Enallage

Posted on September 21, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

They were always at the edge of success. Years and years had slid by like a twig on a river. They were the most persistent human beings the world had ever known. What was their claim to fame? What was it that they was after?

They wouldn’t say. They couldn’t say. Did they even know what they was looking for?

I asked them: “is it bigger than a breadbox.” They answered, “We don’t know.

I asked them: “Does it have wheels?” They answered, “We don’t know.”

I asked the them: “Does it exist at all?” They answered, “We don’t know.”

Clearly, they were Seekers, a Utah-based cult whose members “sought” as an orientation to life. They believed that searching could be an end in itself. Searching was a standpoint governing their every conscious act from drinking a glass of fresh skimmed milk to mowing the lawn, to gazing at a sunset.

They were always conscious of the fact that everything may not be what it appears to be. No matter how certain one may be in the mundane order of being, certitude is an error thwarting the effect of the ecstasy of planned stupidity. Denying that one knows what one knows opens the gates of wonder and joy providing a threshold upon which the semiotic abyss is glimpsed in full conscious recognition that one is making it up, and it is not what one is looking for: its presence is its absence.

There is a sect of male Seekers called “The Wanderers” who roam around with no geographic destination in mind. Since their aim necessitates kinesis, simple sitting in contemplation is ruled out. Most of them just roam from town to town. Their “scripture” is the song “The Wanderer” sung by Dion in the early 60s:

“Oh well I’m the type of guy who will never settle down
Where pretty girls are well, you know that I’m around
I kiss ’em and I love ’em ’cause to me they’re all the same
I hug ’em and I squeeze ’em they don’t even know my name
They call me the wanderer, yeah the wanderer
I roam around around around . . .”

Since their roaming/seeking has an end, it is considered heretical by the Seekers.

In the end, if you don’t know what you’re looking for, are you actually seeking, or are you just “dancing in the dark” (Springsteen)?

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Enantiosis

Posted on September 20, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

“If the rock is hard, can it be soft too?”

Dr. Klaus Ruckfelder posed this question at the annual “Tormented Philosophers Congress.” In order to be eligible to attend and present a paper, one to have been working to no avail on solving a philosophical question for at least one year. Ruckfelder had been working for three-and-a-half years on the hard/soft question. He had done things like dipping a rock in molten rubber, and then hitting himself in the head with it when it cooled. His “experiment” was received with derision: a rubber-coated rock was no longer a simple naked rock, solely exhibiting rock-hood. The identity issue plagued Ruckfelder. He turned to Eccliastes’ reference to stones: “There is a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,”

He argued that when stones (or rocks) hit material objects stones had characteristics of softness because material objects do not experience pain. Therefore the stones could be deemed soft, even though they cause damage.

His argument did not stand: it became philosophy’s stock example of “irrational drivel.” He had clearly failed again, but tenaciously continued his research. He followed the line of renaming dirt balls “rocks” and pounding them into dust. He realized he was engaged in “wishful thinking” and gave up on the renaming gambit after he read Shakespeare’s “a rose by any other name . . .”

He was now into his sixth year of working of the rock/soft thesis. Then, one day it happened.:

He had two rocks on his desk. One was was bigger than the other. He was sitting on his swivel chair and spun to the right to pick up his cellphone. His elbow hit the big stone and it fell and landed on his foot. He yelled “Ow, you bastard,” and swiveled back in the opposite direction knocking the small rock off his desk. It landed on his foot too and did not hurt. From this he surmised that relative to each other two rocks could be hard and soft. By introducing a relativistic argument into his thought, he believed he had solved his question: Alone, a rock is hard, but relative to another rock, it could be soft, therefore, a rock can be hard and soeft.

His argument was deemed “nitwittery” by his peers, and he once again was thrown into his vexing quandary. Then, it came to him in a flash of insight. “Eureka!” He yelled “The answer is NO!”

Now, that he has solved the rock hard/soft question, he decided to spend the rest of his career studying paradoxes. He is currently working on the famous “Jersey City Liar” paradox. It goes like this:

A guy from Jersey City walks into a bar. He says, “I’m from Jersey City, and everybody from Jersey City is a liar,” The bartender says, “I could give a rat’s ass less. What’re you drinkin’ buddy?”

Dr. Ruckfelder was from Newark. He drove over to Jersey City and asked the first person he met if they were a liar. They said “Nah! What’s your problem dipshit?” and pushed him off the sidewalk.

As he drove back to Newark, he wondered what it meant to lie about being a liar.

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Enigma

Posted on September 19, 2026 | Leave a comment

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.

“The four-legged rover was perambulating on the greensward, fetching the soft sphere, like a saliva-splattered roadmap to never-ending bliss.” Job

I had to work hard to extract coherent meanings from my buddy Job’s speech. The giveaways in the quote above were “four-legged rover” and “soft sphere.” Clearly, he was referring to playing fetch with his dog Deliah. I asked him if I was right. Instead of saying “yes” or “no” he said, “Good tidings to you young Joseph. Your surmise is a meal to my famished soul, a repast filling the space between I and Thou with a scintillating rainbow bridge—a two-way boulevard we travel together, like homing pigeons winging home.” This was a definite “Yes” with not much interpretation necessary, and he had included a reference to our friendship as well—the “rainbow bridge, and two-way boulevard.”

Job was a piece of work. But being a conversation partner with him took interpretative work. However, it was work with a reward: A friendship that had endured since our days at Sacred Spirit College where we were imbued with spiritual values. I aspired to sell used cars upon graduation, and Job’s aspiration was to be a prophet.

I own “Chevy Bevy” where I sell used Chevrolet cars and trucks. Job failed as an actual prophet: he learned how to “talk the talk” but not how to “walk the walk.” In instead, he got a job at “Bible World” an affiliate of Sacred Spirit College. He played the Prophet Isaiah. Isaiah, a Hebrew prophet, was known for his lengthy prophecies of the coming of a Messiah. Here’s a sample from Isaiah 1:

Hear me, you heavens! Listen, earth!
    For the Lord has spoken:
“I reared children and brought them up,
    but they have rebelled against me.
3 The ox knows its master,
    the donkey its owner’s manger,
but Israel does not know,
    my people do not understand.”

It is freighted with deep symbolic significance; the kind that Job strives to mimic in his everyday speech. Speaking biblically in everyday speech has also affected his character. In many ways it has made very annoying to spend time with.

Everything had to smack of the prophetic voice. No aspect of his life is untouched by the gravitas and convoluted certitude. For the sake of his job, he has forsaken the simplicity of “yes” and “no.” He is like Republican politicians testifying in a committee hearing, where they refuse to give simple yes or no answers to yes or no questions, and instead, ramble on about the question, evading it without ever giving an answer to it. For example, we were walking along Grove Street, I asked him “Are we on Grove street, yes or no?”

He responded, “This sidewalk is a concrete ligament linking us to all points beyond and within it. It intersects Cherry and Green Avenues, other streets with other destinations stretching far and wide, with curbs carved down where they meet the flowing rivers of conveyances rolling to their endings at banks, and malls, and residences mounted on their grassy plots, though this grove here is where we stride.”

This is a doozy. But, the key is the references to sidewalks throughout, and “grove” at the very end clinch its meaning.. The naming of Cherry and Green streets further tightens the hermeneutic circle like a lasso around Grove Street’s obscured neck: unlike the politicians, he rewards u with a hard earned yes.

I know my interpretation does not do justice to the annoying convolutions of Job’s response. Straight talk is beyond him. I understand this, and take pride in being his friend and not a swollen pressure flushing the tides of his sea of meaning down a swirling whirlpool of my own design.

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Ennoia

Posted on September 18, 2026 | Leave a comment

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.

“I’ll be absent. I won’t be able to make it. I won’t be there.”

I wanted to break it to them gently.

“Are you going to die Daddy?” Little Minnie asked with a little tear shining on her cheek.,

“No, No!” I told her, “It’s almost that bad, but not quite.”

Bill asked, “Are you working late?” No son I told him.

My wife Molly yelled “You fu*king prick! I know what you’re up to. It’s that goddamn bitch Melinda!”

I nodded my head. I had missed dinner for five nights in a row. My “breaking it gently” gambit hadn’t worked.

