Consonance: The repetition of consonants in words stressed in the same place (but whose vowels differ). Also, a kind of inverted alliteration, in which final consonants, rather than initial or medial ones, repeat in nearby words. Consonance is more properly a term associated with modern poetics than with historical rhetorical terminology.

He lives by his wits. His head is a nest of nits. He resists taking showers. He thinks they waste his precious hours. Accordingly, he smells like a stool, and he actually thinks that’s very cool. He lives a shabby immoral life. Right now, he’s probably thinking about stealing your wife. Fat chance you say. But did you see who he was with yesterday?

Marjorie Greene!

Together, they made the scene. They went rat hunting at the Baltimore City Dump. He was packing a .12 gauge pump. Marjorie had an AR-15, a Glock, and a Ruger .357. She was clearly in Heaven. Her eyes were glazed. Her face was slack like she was a little dazed.

Then, she fired at a rat, what she called a stand-in for a Democrat. The rat ran away unscathed. That’s how those ‘Democrat’ rats always behaved.

Oh! You may be wondering: “Who was the smelly, immoral man with head lice?” I am not permitted by the government agency I work for to tell you. However, I can give you a hint. His first name rhymes with “weave” and his last name rhymes with “canon.”

Please do not try to contact me.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

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Correctio (cor-rec’-ti-o): The amending of a term or phrase just employed; or, a further specifying of meaning, especially by indicating what something is not (which may occur either before or after the term or phrase used). A kind of redefinition, often employed as a parenthesis (an interruption) or as a climax.

You are not easy. You are a challenge (like a flat tire on deserted road, on a moonless night somewhere on the outskirts of Mogadishu). I’m not saying I am sick of you or that I can’t handle you—you just give me a headache—like the one I get from doing the taxes.

Here’s a good example of how you’re a challenge: painting the house trim pink while I was on a business trip. It presented a challenge in so many ways. I don’t have time to recount how I felt, or what I thought, but it was loaded—no, overflowing—with challenges.

But on the other hand, you’re really creative (You can make something out of nothing). The eucalyptus wreaths and picture frames you make and sell at the farmers market are clever and take a lot of skill to assemble, and when you add a couple eucalyptus nuts hanging on a ribbon, no wonder they sell out every Thursday. I think you should set your price higher though, $2.00 is way too cheap. I think you should ask for $10.00.

Anyway, you’re my daughter. I love all of you: the challenge and, of course, the creativity. Mama’s been gone for three months. We’re both lost in space. Let’s just be ourselves, no matter the longing, which isn’t a sign of weakness: it’s a sign of our love for Mama and that’s a good thing. Next Tuesday you turn 16. Let’s go to the sushi place we love. Do you want to bring along the picture of Mama wearing one of your necklaces, or is that too corny?

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

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Deesis (de’-e-sis): An adjuration (solemn oath) or calling to witness; or, the vehement expression of desire put in terms of “for someone’s sake” or “for God’s sake.”

A: I swear to God I’ll love you forever.

B: You’re an atheist. How can you swear to God? It’s like me swearing to Horus that I’ll never cheat on you! You’re such a fake. You might as well swear to Dolos, the Greek god of lying!

A: ok, ok, you’re right. I wasn’t thinking—force of habit. The “swear to God” thing has been a mark of sincerity for me ever since I learned it from my neighbor Eddie when I was a kid. He was a huge liar, and said “I swear to God” almost every time he spoke. For some reason it stuck with me, and even though I’ve rejected God, I still use it from time to time. It just pops out.

This is what I meant: I swear I’ll love you forever. There, no God, just me. For our sake and the sake of our child, you’ve got believe my love is manifest in every thing I do—from telling jokes, to paying the bills, to sitting with my arms around you and Bonnie watching the colored flames in the fireplace at Christmas time.

B: Oh honey, that’s sweet. I’ll love you forever too. I’m sorry I doubted your sincerity.

A: I swear to God I’ll never swear to God again. Ha ha! Just kidding. We’ve been married for fifteen years and we still hold hands when we walk through the mall. That’s a sure sign of our love’s endurance. We don’t need promises to make our love true.

