to lure Ely in front of the wagon and roll over him and kill him. The day came. Ely was standing by the side of the road. Barney threw a candy bar in front of the wagon. Ely jumped for it and the wagon rolled over his neck and killed him. When people heard about Ely’s death, a cheer went up.

The town was typical. It was filled with hypocrites—ungodly, uncharitable, intolerant people who faked their religiosity because they were too cowardly to kill Ely themselves. Barney was hailed as a hero, got off the murder charge on a technicality, and was elected mayor.

Now, the Festival continues. Its origins as a celebration of Ely Martick’s murder have been forgotten. It has become a celebration of Ely’s heroism, for running in front of a hay wagon and sacrificing his life to save a kitten.

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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Metabasis

Posted on January 17, 2026 | Leave a comment

Metabasis (me-ta’-ba-sis): A transitional statement in which one explains what has been and what will be said.

“So far, I’ve told you about my secret life. I’m pretty sure I can’t trust you to keep your mouth shut, but I had to tell you about it so our relationship can be based on truth. Next, I’m going to review a few of the horrible things I’ll do to you if you tell anybody what I’ve told you: 1. Burn you alive, 2. Throw you off a cliff, 3. Cut you up with my chain saw, 4. Throw you out of a helicopter, 5.Electrocute you, 6. Freeze you to death in a walk-in freezer, 7. Put you in a tub full of battery acid.

There are five is six more things I could do to you, but these seven are the best. They inflict the most suffering and they’re all lethal. If you can think of any more, let me know and I’ll add them to the list!

Why at are you crying? You’re tied to a big comfy chair and you haven’t had an opportunity to disclose my secret life to anybody. You’re as safe as a little bird in a cage, for the time being I guess.

Oh —pain in the ass. Somebody’s ringing my door bell. I guess I’ll go answer it.

It was your mother. She had the nerve to accuse me of kidnapping you. I invited her in and pushed her down basement stairs. So much for her accusations. I apologize for killing your mother, but what other choice did I have? My pet crocodile that lives in the basement will take care of her—he’ll even eat her clothes!

Ok, now that you are aware of ‘consequences’ I’m going to turn you loose. Make sure to add to the list of unmentionables my murder of your mother.”

“Oh Carl. You are the treasure of my heart, the crown of my love, the icing on my cake!” said Penny. “Oh Penny! This is looking pretty good. You may be the first woman willing to honor my wishes and stay alive.” Penny got ahold of Carl’s chainsaw. Her father had shown he how to use a chainsaw when she was 12. Carls was shaking all over and peed his pants as Penny approached him. He begged and cowered . while she cranked up the saw. She took off his head with one quick swipe. It thudded when it hit the floor. She threw his headless corpse down the basement stairs where the crocodiles would take care of him.

Then she thought of all the ridiculous things Carl threatened to do to her. They did scare the hell out of her, but she was going to tell people about Carl’s secret life anyway. Most of the “secrets” were laughable and signs of Carl’s madness. For example, he liked smelling his dirty socks, eating his boogers, grabbing woman’s asses at the mall, peeping into his neighbor’s windows, sticking Crisco-coated writing implements and Tonka trucks up his ass, and when his dog pees on the carpet Carls rubs his own nose in it.

Taken together, these activities add up to lunacy. Penny was right to cut off Carl’s head.

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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Metalepsis

Posted on January 16, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

“Hey, snow tire face.” There it was! I could not escape the moniker. I was famous as the “boy who was run over by a snow plow.” It was December, 1967. I had hollowed out a snowbank by the side of my street. It was my snow fort when I was ringed by snowball-throwing friends. It was sturdy. I had dumped buckets of water on it that froze, giving it a shell of ice. I called it Ft. Frosty.

I even went out in Ft. Frosty at night. I lit a candle and pretended I was an Eskimo—Nanuck—who we learned about in geography class. I asked our butcher when he was getting some blubber and he would laugh at me and throw me a slice of boiled ham.