I had run Melinda over with my e-bike and felt compelled to visit her in the hospital. It was her fault that I ran her over. She ran in front of my bike escaping from her abusive boyfriend Frankie Strangolia, who choked her “just a little bit” when they had sex. She was tired of it and told him so. She broke up with him right on the spot.

He went into a rage, picked up a zip tie, and threatened to choke her to death with it.

She ran out of his house, and smack into me and my bike, and then, into a bed at Morristown Memorial Hospital. Both of her legs were spread apart and raised up in traction. I must admit, I couldn’t help but look up her gown. I was ashamed, “looking” was part of my reason for being there & I told Melinda. She said, “Go ahead Clifford, look all you want.” That’s when I got a crush on her.

It was crazy but I was hooked. I vowed to see her when she was released from the hospital. I had turned evil and forsaken my little family. Then, I decided to stay away from the hospital for good. No more salacious staring at Melinda’s snatch. But, it was no good, I dreamed about it almost every night. After a week, I succumbed and went to the hospital. She had checked out and left no forwarding address. They told me her boyfriend, Mr. Strangolia, had picked her up.

“What!?” I was shaken.

Strangolia picking her up made it a clean break for me. She was a cheater too. We were both disgusting cheating miscreants. I vowed never to see her again—two cheaters are too many in any relationship. One is enough.

That evening, when I was at the dinner table. Little Minnie said “Gee Ddady, I’m glad you’re here for dinner again.” I thanked her and looked down at my pork chop and thought about Melinda’s vagina. I was disgusting. I picked up my knife and cut into the pork chop. I swear, I heard it moan.

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Enthymeme

Posted on September 17, 2026 | Leave a comment

Enthymeme (en’-thy-meem): 1. The informal method [or figure] of reasoning typical of rhetorical discourse. The enthymeme is sometimes defined as a “truncated syllogism” since either the major or minor premise found in that more formal method of reasoning is left implied. The enthymeme typically occurs as a conclusion coupled with a reason. When several enthymemes are linked together, this becomes sorites. 2. A figure of speech which bases a conclusion on the truth of its contrary. [Depending on its grammatical structure and specific word choice, it may be chiasmus].

“It’s raining. Don’t forget to wear your galoshes.” Said my mother.

She was eighty-two and had recently moved in with me and my wife. She refused to go to a nursing home, so we were stuck with her, waiting for her to keel over dead. Her mind was blown by old age. She called me “My little boy Johnny” and took up her mothering duties as if I was nine years old.

She thought my wife was my sister and constantly scolded us for sleeping together. Every time we tried to convince her we were married and not otherwise related, she went berserk, calling us liars and perverts, and calling 911. I would take the phone away from her and cancel the call. But, she got through once and the police came to our door. She pointed at my wife and me and yelled “There’s your perverts, take ‘em away!”

We were arrested and Mom was left alone in the house. It took about two hours to get the police to believe us. We had copies of our birth certificates and marriage certificate emailed to the police from “Make It Legal,” an internet “proof brokerage” specializing in retrieving records of all kinds—birth certificates to death certificates.

When we got home, Mom had managed to prepare a meatloaf dinner. When she cut the meatloaf, she said to me “Don’t let your meat loaf, son. All is forgiven.” I had learned the “meat loaf” joke the 7th grade from my wood shop teacher who would say it as we left at the end of class.

That night we locked her out of the house in her nightgown. We were hoping she would freeze to death. Around midnight there was pounding on the front door. I looked through the peephole and saw her standing there with an elderly man in his pajamas leaning on a walker.

We let them in and she introduced him as “Lover Boy” who she met at the bus station where she was going to spend the night. The man’s name, we found out, was actually Clot Runger. He was wearing a stuffed backpack. He took the backpack off and handed it to me as he said, “Here’s your reward Pluto.” It was filled with hundred dollar bills and $10,000 bearer bonds.

I was stunned. Between the cash and the bonds, there must’ve been a million dollars in the backpack. I wondered who Pluto was, but decided I would gladly become Pluto. I started calling my wife Dinah Dachshund, who was Pluto’s girlfriend in the comics..

As we faded into our canine guises all the pestering faded away. Clot Runger told us he was a former Brinks security guard who had “cashed in” in the late 70’s. I didn’t ask him what “cashed in” meant, but I figured he might’ve played a role in the famous “Lufthansa heist,” I was probably wrong. Maybe he had earned the money legitimately.

Either way, the money was mine now! All mine!

POSTSCRIPT

So, life went on. All my “Mom woes” evaporated, and we had enough money to affect a lavish lifestyle, without moving or touching the outside of our little three bedroom one-story home, quietly resting on a cul-de-sac in Mahwah, New Jersey. We built a cell in the basement from plans we got off the internet. It is 1,500 square feet with two bedrooms, a living room, a full-on kitchen, a laundry room, and two baths.

Mom and Clot live there comfortably. They are glued to to the 75-inch plasma screen TV glued watching “Fox News,” and streaming “Magnum P.I,” , “American Bandstand,” and “Gun Smoke” reruns. I deliver their groceries.

We are anxiously awaiting their deaths so we can travel. There is a glimmer of hope for Clot—he has a huge tumor on his throat. Mom has a pneumonia-type cough, so we’re optimistic about her expiration sometime soon.

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Epanodos

Posted on September 16, 2026 | Leave a comment

Epanodos (e-pan’-o-dos): 1. Repeating the main terms of an argument in the course of presenting it. 2. Returning to the main theme after a digression. 3. Returning to and providing additional detail for items mentioned previously (often using parallelism).

The quotation below is excerpted from Professor Blitzthart’s celebrated tome: The Fifth Amendment in Everyday Life:

What do you do when your couch is burning? This is a question most of us will never ask, let alone, know the answer to. But, a question unasked goes unanswered, and an answered question can lead to new questions, more vexing, more troubling than the answer.

That is, we should ask more questions that go unanswered. Why? Not only do they contract our anxiety by clearing future scenarios that clog our walk through life, but they teach us not to waste our wonder on what we do not know, but even more perilous, on what we know we do not know.

So, what would you do when your couch is burning? There are countless remedies—dump water on it, drag it outdoors, put a blanket over it, etc. But why consider these remedies, or any others for that matter, when your couch will never catch fire. Even if it happens, your smoke alarms will go off and you’ll safely exit your house, and you’ll watch it burn down from the street.

So, we have discovered that asking even far-fetched questions will induce us to attempt to formulate an answer, right? So, we can see asking, almost necessarily, leads to answering, or at least two or three seconds of fruitless wondering.

You may ask, what’s the point of what I have written here? Surely it is an attempt to answer a question. But really, I have resisted the temptation to do so, perhaps frustrating the reader, while at the same time liberating myself from burdensome expectations driven by the question/answer sequence—a social construct even more pernicious than the please/thank-you sequence that marks indebtedness to the “other” in an act of subservience and a token of dependence, weakness, and even fear.

We have come to the main point again. Socially sanctioned sequences set expectations which engender obedience, and rob us of our freedom and the fruitful exercise of wonder. In that spirit we must resist the pitfalls of answers, and subservient acts of thanksgiving. To questions, we must learn to say “I don’t know,” or, in the spirit of the Fifth Amendment, “ I refuse to answer on the grounds that your question is stupid.” As far as the please/thank-you sequence goes, just say “Gimme,” and take what you get, and walk away triumphantly.

POSTSCRIPT

Professor Blizthart’s book, The Fifth Amendment in Everyday Life is a good read. If you are an Ayn Rand fan, it will bolster your faith in the social inferiority of sniveling socialists and commie insurgents who believe “all men are created equal” and have equal rights.

The book’s title is among the greatest ironies ever perpetrated in Western thought, ranking with Socrates’s alleged belief that beauty can edify the soul, when in fact. it is only skin deep.

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Epanorthosis

Posted on September 15, 2026 | Leave a comment

Epanorthosis (ep-an-or-tho’-sis): Amending a first thought by altering it to make it stronger or more vehement.

“I’m going to teach you a lesson son. You’re grounded for two years—NO—I ‘m gonna beat your brains out you ungrateful little bastard.”