B: And that’s a promise? Ha ha! Just kidding. Let’s you, me, and Bonnie go out to Sammy’s Salmon Ladder and have some fun. I love the pounded Salmon on mashed potatoes with seaweed salad and fries. I know how much you and Bonnie like the skin-on teriyaki Salmon on a stick with sliced turnip, a 6 oz. slab of smoked bacon, and 2 vegetarian Slim Jims for chopsticks.

Let’s go! Who are you messaging on your phone?

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

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Dehortatio (de-hor-ta’-ti-o): Dissuasion.

So, you want be a star. Forgive me for being blunt. Sometimes it’s the only way to move people in the right direction who are stubborn and unyielding. I could probably get ten other people in the room who would say what I’m about to say. You probably would tell them all to take a flying “F” with your deeply irritating self-righteous little comeback speech: “You’ll never know what it takes, because you don’t have it. I’ve been struggling against small-minded people like you for years—I am noble, I am an artist, I will prevail.”

But you forget that the only acting part you’ve had was a silent gum ball machine in some crazy off, off, off Broadway musical about poisoned hamburgers: “Ptomaine Station.” My God, if you didn’t have Herby Gorpit propping you up—paying your bills—food, rent, car—you would have made the right decision years ago.

Again, I’m sorry for being so blunt, but if you don’t get out of the acting racket soon, it’ll be too late. Herby’s going to drop you in a couple years—he has a wife and kids for God’s sake.

So, here it is: You can’t sing. You can’t dance. You can’t remember your lines. Admit it. You’re not made for a career in acting. Drop the fantasy and let it go. I can help you find a decent job in retail or finance. Or you could drive for Uber! Ha ha. Although you’ve hardly ever noticed me, I’ve been standing by since college.

Please do’t be mad at me. I care about you and feel obligated to tell you the truth, no matter how far it diverges from your hopes.

Please, back away from the window. Everything’s going to be ok.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

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Dendrographia (den-dro-graf’-ia): Creating an illusion of reality through vivid description of a tree.

Here we go again. The one-hundred year old oak is a pain in the ass—especially in autumn. It’s probably at least fifty feet tall and three feet in diameter. On average it probably grew about six inches per year. It’s bark is nearly black with a tinge of light grey and some gray-green lichens attached to it. At its base is a little hollowed-out arch where I sometimes see a Chipmunk peering out when I ride by on my mower.

But, the hell of the oak tree is it’s leaves: turning reddish brown and falling off the tree by the friggin’ truckload: it’s a leaf storm that lasts about two weeks. I call it Fall Flutter Down. Cleaning up the fallen leaves is a family affair: three rakes, one tarp, one whining teenager with “better things to do.” We load the tarp over and over, and drag it to the curb and dump it over and over. The city has a giant vacuum cleaner to suck up the leaves.

Raking leaves is a pain in the ass with no redeeming value, except, I guess, getting it done and keeping the family intact while doing so.

In November, the acorns start falling and a pack of gray squirrels shows up to bark and chatter and eat, carry, and bury the nuts all over the yard. All winter, they’re out in the yard digging them up, and pooping and peeing on the fresh fallen snow, giving the front yard the look of a wildlife restroom. Some of the buried acorns sprout and I enjoy mowing over them in Spring as a kind revenge.

Now the old oak tree is undressed: branches naked, acorns on the ground, it casts shadows that move in the wind of Autumn’s final weeks. The squirrel’s nests are revealed now. There will be babies born, and I must admit I enjoy watching the little ones play on the tree and front lawn.

In a red sunset the tree’s shadows seem alive or maybe like the soul of the old tree caressing the earth—the home of its roots and womb of its birth.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

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Diacope (di-a’-co-pee): Repetition of a word with one or more between, usually to express deep feeling.

Hope? What crap. Hope? You want to know what hope is? It’s an empty fantasy with no foundation. I hoped for rain and none came. I hoped to win the lottery. I never have. I hoped to meet a partner, settle down, and get married. I never did. I waited and waited, and my hopes were never fulfilled. Now, I hope you’ll go away. I’m sick and tired of your naive embrace of all the cliches—la ti da—the cliches that do more harm than good: that try to soften life’s ultimate misery with toy little ponies, fake rainbows, glass slippers, and everybody living happily ever after.

