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 on 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 Ma” 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 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 in the not so yonder 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.

Dr. Hot was heating. Sweat ran down her forehead and wet circles were appearing under her arms. She looked at me with her beautiful blue eyes—I could actually feel her gaze on 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 “PHD.”

I brought my laptop.

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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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Tapinosis

Posted on May 20, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Tasis

Posted on May 19, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Thaumasmus

Posted on May 18, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Timesis

Posted on May 17, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Topographia

Posted on May 15, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Traductio

Posted on May 15, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Tricolon

Posted on May 13, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

I lost!

I gave up.

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

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

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

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Abating

Posted on May 12, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Abbaser

Posted on May 11, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

POSTSCRIPT

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

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

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

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Abecedarian

Posted on May 10, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

POSTSCRIPT

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

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

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

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

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