My father was very strict. He had given me an electric train set for Christmas and I had sold it for $20.00 to Little Timmy Stout, who was called “Little” because he was only three feet tall at the age of twelve. We lived in the heart of oil refinery country in Linden, New Jersey where birth defects and deformities were normal. I have a club foot and six fingers on my left hand.

My father started beating me with a metal rug beater and switched to a bull whip when I started to bleed. Then, he twisted my arm and hit me over the head with a brick. The brick on the head knocked me out cold.

When I awoke I was a prodigy—a boy genius.

I became a philosophy professor at Rutgers University and was acclaimed for my 400-page book entitled: Brick and Brain: Toward an Ontological Vestibule. My book tells the story in blinding detail of my ascent to genius and subsequent acclaim as the most brilliant eleven-year-old in the world.

My followers carried bricks wherever they went, and would beg me to hit them over the head at book signings. I refused because I I knew it would possibly make them into geniuses too. I did not want rivals. Hospital emergency rooms began to be overwhelmed by patients with self-inflicted head injuries.

Then, I opened a string of salons called “Head Bim Bop.” Patrons paid $200 to be hit over the head by a trained “Whacker” wielding a specially blessed brick. Patrons signed a release of liability and willingly received a blow to the head, usually producing a mild concussion, nothing else.

Not a single genius was produced but my followers were undaunted—because I was unique, they elevated me to the status of Chosen One. While I was making money hand over fist, at the same time I produced line of inventions named “Chosen One Kitchen Appliances.” There were solar-powered frying pans, pressure cookers, cookie sheets, and kettles, navy bean peelers, fish-skinners, brick measuring cups and meat tenderizers, gasoline-powered blenders, food processors, and mixers and much, much more.

All of the appliances were advertised as “personally blessed” by the Chosen One. There was also line of “Chosen One “ t-shirts picturing me taking a blow on the head by a brick.

It was too good to be true, but I didn’t care. I was engaged in brazen self-promotion. I wanted my name on buildings. I wanted my image projected on clouds in the sky. I wanted there to be songs about me. The Ford “Chosen One” station wagon was manufactured to my delight. I trademarked my name and sold it to brand anything from toilet bowl cleansers to cathedrals.

Jealous capitalists tried to assassinate me. I was wounded in the ear, my pinkie, and my big toe. Each time I took a bullet the values of my stock doubled. I was invincible and decided to become a Savior, pardoning people from their sentences to hell. I did mass Zoom healings, sometimes cleansing over 100,000 souls at once. I was pronounced “Vice Pope” and took up residence in the Vatican. I advised the Pope. The future was wide open. The sky was the limit. I could do no wrong.

POSCRIPT

The Vice Pope formed a cabal with the Vatican’s Swiss Guards. He staged a coup and demoted the Pope to Parish Priest in Lansing, Michigan. He started selling indulgences to billionaires for $1,000,000.00 as well as last rites for $125.00 to family members or friends of deceased people, confessional sessions for $25.00, and Holy Communion for &30.00.

He was finally assassinated when a ton of bricks mysteriously fell from the sky and landed on his limo.

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Epenthesis

Posted on September 14, 2026 | Leave a comment

Epenthesis (e-pen’-thes-is): The addition of a letter, sound, or syllable to the middle of a word. A kind of metaplasm. Note: Epenthesis is sometimes employed in order to accommodate meter in verse; sometimes, to facilitate easier articulation of a word’s sound. It can, of course, be accidental, and a vice of speech.

“The toonder was booming. A big storm was looming. My mudder and fadder were closing the winders. I was busy blogging, with a a long reach, boggling the truth with lies and cheating. I had discovered another conspiracy. Suddenly, the power went out.” Sir Fletcher Roundnose

The quotation is the opening paragraph of Sir Fletcher Roundnose’s Blogging in the Dark. The book tells the thrilling and disturbing tales of the the conspiracy theories recounted by Plato Johnson on his deathbed in a hospice adjacent to a golf course in Bedminster, New Jersey. They are the deepest, most dangerous, and potentially world-changing conspiracies of all time.

Three stand out:

The Gravitinusions

The Gravitinusions live beneath our feet. They generate a ubiquitous force that literally keeps our feet on the ground. From the beginning of time they have made the spiritual “leap of faith” extremely difficult and nearly impossible for earthly beings, most of whom are human. The most noteworthy human to successfully make the leap of faith was Jesus Christ who was executed by the Roman minions of the Gravitnusions. For nearly 2,000 years nobody but Jesus has managed to “lift off to bliss” although many have professed to doing so, duping the masses into revering them as “Saints.”

The Fashionistas

The Fashionistas compel certain clothing choices by the cultists they command. Members of the “Cult of Fashion” anguish over how they look. They create clothing trends that induce people to change style—discarding their now hardly worn, unstylish fashion for the new styles. They donate their unstylish clothing to the Salvation Army which has Fashionista-sponsored “posts” around the United States. The hardly-used clothing is purchased by lower- and middle-class people marking them as “untrendy” and bereft of style. The emblematic “meaning” of what is worn creates and reinforcers hierarchies of power where only the wealthy can afford to “dress for success” as the poorer classes look in the mirror and see, at best, only their mediocrity.

The Guiltist Spores

The Guiltists spores infiltrate peoples’ brains addicting them to an unconquerable sense of shame. Hosts become prescription-mongers to the great benefit of multi-national pharmaceutical companies who cultivate groundless anxiety and paranoia by growing Guiltist spores and releasing them in movie theaters everywhere, where they are inhaled and take root in audiences’ brains. The only way to avoid the ongoing effects of the Guiltist spores is to stay away from movie theaters.

POSTSCRIPT

The above is just a sample abstracted from Blogging in the Dark. Roundnose’s carefully documented theories, advanced by Plato Johnson, resonate with our sense of ultimate helplessness in the face of everything. Johnson’s theories will surely help us grapple more effectively, yet hopelessly, with our questions about the true, the good, and the beautiful as they take on the guise of their opposites at the hands of the invisible malefactors who control everything from the Salvation Army to the Catholic Church, to all the universities, and the nations of the world.

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Epergesis

Posted on September 13, 2026 | Leave a comment

Epergesis (e-per-gee’-sis): Interposing an apposition, often in order to clarify what has just been stated.

My dog, Barfo, liked to chase anything that moves. He is no longer with us. He was run over by an e-bike racing another e-bike on my quiet little street. I buried Barfo in my back yard next to Woofie, Ding, Patsy, and Saturn. All good dogs, all dead.

Was it me? Was I a bad pet owner? Five dogs down in as many months didn’t bode well for my next dog.

I headed for the dog pound to pick out my next dog. The manager said “Another one bit the dust, right?” “Right!” I said and proceeded to “shop” for a dog. I picked what looked a Collie/ Beagle mix. He almost looked like an Afghan. I named him Mr. Picker after my cruel boss. He seemed to like that name & I loved calling him. When I yelled “Here Mr. Picker,” my heart leapt with joy. It was my way of getting back at my boss. It felt good demeaning him that way.

Then, one evening the shit hit the fan.

I had left my cellphone at work. I was about to go back to the office and retrieve it when my doorbell rang. I opened the door. It was Mr. Picker standing there with my cellphone. I said “Mr. Picker!” Like I was happy and surprised. Before he could say anything Mr. Picker jumped up and put his paws on Mr.Picker‘s shoulders. Without thinking, I yelled “Down Mr. Picker, bad dog.”

Mr. Picker said “What?” as he brushed off his jacket. I told him I named my dog after him because of his loyalty to his employees. The name was meant to be honorific. I would be reminded of him every time I called the dog. It would be edifying.

Mr. Picker punched me in the nose and broke it. I sued him for $200,000 and won. It was determined that a boss was not allowed to punch a worker even though they were not in the office. Moreover, Mr. Picker was not allowed to fire me because I named my dog after him—it was a free speech issue.

From then on Mr. Picker mandated that we all call him by his first name, Orson.

I immediately renamed my dog Orson. Just like my boss, he is no longer Mr. Picker.

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Epicrisis

Posted on September 12, 2026 | Leave a comment

Epicrisis (e-pi-cri’-sis): When a speaker quotes a certain passage and makes comment upon it.