Do I look like I’m living happily ever after, or a patient, patiently waiting to check out of this shit show? Do you know what—you little troll—what I want more than anything? What I hope for? Morphine dripping into my vein. Killing the pain. Killing the past. Killing my desire. Calming my consciousness.

I don’t care if you’re my cousin. Go home. It hasn’t been nice seeing you. Oh—make sure to stay away. Goodbye.

Don’t let the doctor slap you on the ass on your way out.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

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Dialogismus (di-a-lo-giz’-mus): Speaking as someone else, either to bring in others’ points of view into one’s own speech, or to conduct a pseudo-dialog through taking up an opposing position with oneself.

Me 1 as me: He is inconsiderate, not to mention, rude, intellectually challenged and inarticulate.

Me 2 as him: You doo doo poo poo.

Me 1 as me: This is what it’s like debating and deliberating with him. It’s like a three-year-old got elected to the Senate by a gang of rogue nannies. But, you disagree.

Me 2 as him: You are a cross-eyed farty pants. Nah Nah!

Me 1 as me: That’s it. That’s all it ever is. We need to turn our backs on this idiot, hoping he will crawl back to his playpen in Idaho.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

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Dianoea (di-a-noe’-a): The use of animated questions and answers in developing an argument (sometimes simply the equivalent of anthypophora).

It’s never too late. What the hell does that mean? Grandma’s dead and I never told her I loved her.

So what?

I didn’t have to say it.

It’s what I did. I bought her a new bedpan when she was in the nursing home. I paid back most of the money I borrowed from her. I sold her dog and made some extra money for her. I bought her a nice used walker. Jeez, I paid for her cremation even! So what if she was already dead when she was turned to ashes—she watched from heaven. Right?

Did I do enough? Did I care more than anybody? Did I give more than anybody? Is my conscience clear? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

I’m off the hook—free and clear—out of the red—rising like a Phoenix. It’s time to go to the reading of Grandma’s will. I’m glad we were able to make some minor deathbed revisions a couple of hours before she died.

Am I a soulless crook? No! I am deserving—deserving of everything!

Hans Christian Anderson wrote: “Death walks faster than the wind and never returns what he has taken.” Grandma had a lot of wind in her final hours, but Death was faster. Now, let’s find out what she left me (I already know).

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

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Diaphora (di-a’-pho-ra): Repetition of a common name so as to perform two logical functions: to designate an individual and to signify the qualities connoted by that individual’s name or title.

Hey Don, you’re the boss, right? Should I call you Don Don, or just Don? Are you cutting a low profile? Is it still about rallying? The crowds are thinning like your hair. You can’t seem to grab a headline beyond the insurrection you orchestrated. Your minions are getting probation or going to jail. Rudy’s still pulling for you, but the hair dye dripping from his chin is distracting. Putin won’t give you the time of day. The Proud Bois are still proud to stand behind you. Maybe they should simply stand by. Social Security’s getting a 5% bump. You better say “bye bye” to the over-65 crowd.

Hey—maybe we should start calling you RICO. “Don Rico” has an ominous, yet poetic, ring to it. We all know where you’re headed Don Rico, and it isn’t going to be fun. Remember, you’re solely to blame for everything that happened—from the contracts on the border cages to your Belarusian fixers.

Shivs are more or less dull and painful, and they can’t be avoided by rats. Remember your Omertà Don Rico. If we hear squealing noises coming from your testimony, you’ll be lubricated.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

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Diaporesis: Deliberating with oneself as though in doubt over some matter; asking oneself (or rhetorically asking one’s hearers) what is the best or appropriate way to approach something [=aporia].

To bee or not to bee? It’s a honey of a question. Would it be sweet? Would I get stung and lose my investment? Would I just be buzzing around, wasting my time? Or, would I collect a mountain of pollen and live like a Queen?

Questions, questions, questions. How many questions do you have to ask before you can decide? How many questions do you have to ask before you seem indecisive?

Decisions are about the future. The future does not exist. Decisions are driven by hope and fear—one person’s hope is another person’s fear, and the other way around. What a bummer. I think I’ll just flip a coin and let fate decide. Heads I bee, tails I bee not.