So, one night I was out in Fort Frosty listening to Cousin Brucy on my little transistor radio. I was bobbing my head to “Leader of the Pack” when suddenly I heard roaring and saw flashing lights. I had an idea of what it was. It had been snowing all day and, in addition to the roaring, I could hear metal scraping the street. “It’s a friggin’ snowplow!” I yelled “And it’s coming right at Fort Frosty. I’m gonna’ die!” I broke my head through the roof of Fort Frosty and started yelling at the snowplow. The driver heard me and veered away just in time, but not far enough. The metal plow blade missed me. Not so for the rest of the plow. It ran over my head and flattened it, leaving the imprint of one of the plow’s snow tires on what was left of my my face.

I am a miracle modern medicine. I am grateful to be alive, but I’m one of the greatest oddities in the world. I travel around displaying my squashed head and the snow-tire track on my face. I sell t-shirts and sell tickets to make a living. Last week, I was in Japan and was offered a role in an upcoming Godzilla movie. My head gets stepped on by Godzilla as he rampages through Tokyo. Then, we make friends and I ride on Godzilla suggesting things for him to destroy. I am like Godzilla’s mentor. We start production in July. I looking forward to it!

In the meantime, I just finished my tour of Canada. The Canadians are very polite. For example.one Canadian psychologist offered me 100 counseling sessions for free to help me cope with my squashed head. That’s kindness! Also, a Canadian Mountie pushed me around in a wheelchair the whole time I was in Toronto. I told him I didn’t need it and she told me not to “fret.” I almost cried. Canada is so different from the United States where they taunt me with “Snow Tire Face” and “Pancake Head.” These kinds of names are very hurtful—they remind me of the two permanent tragedies of my life. A plastic surgeon has told me he can re-spherisize my head and remove the tire tracks from my face. But, if I did that, I’d lose my livelihood.

I’m thinking of moving to Canada where I feel almost normal. I would call myself “Rudder” after my flat head or “Tracky” after my face’s scar, or maybe “Shoe.”

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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Metallage

Posted on January 15, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

“Ferryboats from hell.” It was splashed across a billboard. If I saw another “ferry boats from hell” I knew I’d go crazy. Ferryboats from hell was a secret curse used by demented sea captains to confuse average everyday people, making them more susceptible to being shanghaied and enslaved on ferryboats in harbors throughout the world. Just the other day I saw 5 people on the deck of the Staten Island Ferry wearing life preservers and waving their arms. I couldn’t hear what they were yelling, but two of them pulled down their pants and mooned me—a sure sign of distress.

After I told the police about my experience with “Ferryboats from hell,” I ended up strapped to a bed in a mental hospital. I kept crying out for a cigar until a kind nurse brought me rubber one. It has embers and ashes painted on the tip and squeaks when I bite into it. As a joke, I stuck it in my ass and made it squeak with my sphincter muscle. When they heard about what I’d done, doctors and nurses crowded around my bed, talking on their cellphones, taking pictures, writing notes and asking me questions: “Do you know where you are?” “What did you have for lunch?” “Why are you here?” “Do you hate your mother?” “Do you know anything about woodchucks chucking wood?” “How did you get that cigar up your ass with your arms tied down.” I told them it was the nurse. She blushed when they all turned and looked at her. Then it happened: “It looks like you have an erection.” That was not a question. It infuriated me and I struggled with my restraints, rocking the bed back and forth. Unfortunately, the cigar started coming loose, but foolish me, I kept struggling. The doctors and nurses stood there with their mouths hanging open, like they were looking at a zoo animal gone rogue.

I got loose and ran out of the hospital with the rubber cigar sticking out of my ass, from my open-backed hospital gown. The cigar fell out of my ass as I exited the hospital and ran down the front steps. It rolled down the stairs after me. I stopped to pick it up to stick back in later. That’s when I was grabbed by two burly orderlies and hauled back to my room.

POSTSCRIPT

I’ve been lying here watching “Love Boat” and “Carol Burnett” reruns for two weeks. I think Gopher is really cool. I am trying to act like him so I can get out of this place.

They say I’m getting better and will be discharged as soon as my insurance runs out.

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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