“My foot was stuck to the pavement by dog shit and bubblegum. My life was about to change again.” Tribold Rector

This passage from Tribold Rector’s world famous tome, Sole to Soul Remonstrance, first published in 1959 by Ink Blot press, an avant garde endeavor to enlighten humanity.

In his book he follows the protagonist Saul “Shoe” Blandon who frequently “steps in it” and becomes transformed, sometimes morally, sometimes physically, sometimes both. In the passage above, Shoe is transformed into a cockroach with a moral compass, refusing to sup on refuse containing meat or meat products of any kind. He skitters off into a muddy puddle, loses his moral compass and is transformed into a used car salesman standing on a car lot wearing a plaid sports coat and sporting a gold front tooth. He knows he is “Shoe” but he can’t help relishing the prospect of selling a clunker to the teen-aged boy approaching the lot.

He sold the boy a ‘39 Ford with a rumble seat, The car needed of a ring job and a new oil pan. He laughed to himself as he stepped into a spot made on ground by the sold car’s leaking oil. He immediately turned into a sleeper couch with no moral compass. As he was flipped open by a man and woman “staying over” in the spare room, his front right leg landed in a spilled gin and tonic, and Shoe went through the change again, leaving the couple bereft of their little playground. They used the floor instead, while Shoe was transformed into Rev. Skidbilly, a man with a moral compass. He immediately said a prayer of thanks and went to work saving souls. He went down to skid row where there were many lost souls.

Almost the second he arrived at Skid Row, he stepped into a pool of still steaming vomit. He was immediately transformed into a lobster roll with no moral compass and shot through with Salmonella. He is eaten by an unwitting tourist, a metaphor for greed’s consequence, gobbling up whatever foodstuff is there, as if, for example, being “full of baloney” is a blessing, tantamount to being full of Truth. This is heady stuff and most readers won’t get it, scoffing at its simplistic engagement life’s mysteries.

As you can see, Shoe Blandon was a tremendous genius. He used the ground we walk on as a metaphor for the “The Walk of Life” that we are all taking, finding ourselves as we traverse this vale of things, holding in the cache of our brains the multiple indices of introspection that we glean. Sometimes there is pleasure. Sometimes there is pain, but it never adds up. Rather, it confuses us, like trying to find a light switch in the dark.

So what?

It’s vagueness, numerous contradictions, and nearly complete incoherence, enable us to open a new life riding upon the wings of Sole to Soul Remonstrance, whose sole value is its price tag, which is a metaphor for “stepping in its” value as a meta-metaphor for the sum of human agency. As Shoe Blandon wrote:

“If you’re not there, you could be anywhere.”

These are words to live by as you walk like an Egyptian through the tomb of everyday life, inevitably stepping in it here and there, for better and for worse, becoming transformed into a unique version of yourself.

I give Sole to Soul Remonstrance twenty-six stars and recommend it to all literate, sentient, gullible humans.

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Epilogus

Posted on September 11, 2026 | Leave a comment

Epilogus (e-pi-lo’-gus): Providing an inference of what is likely to follow.

Sometimes we encounter weird things.

I was looking in the medicine cabinet mirror. I had written “Stud” on its fogged up surface. Behind the fog I could barely see my face. It was moving around! Suddenly, there was a sucking sound. At first I thought the exhaust fan had somehow turned itself on. But I was wrong. My fog face was trying to suck me into the mirror. I held my ground. I grabbed the sink.

My fog face flew out of the mirror and slapped itself on my actual face, sticking like a pancake. I was looking through its eyes. I saw the empty mirror. My new face made me say ”I’m a Commie dupe.” I was scared shitless. What else would my new face—my surrogate face—make me say? I went downstairs for breakfast. I told my mom, “Mom, I’m a Commie dupe.” She was shocked. She yelled, “Go upstairs and wash your mouth out with soap”. I went up to the bathroom and pretended to wash my mouth out. I looked in the mirror. My reflection said “I’m a commie dupe.”

I was terrified. The Cold War was at its peak. Joe McCarthy was ferreting out commies everywhere from labor unions to entertainers. Professing to be a Commie was risky business.

Immediately, I developed a strategy for dealing with my fog face’s “I am a commie dupe.” I would try to use my own face to add “hater“ to my avowed commie-hood. So, I went downstairs again. I said (again) “I am a commie . . .” I tried to add “hater” but my fog face said “dupe”instead. I was screwed.

The fog face had become my real face!

My mother dropped my bowl of cereal on the floor and told me to go to my room. I tried to explain, but all I could say was “I’m a commie dupe.” She was going to have me examined by Doctor Crabbe. If he didn’t have a cure, she would call in Father Dominick to give me an exorcism-enima, like she did with my brother Bert when she found a Penthouse magazine under his mattress.

I needed to do something, fast. It was 9:00 and Dr. Crabbe would be here at 11:30.

I got an idea!

Maybe if I steamed up the bathroom mirror again, looked in it, and wiped off the fog, my real face would appear and I would be me again. It was a long shot, but everything was crazy anyway.

I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower as hot as it would go, The bathroom rapidly steamed up. I stepped in front of the fogged up mirror and quickly wiped it off with a towel.

There I was, totally in focus—clear! My clear face ripped off of the mirror and plastered itself over my fog face. The two reflections fought to be my face. My head spun around in circles and the fog face flew off and was replaced by my true face.

I was saved.

I went back downstairs and said to my mom: “Mom, I am not now, nor have I ever been, a commie dupe.” She hugged me.

My fog face was vanquished, but my neck was killing me.

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Epimone

Posted on September 10, 2026 | Leave a comment

Epimone (e-pi’-mo-nee): Persistent repetition of the same plea in much the same words.

“I’ve got to go! I’ve got to pee! I’ve got to take a leak real bad!” We were flying to New Jersey on Marine One. Since it’s for short hops, it doesn’t have a head. We pulled the President out of his seat, put a harness on him and pushed him out the door so he could piss in the wind. We gave him five minutes and pulled him back in. We were hovering at about 1,000 feet above a convent near Bedminster. Evidently the group of nuns below had detected drops of urine coming from the sky. They were in the midst of a croquet game when it started “raining.” They were shaking their fists and yelling in our direction. We couldn’t hear them, but the President demanded we go down to 100 feet so he could apologize with the helicopter’s bullhorn hanging by his seat.

We descended to 100 feet, and, along with a lot of dust, the prop wash blew the nun’s habits up around their heads. We got a glimpse of their underwear. They were all wearing white boxer shorts, which shocked everybody but the President. He grabbed the bullhorn and yelled into it: “I see London, I see France, I see the Sisters’ underpants.”

Although we were 100 feet above them, they started hurling croquet balls at Marine One. Miraculously, one ball connected with the helicopter’s rotors.

We had to make a hard landing. Natalie H. tumbled out of the helicopter, landing dazed in the grass. The nuns gathered around her chanting “Harlot, whore, hooker, home wrecker, nut pecker.” We could barely hear them.

But, nut pecker? That was out there too far, even for me. The President still had the bullhorn and yelled from the door of Marine One: “Who wants to play 18 holes?” The four nuns yelled “We do!”

The President dispatched a limo to get us all to his golf course in Bedminster. There wasn’t enough room for Natalie H. She was told to walk the ten miles or take an Uber. She opted to walk because it displayed her “utter undying devotion to her savior, supervisor, and best friend: the President.” As the limo drove away the President yelled out the window”Don’t wear out your shoes baby! See you tonight,”

Mother Superior won the golf game and collected her $25 in winnings. The President treated everybody to lunch in the clubhouse. A Presidential limo took the nuns back to their convent. They passed Natalie H. along the way. They yelled “harlot” out of the limo’s sunroof as they sped past her.

When I joined Secret Service, I didn’t think it would be like this.

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Epizeuxis

Posted on September 9, 2026 | Leave a comment

Epizeuxis: Repetition of the same word, with none between, for vehemence. Synonym for palilogia.

“Help! Help! Help! “Wolf! It was that damn little boy again, crying “Wolf!” The townspeople had “come to his aid” ten times already. Every time: no wolf. They were pissed off and vowed never to be suckered in again by the “little bastard.”