Damn! I don’t have any coins. I think I’ll ask some beekeepers what they think.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” ( Bracketed text added by Gorgias.

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Diaskeue (di-as-keu’-ee): Graphic peristasis (description of circumstances) intended to arouse the emotions.

It was 96 Fahrenheit. I was standing in front of the airport terminal in Manila, waiting for a bus. I had just arrived from northern New York where it was the middle of winter and 15 Fahrenheit when I left. I should’ve been wearing shorts and a T-shirt, but I was wearing a suit and a heavy woolen overcoat. I had one suitcase, a carry-on bag, and a briefcase with nothing in it. I took off my overcoat and laid it on top of my luggage.

A raggedy-looking teenage boy ran by and grabbed my coat and briefcase. I needed to cut a low profile, so I kept my mouth shut and watched my stuff disappear down the sidewalk. That’s when I realized, when I paid for my entry visa, I had put my wallet into my coat pocket—my credit cards, my cash, my passport. My cellphone was in my other coat pocket. This was truly bad. Thank God I had my bus ticket.

The bus arrived at my stop near my hotel after over an hour of stop and go through Manila’s jammed traffic. I walked into the lobby and up to the main desk. I told the guy behind the desk my name. He asked to see my passport. I knew a saga was brewing. I thought for a minute and did what the situation called for. I took off my suit coat, rolled up my sleeve, and showed the deskman the tattoo on my left forearm. Given how the plane and hotel reservations were made, and paid for, I figured he might be part of the story, recognize the tattoo, and give me a break. He did more than give me a break. He put me in the Presidential Suite. He must’ve known why I was there. I called my contact and he told me his crew had already caught “the little miscreant” who had stolen my coat and briefcase and that he had been properly disciplined. I was not surprised—the people I work with have networks as deep as the Mariana Trench.

I had the maps, the photographs, and specifications in my suitcase. It was time to go to work.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

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Diasyrmus (di’-a-syrm-os): Rejecting an argument through ridiculous comparison.

The point you’re trying make is like trying to use a pushpin to hold up your pants. It might work, but it will be painful and it won’t be effective in the long run.

You should know by now, as the world’s premier gum ball manufacturer, we’ve got to use a belt to hold up our pants. Painless. Effective. Attractive. In 100 years of rolling out the gum balls by the millions, we’ve learned one thing: If it ain’t stuck to the floor, don’t scrape it up.

There’s no room for innovation here at Sweet Balls. We use pushpins to post notes on the bulletin board on the shop floor. We tried sticky notes, but they fell off. So don’t tell me about new gum ball presses that will reduce our workforce and make us more money. The new computer driven presses have not been vetted, and I don’t trust the guy who started the company: DeJoy. When he was Postmaster, everything he touched that plugged into the wall broke. But worse: laying off our loyal employees will cause them hardships they don’t deserve. It will inflict pain and arouse anger. That’s not what Sweet Balls is about.

That’s it, son. If you continue to pester me, I will have you shot.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” ( 

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Diazeugma (di-a-zoog’-ma): The figure by which a single subject governs several verbs or verbal constructions (usually arranged in parallel fashion and expressing a similar idea); the opposite of zeugma.

The light was making a sound. Like the wind. A psycho-hurricane. A siren. A yacht horn.

I couldn’t think straight. Hearing a reflection. I shouldn’t have taken the little orange pill I found on the table by my bed. It was sitting on a note that said “Take Me.” So I did. I thought it was a complimentary vitamin—it looked just like my “Centrum” multivitamin.

So, I took off my pants and headed down to the lobby. I met an attractive woman in the elevator. She waved her room key at me and said, “I like a man with no pants.”

By this time colorful melting was starting. The sound had gone away. My name is “Grotesque” said the flashing diamond-coated woman as she held her hotel room’s rubbery door open for me. Her face was all puffed up, perfectly round, and covered with colored confetti-like flecks. She had a sort of aurora floating near the top of her head, changing colors from yellow, to red, to blue, to green. Suddenly, she picked up the room’s cordless phone and aimed it at me. I started whining “Please don’t shoot me.”

She said, “I got a busboy to put the pill by your bed. I’ve been on your trail since you left Clinton on Monday. Don’t you remember me from high school? You told me you would marry me if we had sex. Well, you didn’t marry me. Nobody’s married me. Soon, I will be too old to bear your baby. This is Vegas. We can get married now.”

My hands turned into bowls of granola as I tried to figure out what to say.

Definition courtesy of Silva Rhetoricae (

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Dicaeologia (di-kay-o-lo’-gi-a): Admitting what’s charged against one, but excusing it by necessity.

I was speeding. Yes, I was going 40MPH in a 25 MPH zone. Yes, I ran over your daughter’s turtle, Smudge. I didn’t even slow down after flattening Smudge. I know how much he meant to Chrissy.

But you should know: My three-year-old son Edward tripped and fell on a broken wine bottle I smashed in our back yard out of anger over Betty’s fling with the exterminator.

Edward was wounded in the chest and he was coughing and bleeding profusely. It reminded me of a sucking chest wound I saw in Afghanistan.

Instead of calling 911, I picked him up and ran to the car with one idea in mind: get Edward to the emergency room and get the wound closed up as soon as humanly possible. Crying, I laid Edward on the front seat. He was unconscious, and I was afraid he was gone.

Tires squealing, I took off down Willow Street. I didn’t expect to see a turtle. Yes, I crushed Smudge in my desperation to get Edward to the emergency room. I am truly sorry. I know how it feels to lose a loved one.

Edward is recovering. I am so grateful. Again, please forgive me for what I did to Smudge. I am so very sorry. Chrissy, let’s you, me, and your dad go to the pet store and check out the turtles. Ok?

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

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Dilemma (di-lem’-ma): Offering to an opponent a choice between two (equally unfavorable) alternatives.

“Either, or.” I think some Danish philosopher used this as the title of one of his books. In the end, life may boil down to ‘either or’—you can’t get anywhere with ‘maybe.’ At some point, if your life is to have any meaning at all, you’ve got to decide, either or.

You got caught stealing inventory—mainly faucets and garbage disposals. 10 of each to be exact. I’m the one who is tasked with deciding what to do with you. I thought about having a hitter shoot you in the head in the parking lot, but I can’t be implicated in a capital crime. I ‘m sure you understand.

So, I’m going to let you decide. I have two proposals: 1. You scrub the warehouse floor on your knees and barefooted three times a day, every day, for the rest of your natural life; 2. You stick one of the stolen faucets up your ass every Tuesday, have it poke out the back of your pants and yell “I’m a sink” every 30 minutes until we close.

Remember, when you took this job, I promised you lifetime employment. That means you can’t quit. Your disloyalty has brought you to this juncture. If you disappear, we’ll hunt you down. If you rat us out, your life may become considerably shorter.

So, what’ll it be, scrubbing floors, or walking around with a faucet sticking out of your ass? One or the other. Choose.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

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Dirimens Copulatio

Dirimens Copulatio (di’-ri-mens ko-pu-la’-ti-o): A figure by which one balances one statement with a contrary, qualifying statement (sometimes conveyed by “not only … but also” clauses). A sort of arguing both sides of an issue.

Protagoras (c. 485-410 BC) asserted that “to every logos (speech or argument) another logos is opposed,” a theme continued in the Dissoi Logoi of his time, later codified as the notion of arguments in utrumque partes (on both sides). Aristotle asserted that thinking in opposites is necessary both to arrive at the true state of a matter (opposition as an epistemological heuristic) and to anticipate counterarguments. This latter, practical purpose for investigating opposing arguments has been central to rhetoric ever since sophists like Antiphon (c. 480-410 BC) provided model speeches (his Tetralogies) showing how one might argue for either the prosecution or for the defense on any given issue. As such, [this] names not so much a figure of speech as a general approach to rhetoric, or an overall argumentative strategy. However, it could be manifest within a speech on a local level as well, especially for the purposes of exhibiting fairness (establishing ethos [audience perception of speaker credibility].