The little boy’s cries were in vain. You guessed it. This time there actually was a wolf—a lone wolf.

The little boy had been in his front yard raking leaves. He tried to fend off the lone wolf with his rake. It didn’t work. The wolf tore out his stomach and killed him. He enjoyed eating his stomach’s contents, especially the chocolate-covered donut that the little boy had had for breakfast and swallowed nearly whole.

The lone wolf had been hunting alone because he had alienated the pack.

Two weeks before he killed the little boy, when he was roaming alone in the woods, he came across what he thought was a naked human woman leaning against a tree. He sniffed the air and it didn’t smell like human smell. He cautiously approached the naked “human” and learned it only looked human, but was not.

He had run across Lumberjack Bill’s “special” friend. What the wolf had stumbled upon was Bill’s blow-up sex doll.

The wolf howled “Prey, prey, prey!” thinking it was going to be a funny prank. The pack came running to his summons and tore into the vinyl doll. When she popped and hissed into a non-edible pink pile on the ground, they realized they had been fooled, and ousted the errant wolf from the pack on the spot. To them, his prank was a violation of a key law of the pack: “Wolves don’t fool other wolves.” He was sentenced to to one year of solo existence.

His lamentation, consisting of nonstop howling, angered the townspeople. They organized a vigilante party to track him down and chase him from the woods forever with flaming torchlight. They were unarmed. He saw them coming through the woods, flashlights glowing, torches burning. He howled “Prey, prey, prey!” They were defenseless!

The pack heard his cries and ignored them. They decided it was another trick. The prankster wolf was driven from the woods by the townspeople and took up residence down by the railroad tracks.

It was time to go hunting again. Ironically, the townspeople had driven him closer to town. He was subsisting on groundhogs, squirrels, and the occasional family pet.

It was recess at the elementary school. It was broad daylight when the lone wolf stumbled across all the kids playing outside on the playground. “It’s a miracle,” he thought, “I will summon the pack and we will feast on these little helpless humans and the pack will forgive me.” He howled “Prey, prey, prey.!” The children laughed at his howling. The pack heard the “prey” howl. They decided that even though it could be a prank, running out of the woods in broad daylight would be fun.

Following the howls, they came to playground packed with laughing children harassing the single howling lone wolf. The pack jumped the playground fence and had a five-star meal, eating, mutilating, and mauling, 27 children. After they dined, the wolves retreated far into the forest, and the prankster wolf was pardoned.

The surviving children were admitted to the local hospital for observation. It was determined they all were suffering from PTSD. The State of Montana was sued for negligence. In response, the state legislature raised the bounty on wolves to $1,000 and hired a bunch of lawyers. Now, the pack was hunted hard, but they were unscathed as they moved even deeper into the woods.

They would eat the occasional bounty hunter, but bounty hunters just kept coming. Eventually, the wolves disguised themselves as stray dogs and were adopted by unwitting townspeople who mistook them for German Shepards.

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Erotema

Posted on September 8, 2026 | Leave a comment

Erotema (e-ro-tem’-a): The rhetorical question. To affirm or deny a point strongly by asking it as a question. Generally, as Melanchthon has noted, the rhetorical question includes an emotional dimension, expressing wonder, indignation, sarcasm, etc.

I began, “How many of you actually believe in God?”

Nobody raised their hands. The dinner table fell quiet. My wife, four daughters and two sons just sat there staring at their bean burgers, potato salad, and French fries. They knew I didn’t want an answer. They knew they were all damned to hell.

I continued, “How many of you want to repent right here at the dinner table?”

Again, nobody raised their hands. They knew where I was headed. They were all damned for all eternity. My family! To borrow a phrase, there were all “Sinners in the hands of an angry God.” Just like Jonathan Edwards said, “Your foot shall slide in due time. Repent!”

I was pastor of the “First Corinthian Church of Universal Damnation.” My job was to terrorize parishioners into re-converting every Sunday. I was practicing on my family. I wanted to stab them in their shriveled hearts with truth. I wanted to bludgeon them with guilt. I wanted to push them into the abyss with vivid images of falling into the pit of hell.

I continued, “You sit there coyly undaunted by my questions. Well, what will you think when you smell your own flesh eternally burning on Satan’s grill? What will you do when he takes a bite out of you and spits you out on Hell’s searing floor. You will scream and howl and writhe around like a burning worm.”

I continued, “Before you dig into your bean burgers, repent, and don’t use up all the ketchup!”

They all repented, and saved some ketchup for me. I had triumphed again over my wily adversary: The Fallen Angel, Beelzebub, Satan. Whatever you call him, he’s bad and he clutches many a man’s soul in his gnarly flashing hands—and they don’t even know it! This is humanity’s Grand Disaster: Happiness! Happiness wages war on remorse and repentance every day. It is an undiagnosed cancer on your soul.

I finished up: “Pass the ketchup Micah. My bean burger awaits your obedience to my righteous command.”

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Eucharistia

Posted on September 7, 2026 | Leave a comment

Eucharistia (eu-cha-ris’-ti-a): Giving thanks for a benefit received, sometimes adding one’s inability to repay.

It was pitch dark. No moon. No street lights. Lots of stars. I had dropped my keys in the unlit parking lot and now I couldn’t,t find them. My cellphone was locked in my car. I was screwed. Then I saw her coming across the parking lot. I could see her because she had a flashlight. I was sure her’s was the car parked next to mine. She was coming toward me. When she got up close to me I could see she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She fit all the stereotypes that I had battled to remove from my characterization of women’s looks. One of the worst popped into my head immediately: “Big tits.” I felt like a salivating dog.

Panting, I asked her to help me find my keys. She said she would if I would stop staring at her “breasts.” I promised. She found my keys. As she bent over to pick them up, I thought, “nice ass.” She said, “Oh yeah?” And threw my keys into the darkness.

She had read my mind. I was in deep shit.

She pulled out a what looked like a wand and said “sexist grits, give him tits.” Poof! I was a 38 D. “Nice tits,” she said, “Go find your fu*kin’ keys pretty boy.” I did—the sun was coming up.

That day at work was brutal. My boss asked me where I got the giant “knockers.” My secretary said “It looks like you won the booby prize.” Sal, my best friend who hangs out by the water cooler toasted me with a cup of water “Nice melons Bobetto!” My nemesis Frank asked me if I was wearing a bra.

I couldn’t take it. I ran out of the office. When I got to the parking lot, SHE was standing there. I didn’t know what to do. She caught me in some kind of magical lasso and pulled me toward her. I started praying: “Our Father who art in heaven. . .” She yelled “Shut up!” and made my breasts disappear. She asked me if I had learned anything. I said “Big boobs are a blessing and a curse.” She yelled “Idiot! and zapped even bigger breasts on me. I was a 48 D.

I cried and begged her to return me to normal. She said no and turned me into a woman. She said “Walk a mile in that body and try to learn something.” I did. I walked. I was body shamed with rude catcalls by three men who I passed. One guy got a tent in his pants as he came toward me and passed by. One rube tried to proposition me before saying anything else. Another guy offered me $50 to take a selfie with him squeezing one of my “double lattes.”

I was lost and panic stricken. I was a metonymy—my breasts were me and I was nothing but a breast. A BREAST? I screamed, I woke up. It was a nightmare. I squeezed my little man breasts and gave thanks it was only a dream.

I went back to sleep.

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Euche

Posted on September 6, 2026 | Leave a comment

Euche (yoo’-kay): A vow to keep a promise.

“I promise to do the dishes, “ I broke my promise and my wife did the dishes. “I promise to paint the toolshed.” I broke the promise and we hired Joey Newton, our neighbor’s son. “I promised to rake the leaves.” I broke the promise and we hired Joey again.

As you can plainly see, I’m a chronic promise breaker. I picked up this habit when I was a little boy. I’ve made thousands of promises that I never kept.

The last promise I made was “I’ll be home for dinner at 6 O’clock.”

I never came home.

Out of the thousands of promises I’ve made and broken, there’s one I thought I’d never break. I promised my wife “If space aliens land in our yard, I’ll protect you and our family.”

Then it happened. Two days later space aliens landed in our yard.

I broke my promise.