This pragmatic embrace of opposing arguments permeates rhetorical invention, arrangement, and rhetorical pedagogy. [In a sense, ‘two-wayed thinking’ constitutes a way of life—it is tolerant of differences and may interpret their resolution as contingent and provisional, as always open to renegotiation, and never as the final word. Truth, at best, offers cold comfort in social settings and often establishes itself as incontestable, by definition, as immune from untrumque partes, which may be considered an act of heresy and may be punishable by death.]

Somebody said, “If there’s a fork in the road, take it.” Funny, but not helpful in making a decision. Rather, when we reach a fork in the road, like we have today, we must choose one way or the other. Otherwise, we sit here here parked on life’s road shoulder, idling, going nowhere. The fork’s two tines may take us to different destinations, but in this case they take us to the same destination: building a new warehouse complex in Puerto Rico.

We’ve settled on Puerto Rico, we’ve settled on the warehouse project, but now we must decide whether to hire locals, or bring in our own laborers to work construction.

Ok, what do you have to say?

Definition and commentary courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” ( Bracketed text by Gogias, Editor of Daily Trope.

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Distinctio (dis-tinc’-ti-o): Eliminating ambiguity surrounding a word by explicitly specifying each of its distinct meanings.

1. Pump: a device that raises, transfers, delivers, or compresses fluids or that attenuates gases especially by suction or pressure or both: gas pump

2. Pump: to pour forth, deliver, or draw with or as if with a pump: pumped money into the economy

3. Pump: to question persistently: pumped him for the information

4. Pump: a shoe that grips the foot chiefly at the toe and heel especially: a close-fitting woman’s dress shoe with a moderate to high heel

Pump, pump, pump,pump. That’s a lot of pumping. I think “pumping you full of lead” is covered in pump number two. It’s amazing how the multiple definitions of the same word are like rays emanating from the founding word, each meaning shining it’s sense on different objects, actions, or concepts. In the case of pumping you full of lead, I think it may be a figure of speech. “Lead” may refer to the 9mm lead bullets I’m going to use, blasting them out of their brass casings, and out the barrel of my Beretta. “Pumping” may refer to pulling the trigger and spraying a stream of “lead” into your traitorous head.

I hope you’ve appreciated this definitional adventure. Now it’s time to give you what you deserve. I’m pretty pumped!

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Distributio (dis-tri-bu’-ti-o): (1) Assigning roles among or specifying the duties of a list of people, sometimes accompanied by a conclusion. (2) Sometimes this term is simply a synonym for diaeresis or merismus, which are more general figures involving division.

OK, we’ve got another rally scheduled somewhere for next week. As you know, you will be my key people in its management. I know you’ll make this one a regular Nurnberg!

Rep. Greene, you’re in charge of signage—making and delivering signs on sticks to be displayed by our faithful followers. All I ask is that you don’t use the word “hump” on any of them. Beyond that, anything goes so long as it’s a little whacky and expresses our beliefs. At least one-third of them should claim I won the election and another third should support my candidacy in the next Presidential election. The rest of them can be the lies I keep telling about the Pandemic, the Mexican invasion, January 6, and Hunter Biden.

Junior, you and your brother are in charge of security. All those hunting trips I paid for are coming to fruition. Whatever you do, don’t shoot any interlopers and hecklers. Just aim your hunting rifles at them a yell “shut up or else!”

Ivanka, you will bring me a cold Diet Coke whenever I snap my fingers. Make sure Jared stays home and plays with his Legos.

Senator Sinema, you’re on display as a notorious rogue Barbie Doll backstabber who loves me so much you’re willing to ignore the party that elected you. When I call you to the stage, you’ll walk on with a raised clenched fist in a red leather glove, like a Republican pro wrestler. I will hug you, and later, we’ll hook up at the after party. Melania’s visiting family in Slovenia, so we have nothing to fear.

OK! Let’s make this a winner! I make a good living off these rallies. Don’t let me down. Fire up the klieg lights!

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

A paper edition of The Daily Trope, entitled The Book of Tropes, is available for purchase on Amazon for $9.99 USD. It contains over 150 schemes and tropes with their definitions and at least 2 examples of each. All of the schemes and tropes are indexed, so it’s easy to find the one you’re looking for. There is also a Kindle edition available with links to all of the schemes and tropes. It costs $5.95


Ecphonesis (ec-pho-nee’-sis): An emotional exclamation.