I peered out the basement window as an alien marched my wife to its space craft. She was carrying our infant son, Richard.

Poof!

My whole family gone in one shot. I vowed never to make another promise. I became a liar instead. I continued down the road of inconstancy with lies flying everywhere. Lying was much easier than breaking promises. I lied about my age. I lied about my job. I lied about my height and weight, ethnicity, hair color, my favorite things, bank account, education, and everything else. I didn’t know what I believed any more, but one thing was true: I was lonely. Then, I met Mindy, a chronic promise breaker. We were enrolled in “It’s All Bullshit,” a seminar for people like us.

We made a perfect couple: a chronic promise-breaker and a chronic liar. She was unreliable, and I was dishonest. This created the empty space between us that was our relationship: we had no expectation of follow-through or honesty. Since there was no expectation between us, there was nothing to get upset about. My lies were detectable. Her promises were ridiculous.

We lived happily ever after, free of the soul-numbing expectations that tear so many relationships apart.

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Eulogia

Posted on September 5, 2026 | Leave a comment

Eulogia (eu-lo’-gi-a): Pronouncing a blessing for the goodness in a person.

“Barbara: You are the flower in my vase, the maple syrup on my Spam, the ‘Mercedes’ in my Mercedes Benz, the battery in my wall clock, the coke in my rum & coke, the three rings in my binder, the bee in my hive. In short, you mean everything to me. I am blessed to have you as my cleaning lady. Surely you were sent to me by God to open my heart, clean my condo and help me to see that goodness can be achieved by somebody, and that ‘that somebody’ is you. Thank you for being alive. Thank-you for gracing me with your presence on a Saturday morning and preparing my condo for tonight’s party. Thank you for agreeing to pop out of this giant cake at midnight clad only in this thong and dancing to the tune of ‘Surfin Bird’ while holding a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue over your head. You will be the highlight of the night for my guests; the Officers and Chief of the First Precinct.”

Barbara looked at me affectionately, eyes brightly twinkling. She was my fifth cleaning lady in the span of five weeks. I had fired them all for refusing to participate in my weekly parties, and clean up afterwards. Every one of them cited “having good morals” which kept them from that part of the job. They made sick. But Barbara made me feel whole. She said she would do anything for me.

Before I won the lotto for $25 million, I was a high school teacher and Barbara was my student. She would sit in the back corner of the classroom with a dazed look on her face, like she was lost in some kind of dream. After she graduated she went to work for “Clean Sweep Janitorial Services.” That’s where we “reestablished” our connection. I immediately had my attorney draw up a contract and I hired Barbara away from Clean Sweep the next day.

I think she loves me, but I don’t love her. I like her a lot, but it’s not love, although I pretend to love her by doing the things with her that lovers do. My favorite thing to do is shower her with praise and watch her revel in my words. Even though my love is pretend, I’m thinking of marrying her. In other words, I’m actually starting to believe the praise I heap on her. Besides, what 46 year old millionaire wouldn’t want a beautiful, loyal, kind, and thoughtful 20 year old wife? I’m convinced!

I asked.

She turned me down. She told me she does not love me and the praise I heap on her is a bunch of bullshit, but she likes it. She said she wants to keep things the way they are, and besides her boyfriend, Buck Bronkowski, would not let her marry me anyway.

Fu*king goddamn Buck Bronkowski. Former student. Class clown. High School drop out. Handsome inarticulate Neanderthal.

I fired Barbara the next day. I replaced her with my mother.

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Eustathia

Posted on September 4, 2026 | Leave a comment

Eustathia (yoos-tay’-thi-a): Promising constancy in purpose and affection.

I told her I would love her always—at work and at play, together wiping down cars as they emerged from the Pinky Winky Car Wash, and at the “Corn Hole” board in my parent’s back yard. She laughed and hit me in the face with her wet wiping rag.

Annie knew I was full of shit. I thought of tailoring my profession of love to the car wash and Corn Hole would make it more credible. But I screwed up. We had never played Corn Hole. I had mixed her up with Holly,

The day before I had told Holly what I had told Annie but the work we do is different, so I used it along with Corn Hole: we actually play Corn Hole. I moonlight and work with Holly in the mall handing out flyers for Madame Fletcher Fortune Teller. She had a booth on the main concourse and did a good business with impulse clients.

I told her about the Annie blunder and she took out her cards. She said, “Give me five dollars and the cards will tell you what to do.” I gave her the five dollars and she cut the deck. Up came the suicide king—the king of hearts. She shrieked and threw the deck up in the air. The cards fell on the floor all around us. They were all suicide kings!

Madame Fletcher ran out into mall yelling “The shit will hit the fan!” Suddenly Annie and Holly were standing there. Annie had her rag and Holly held a Madame Fletcher Flyer cut in the shape of a dagger. They said in perfect harmony “Screw you two-timer.”

They started walking slowly toward me. Annie was swinging her rag over her head. Holly had her paper dagger aimed at my crotch. I was ashamed and blushed and told them I loved them both and I didn’t know what to do. They put down their “weapons” and opened their arms to me. Annie said, “Love is love. I’ll take what I can get.” Holly nodded her head in agreement. “Me too,” she said.

We moved to God’s Country, Utah where polygamy is permitted.

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Example

Posted on September 3, 2026 | Leave a comment

Example (ɪɡˈzæm.pəl) A specific case or single item that shows what a larger group, rule, or type is like. Adds vividness.(Cambridge English Dictionary)

I told Norman: “Your nose was the king of noses. Now it’s a perfect example of how a nose job can change your whole demeanor. When you were king, I’ll never forget the time a wren perched on your nose, and stayed as your perfect pet. He was loud and proud, and now your vanity has rendered him homeless. Every day he circles around your head for five to ten minutes tweeting out “Snowbird,” an example of the “broken bird blues”.

The little stub of a nose you have now makes you look like a bunny rabbit, especially when it wiggles when you get excited. I hear you’re going to get your floppy ears docked at the vet. I hope you get them pointed like an elf’s. That would go perfectly with your bunny nose. Ha ha!

You can get gigs on Easter and Christmas playing the Easter Bunny and one of Santa’s elves. Here, I’ve gotten this Easter basket and these bunny whiskers to get you started. Also, here’s a white furry suit with a cotton tail attached to it.”

Norman thanked me, donned his suit, picked up his basket and hopped out the door.

Norman headed straight for Cliff’s and began his life of crime. He robbed all the scratch-off lotto tickets, and headed for his “hutch” where he lived—a two-bedroom home on Bundino Street.

He was sitting in the middle of a pile of scratched off lotto tickets when the police knocked loudly on his front door. He didn’t answer the door so they smashed it open with a battering ram. They arrested and handcuffed Norman, and took him off to jail.

At his trial he accused me of instigating the robbery at Cliff’s. He claimed the bunny suit I gave him “triggered” him. He wiggled his nose repeatedly while he was testifying.

The Prosector said: “Norman is a free agent. It was Norman, not the bunny suit, that instigated Norman to commit the robbery. A robbery that was so stupid, so inept and so poorly planned; as exemplified by the fact that the accused did not even cover his face—he didn’t even wear a balaclava, mandatory garb among all canny criminals. CCTV shows him with an armful of scratch-off lotto tickets smiling at the camera. What an idiot. He is as guilty as it gets.”

Norman was found guilty and remanded to Fallen Loon State Prison for three years where he organized the annual prisoner “Egg on Spoon Race” and “Easter Egg Hunt.” For the spoon race, the inmates are given plastic spoons. All participants are awarded a small chocolate bunny which they trade among themselves for cigarettes, soap, detective novels, and dried fruits (mainly apricots and raisins).

POSTSCRIPT

Norman was paroled after serving two years of his three-year sentence. He is employed as full-time elf-in-residence at “Santa Land Toys” at the Bubbling Brook Mall. Also, he is once again allowed to shop at the Cliff’s convenience store—he buys 1 Red Bull and 1 scratch-off lotto ticket every day. After seven weeks, his lotto winnings are a total of $4.00, and one free Take Five.

He keeps his bunny suit hanging in his front hall closet. Sometimes he puts it on and hops around his living room singing “Here Comes Peter Cottontail Tail (hopping down the bunny trail).”