Hosanna! Here comes Mr. Crack, my connection! I’ll be on the pavement tonight, drooling, staring at the starry night, heart beating out a rhumba beat. My soul will be restored! My pants will be marinating in urine! Hallelujah!

Whoever said drugs are bad for you was crazy—part of the notorious pedophile George Soros’s conspiracy to thwart human happiness. With his free clinics and fake counseling he snares unsuspecting libertines with lies about their mothers and free food, especially, and ironically, with lithium-laced baklava flown in directly from Sparta, Greece.

Oh God! I don’t have any money! Now I’ll have to get off my lazy ass and rob somebody. Here comes somebody. I’ll use my rubber knife to scare him.

“Hey chumpinola, hand over your wallet or I’ll stick a hole in you!”


Bystander: Look at that guy on the pavement bleeding all over the place! He’s been shot! He’s peed himself and he’s staring at the sky. He’s smiling, but I think he’s dead.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. A Kindle edition is available for $5.99.


Effictio (ef-fik’-ti-o): A verbal depiction of someone’s body, often from head to toe.

His skin was a tribute to Postmodernism—a critique of the grand narratives affording space and surfaces the restrictive positioning of images and linguistic structures, keeping repressive borders intact as if they were mandated by a ‘natural order’ emanating from God.

Mr. Mellon had overcome all that with his body’s free-range tattoos: a Modernist’s nightmare!

Of his 200+ tattoos, he had a frame from “Little House on the Prairie” inked on his chest. In the tat, Charles is inked in, headed to the outhouse with a piece of newspaper in his hand. Alongside the “Little House,” there’s a hammer and sickle from the flag of the now-defunct Soviet Union. Centered on his belly button, there’s a durian fruit with passed-out people lying around dressed like dentists. Tony Soprano and Richard Nixon sit on a cloud on the right side of his neck with the number “9” being carved on it by Albert Einstein wielding a jackhammer.

It would take 100s of pages to describe and catalogue Mr. Mellon’s tattoos. Suffice it to say, from head (a question mark on his nose) to toe (a bleeding cut with stitches), his random tattoos project a sort of “I don’t give a shit” mentality which unfortunately projects a quality of rugged individualism, a keystone of Modernism. However, fortunately, it projects a directionless trajectory: going nowhere, the tattoos display an all-consuming disregard for “normal” and challenge the taken-for-granted preference for everyday life and regimes of truth that unreflectively promulgate it.

Mr. Mellon will be on display in a ventilated glass booth daily at the Notting Hill tube stop from October 5- 9, 1.00-3.00 pm. He will be wearing a spa towel to cover his privates, but the rest of him will be unclothed and on-view as he slowly rotates on a turntable repurposed from a record player manufactured in the late 1960s.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.


Ellipsis (el-lip’-sis): Omission of a word or short phrase easily understood in context.

Knock knock. You’re not there again. I think it’s all over now baby blue.

I’m leaving my heart in the dumpster behind your apartment. I would’ve preferred San Fransisco, but I’ve been stuck here in Lodi with you since we met last year.

Fool me once. . . . All good things. . . . Blah, blah, blah. The cliches encompassing our relationship’s demise are endless, like the bottomless bowl of bullshit you fed me for a little over a year.

But, I’ve found a new place to dwell. I’m your new next door neighbor. Wish me well!

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

Buy a print version of The Daily Trope! The print version is titled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.


Enallage (e-nal’-la-ge): The substitution of grammatically different but semantically equivalent constructions.

You want to knife me: to knife my self esteem, to slash me with your knife-sharp observations: with the blade made of well-honed lies—springing out of your mouth like the blade of an OTF switchblade, seeming true in my confusion, slashing my self esteem: murdering it.

Killing my self esteem isn’t a capital offense—you won’t be bundled off to prison to be propelled to your death by a lethal injection. But, you’ll derive just as much satisfaction from murdering my self respect as you would have if you had actually made my heart stop beating.