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Eutrepismus

Posted on September 3, 2026 | Leave a comment

Eutrepismus (eu-tre-pis’-mus): Numbering and ordering the parts under consideration. A figure of division, and of ordering.

July 4, 1765

“Our ship is sinking! The good ship ‘Wild Banshee’ is going down.

  1. Pump the bilges
  2. Close the hatches
  3. Kiss your asses goodbye”

This was Captain Nick’s third “sinking ship drill” in as many days. Each time he left out “Abandon ship!” This did not bode well for our survival.

I brought this up in our weekly meeting with Captan Nick. His response was: “This is a pirate ship you idiots! It is better to drown than to hang.” He assumed a sinking scenario where we might be captured by the British, transported to jail, tried, and hanged.

I proposed that we develop a second, backup, sinking strategy that included “abandon ship” as an option. We should have life boats and all be issued life jackets so we would survive. What if we tore out our pirate ship’s bottom on a rock ledge? What if Chef Montblank started a fire in the galley? What if we were hit by a meteor? There were many sinking scenarios beyond being captured!

I proposed the following:

  1. Close the hatches
  2. Don the life jackets
  3. Man the life boats
  4. Abandon ship

Captain Nick reminded me that we had no life jackets or life boats. So, I eliminated number three and number two. That significantly diminished our chances of survival. So, we petitioned Captain Nick to equip the Wild Banshee with life jackets and life boats. Captain Nick capitulated and purchased one life boat and three life jackets for our twenty-two man crew.

We protested. It didn’t work. Captan Nick told us to “Go suck bilge water.”

We mutinied. We hanged Captain Nick and his First Mate from a yard arm, and embarked on a classic pirate mission. We hoped to buy life boats and life jackets with our plunder. We decided to go after “The Golden Smoke Ring,” a three-masted schooner in the tobacco trade. We had it on good authority that it was due to sail from Chesapeake Bay with a full load of tobacco the next day with the morning tide. We hastened off to capture it, sailing from Tangier Island under cover of darkness.

Our “good authority” turned out to be a British spy. “The Golden Smoke Ring” turned out to be the “HMS Bollocks” disguised as a merchant ship. As soon as a we got in range, they blew us all to hell. As the “Wild Banshee” is sinking, I will try to kiss my ass goodbye, but . . .

POSTSCRIPT

The author of the little scrap of writing above (miraculously found afloat on a piece of the Captain’s writing desk), did not get to finish it before the pirate ship took another direct hit and quickly sank and to the bottom of the bay. He drowned.

We assume, sadly, that he never got the chance to kiss his ass goodbye.

INTERESTING LITERARY HISTORY NOTE

The author of the partially completed note above was the Captain who was appointed after Captain Nick was “fired” by “dancing in the wind.” His name was Carl Ahab. He was distantly related to Captain Ahab, the insane whaler with no first name who was made famous by Herman Melville in Moby Dick.

The Ahabs trace their lineage back to the evil King Ahab, who, along with his foreign wife and advisor Jezebel, spread idol worship in Israel c. 720 BCE.

The three Ahabs share in common their propensity for evil, although Carl Ahab’s evil pales in comparison to Captain Ahab’s and King Ahab’s.

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Exergasia

Posted on September 2, 2026 | Leave a comment

Exergasia (ex-er-ga’-si-a): Repetition of the same idea, changing either its words, its delivery, or the general treatment it is given. A method for amplification, variation, and explanation. As such, exergasia compares to the progymnasmata exercises (rudimentary exercises intended to prepare students of rhetoric for the creation and performance of complete practice orations).

There would be no more “free lunches” for me. “The Ricky Nelson Homeless Shelter” had closed its doors, gone belly up, bit the big one, gone kaput. It had been my lunchtime life-line for 12 years. That’s a lot of lunches. Now, the only free lunch in town was the Hare Krishna Temple: free bowl of rice and two cups of tea, no meat ever—a far cry from “Ricky Nelson’s” sumptuous feasts—flat-iron steak, a raw bar, Chicken Kiev, Greek style cheese cake, broiled halibut, sushi, imported beer, goat cheese Caesar’s salad, calamari, and much, much more.

I was turning into a stick from my one meal of the day: rice. I decided to start stealing food from Cliff’s—a combination gas station and convenience store. I’d go into the store and stuff something good in my pants, and then, nonchalantly leave Cliff’s like nothing happened!

In my first attempt, I learned that stuffing a slice of pizza down your pants is a bad idea, but not all bad ideas lead to totally bad outcomes.

My pants got all stained and the warm pizza in my pants made me want to poop. I had to run behind Cliff’s to let the dump go, out of the public eye. As I squatted there going number-two and eating my pizza, I noticed there was a women’s purse in the bushes to my right. It probably had been misplaced or even stolen.

When I was done, I grabbed the purse. It was green and had a big dirt smudge on the side. I tried rubbing off the dirt smudge, and the purse glowed, got warm and said “Congratulations. Your wishes are my commands.”

I dropped it. I was initially scared by the talking purse. But then, I remembered the story of “Aladdin’s Lamp.”: This guy found a lamp and was polishing it when a genie popped out and granted his wishes. There was no genie here, but the purse had offered to grant my wishes, just like Aladdin’s lamp. I thought for a minute. I told the purse, “I want to win the ‘New York Take Five’ scratch-off lotto $5,000 jackpot. But first, I wish for one dollar so I can go back in Cliff’s and buy the ticket.” A dollar bill popped out of the purse. I grabbed it, slung the purse over my shoulder, and went back into Cliff’s, bought the ticket, scratched it off, and won $5,000. While I was still in Cliff’s I asked purse to pay for the chips, Red Bull, and sour cream dip I had grabbed. The purse complied.

Now that I was rich, I needed to upgrade my homeless situation. I had my refrigerator box weather proofed, bought two white plastic lounge chairs, a twin mattress, a hibachi, and a solar powered refrigerator and radio.

I had had my eye on Dirty Mary for nearly a year: she was my neighbor. She was more than pretty, beautiful, or gorgeous. She was angelic. Now, I could invite her to “my place” for dinner. I asked and she agreed. I grilled a couple of pigeons on my hibachi. We drank our muscatel from cups and feasted on the pigeons, with one raw carrot each on the side. We got drunk, crawled into “my place,” and went wild.

Now, I rarely use my magic purse. Dirty Mary and I are happy with what we’ve got: food, shelter, and clothing. The last time I used the purse, I asked for a Ducati and two helmets. When winter come’s, I’m asking for shed for the Ducati, heat, and a snow blower.

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Exouthenismos

Posted on September 1, 2026 | Leave a comment

Exouthenismos (ex-ou-then-is’-mos): An expression of contempt.

I hate you for everything you don’t do. You don’t compliment me. You don’t hold me tight. You don’t make me breakfast. You don’t text me back. You don’t visit me at “The Nervous Gorge Home for the Differently Wired.” Sure, you think I tried to drown you in my little brother’s fishbowl. But, it isn’t true. You are so mistaken. I was just trying to wash your dirty little face. You should be grateful you great big giant whore. (I learned that bad word here at “The Home.” I learned a ton of bad words from Wilbur the talking puffin. He comes from Iceland where he was a crazy old man’s pet. The old man taught him to talk in English after slitting his tongue in half.)

Most of the time Wilbur just sits on his perch and says “fu*k you” over and over until somebody swats him off the perch. I love taking my turn at giving him the swat! It makes me feel virile like I used to feel before I met you at the “Corn Town High School Senior Prom.” Neither of us had a date. We were a stag and a stagette, lonely, wandering lost in the festivities, when we bumped into each other. Your giant boobs cushioned our impact like a pair of rubber baby buggy bumpers. My skinny frame was awash in human contact as we embraced while looking into each other’s ears and dancing slowly and sensually to “Earth Angel” the prom’s final dance. Romance was in the air, so thick you couldn’t cut it with a bandsaw, or even a chainsaw. It was ROMANCE!!

When the dance ended, you told me to hold out my hands as you deftly zip tied them together. You dragged me into the bushes by the parking lot and stuck your tongue in my ear. This was my first time, and it stoked my fever for you. In return, I held my restrained hands around your head and blew real hard in your face. You cut my zip ties with the scissors you had stolen from art class and we went our separate ways, and I hate you more than whatever you hate the most. When and if I see you again, I will push you down, bitch (another bad word I learned from the bird).