I’ll always think of you as a cold-blooded murderer. As I struggle to perform the miracle of resurrecting my self-esteem, I can’t help but wonder where your taste for betrayal and inflicting emotional suffering come from.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.


Enantiosis (e-nan-ti-o’-sis): Using opposing or contrary descriptions together, typically in a somewhat paradoxical manner.

At 6’ he’s not that tall, but, he’s a giant in everything else. As a politician he mended our lives, won us universal health care, and lowered our taxes. I’ve been praying for these reforms since I was a teen living under Eisenhower and the rabid anti-socialism dominating the politics of the time, and later, the Cold War craziness under Nixon. We made some progress with Kennedy and Johnson, and more significantly with Obama, but we haven’t hit the big ones until now.

Time passes. The social climate changes. The Trump years have yet to be completely understood. Perhaps crazy and leaning toward dictatorship are two hallmarks of his regime. There are still people suffering from his influence— especially the anti-vaxers who would rather die than heed the truth, and the Jan. 6 insurrectionists who actually believed the Presidential election was stolen.

On the one hand, we have a giant asshole who is short on brains, and on the other hand, a giant who got into politics for the right reason: to serve the Republic and its wildly diverse people who stand (or kneel) united in opposition to tyranny.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.


Enigma (e-nig’-ma): Obscuring one’s meaning by presenting it within a riddle or by means of metaphors that purposefully challenge the reader or hearer to understand.

Little Ones: How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

What? You laugh and point to your heads and wag your fingers around?

I’m crazy?

That could be, but it is more likely the opposite is the case. The big word here is “if.” Woodchucks chucking is a sort of sophisticated pun playing with the word “chuck.” To some extent it is a critical commentary on the naming of the fat brown mammal. It does not “chuck” anything and there is no wood involved in its life. Nevertheless, this does not preclude the insertion of the word “if” illustrating, much like the tree that falls in the forest with nobody around, that we don’t know with absolute certainty whether woodchucks are chucking wood with nobody around. We don’t. Moreover, the homophones “wood” and “would” (how much wood would a woodchuck chuck) indicate the inadequacy of language, bridge the material (wood), the sentient (woodchuck), and the moral (would), and suggest it may be in the woodchuck’s nature to chuck IF it may indeed do clandestine wood chucking with beavers, assisting them at night in the construction of their dams. If you put a beaver and a woodchuck together, the only thing that distinguishes them are the beaver’s webbed feet and it’s big flat tail. Woodchucks have neither. Perhaps the woodchuck has an ancient genetically coded desire to “be” a beaver and chuck.

So, what have we learned today boys and girls? Answer: asking questions about woodchucks chucking wood is unhealthy. It’s like asking how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. When you speculate and conjecture it should be about the stock market or gold futures, or you may find yourselves chucking wood at the penitentiary.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.


Ennoia (en-no’-i-a): A kind of purposeful holding back of information that nevertheless hints at what is meant. A kind of circuitous speaking.

Why are you watching “Wheel of Fortune” like every other night? If you knew what I found out today, you’d be watching “Jeopardy ” instead.

There’s good and bad, right and wrong, and wrong, wrong, wrong!

Ok—I’ll come right out and say it: You mowed the lawn. Jimmy called and told me you were mowing away when he pulled up in his truck. He lost his wages to you. Not only that, our neighborhood status has taken a big hit: everybody hires a person to do their yard work and a certain order of prestige attaches to that.

This is what you do: laundry, grocery shopping, cooking. This is what they do: yard work, take care of the pool, and clean the house. This is what I do: go to work at the lye factory and have three martinis (which I make) each night when I get home. That’s it.

Listen to this: “Chaos was the law of nature; Order was the dream of man.” I have a dream, or I thought, we had dream: to live a settled life with no speed bumps, potholes, or roadkills. If you’d rather live our lives in a mosh pit, let me know, but I need predicability, tranquility, and peace.

I don’t know. Maybe I do need to loosen up. There’s something sort of boring about predictability, tranquility, and peace. I know! Let’s go out to Butcher Bill’s Big Meats! I’ll have sweetbreads and the “New York High Rise Strip Steak,” and you can have the “Proper Vegetarian Salad” and some rolls. Sound like fun?

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.