POSTSCRIPT

Bobbie will never be released from “The Home.” As you can see from what he’s written above his thoughts are deranged in such a way that they can’t be rearranged. He is what we call a bearer of “Vivid Experience Error.” All of the above never happened or doesn’t exist. Robbie lives in a world of his own making that intersects the real world in dangerous ways. In Bobbie’s case it involves trying to push anybody down who gets within three feet of him.

His “cell” floor is cushioned with memory foam mattresses so he can safely receive visitors.

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Expeditio

Posted on August 31, 2026 | Leave a comment

Expeditio (ex-pe-di’-ti-o): After enumerating all possibilities by which something could have occurred, the speaker eliminates all but one (=apophasis). Although the Ad Herennium author lists expeditio as a figure, it is more properly considered a method of argument [and pattern of organization] (sometimes known as the “Method of Residues” when employed in refutation), and “Elimination Order” when employed to organize a speech. [The reference to ‘method’ hearkens back to the Ramist connection between organizational patterns of discourses and organizational pattern of arguments]).

It wasn’t an apple. It wasn’t an orange. In logic’s lore comparing them to each other is a grave error. But maybe, just maybe, today would flesh out the possibility. But, we can’t dwell on that now with gargantuan possibilities breathing down my neck, staining my undershirt with sweet smelling puffs of soapy air. Could it be done?

Could we make it on foot through the car wash?

There were five stages. First, was the huge rolling brush. Second, the swirling side brushes. Third, the undercarriage rust proofing. Fourth, the clear spring water rinse. Fifth, and last, the blow dry—hurricane-force winds to dry us off.

Me and my Airedale Binky had taken “The Car Wash Challenge” from Lars Dinwaller, the Swedish exchange student and class bully. As he fed my $3.00 into the car wash’s dollar bill validator he said “Haw haw, haw to you American loser and stupid dog. This is the end. Haw, haw, haw!”

We had no fear. We had practiced in my lawn sprinkler and we were ready.

Stage one, the huge rolling brush was in front of us. Binky whined. It was poised above our heads. We dashed under it. Stage One, done! Next up was Stage Two—the side brushes. Twirling and spewing suds, they came toward us from both sides. Binky growled. He was hit by a brush. He went down. I had soap in eyes, but I scooped Binky up and ran forward, almost blindly. Nevertheless, Stage Two was conquered. On to Stage Three: the undercarriage rust proofing. I laid Binky over one the nozzles. The cold spraying chemicals revived him. He jumped up and ran toward the spring-water rinse. We had beaten Stage Three. But Lars had cheated. Before reached Stage Four, we were pummeled by the Hot Wax option. We were sticky and could barely make it to the next stage. Under the cold spring water rinse the wax began to harden. I did a little jig and Binky chased his tail and the wax cracked and fell away. We emerged from the rinse, clean and clear. Looking forward to being buffeted by the hurricane drying winds, we had “beaten” the wax, thwarted Lars, and knocked off the rinse at Stage Four. I yelled, in keeping with my Viking heritage, “Odin, bring on the wind” and Binky howled like a tree-toppling microburst. We ran into the wind and were spit out onto the pavement on the other side. Stage Five bested. That, was it. One to five—all obstacles conquered one by one, leaving us only the nickname name that was our due: “Car Wash Kings.”

We had done it. Now, according to the rules, since we beat the car wash, our challenger was required to take the challenge.

Lars just stood there dumbfounded, looking at the two of us—our shiny clean hair and fur glinting in the afternoon sun. He screamed something in Swedish and ran into the wrong end of the car wash, never to be seen again. It is said that, since Lars disappeared, whenever the car wash’s hot wax squirts, it sounds like “Haw, haw, haw!”

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Exuscitatio

Posted on August 30, 2026 | Leave a comment

Exuscitatio (ex-us-ci-ta’-ti-o): Stirring others by one’s own vehement feeling (sometimes by means of a rhetorical question, and often for the sake of exciting anger).

“This one’s for Mary, may she rest in peace. She risked everything (including her life) to save our zucchini plants from the herd of marauding groundhogs. They overwhelmed her and pushed her into the hole they had dug in the garden box, and clubbed her to death with our prized 2.5 foot zucchini.”

This was Arnold’s attempt to rally us to hire an exterminator to rid us of the groundhog family wreaking havoc on our garden boxes. Mary was there standing alongside him while he tried to rally the The Darnsville co-op to the aid of his cause. The groundhogs had burrowed under the toolshed, spending their winters there, and roaming free range during the warmer seasons destroying our small gardens.

We had to hit them and hit them hard.

I interrupted Arnold to say, “Although Arnold is full of shit, we do need to address the groundhog problem. These little fat bastards are tearing our gardens to hell—leaving us with empty uprooted tomato vines, half-eaten zucchini’s and eggplants and small holes in the ground where our yellow squash used to be. This can’t go on. This can’t continue. They are evil. We must kill them—kill, kill, kill them by the ruthless hand of the exterminator man.”

Co-op members began yelling “kill, kill, kill” and searching their smartphones for exterminators specializing in groundhogs.

We settled on “Dead Grounhog,” clearly specializing in groundhog extermination. “Bomber McPhee,” the proprietor, showed up the next morning. We hired him on the spot after he gave us his pitch. He would mount 11 AR16’s in a motion-actived crossfire positioned to blanket the garden boxes in “hot lead.”

We were all set. We retreated to the clubhouse to await the sound of gunfire as the groundhogs were sliced and diced by “hot lead.” Suddenly the guns began firing. Over the din we heard the occasional squeal as a groundhog was fatally wounded and crawled off to die.

The gunfire died down and stopped and Bomber knocked on the clubhouse door. He came in and told us “three KIA and three took shelter under the toolshed.” He asked if he could blow up the tool shed and “finish the job.” The toolshed had come prefabricated from Lowe’s for $650. That was a small price to pay to end the groundhogs’ rampage..

Bomber rigged the toolshed with four sticks of dynamite and blew it up. We observed groundhog chunks flying into sky as the remains of the toolshed flew in all directions.

“Mission accomplished,” yelled Bomber. We paid him in cash. We give him 5 stars on the “Extermination Nation” website for his flashy uniform, courtesy, pathological desire to kill groundhogs, and his cleanup crew leaving our co-op gardens “like nothing ever happened.”

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Gnome

Posted on August 29, 2026 | Leave a comment

Gnome (nome or no’-mee): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegm, maxim, paroemia, proverb, and sententia.

“If the sandal fits, wear it.”

This saying is from the “Compiled Quotes of Papootse Maximus: Wisdom of the Foot.” At first glance one wonders how feet could be wise—then upon reading the quotation above, you may say to yourself, “Why did I think that?”

For starters, let’s take a look at that quote. “If the sandal fits, wear it” probably means something about feeling comfortable with yourself. As papootse says, “Properly fitting footwear will take you where you need to go, blister-free,”

Using the foot as a metaphor or the self, Maximus taps an almost endless litany of sayings germane to one’s “walk” through life. It can, by the way, be attached to running or hopping. It can also be referenced to standing still, either voluntarily or being constrained by features in your environment, like walls or fences, or by the people in your life who impede your metaphorical “movement,” either for your own good, or in fulfillment of their selfish, controlling, motives.

These “footaphors“ are but one example of the figurative stretch of body parts as they are used to concoct sayings. For example: “Your future is in your hands.” This may motivate a person to “get going” and quit waiting for luck, or something else, to cause their goals’ achievement. In fact, “handaphors” are quite prevelant in sayings, given their importance as a body part in their own right as in “Get a grip” with both useful literal and figurative significance. Get a grip could literally refer to clutching an object (like a golf club) or regaining one’s self control (like quelling your fear).

What about “The nose knows?” Clever indeed. I leave it to you the reader to plumb the saying’s depths. But let me just say, it may be an admonition not to depend solely on reason as a necessary warrant for your insights.

In a similar vein, my favorite gnome is “The TRUTH does NOT speak for itself.” I coined it after my second divorce.

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