Monthly Archives: April 2016


Paromologia (par-o-mo-lo’-gi-a): Conceding an argument, either jestingly and contemptuously, or to prove a more important point. A synonym for concessio.

Ok Ok, so I’m wrong about Hillary’s boob job–it was a good boob job! In the past 10 years I’ve become a better judge of boob jobs. Hillary’s has withstood the test of time. It has aged wonderfully and currently fits her frumpy shape.  I guess you could say she had foresight, but 10 years–come on–we need to plan a little closer to the present to really make a difference.

Take my Mexican “Wall Job” for example. It actually has a completion date set.  Not only that, over time we can build it taller and taller–some day it may cast a shadow over all of Mexico, making us more competitive in agriculture, while at the same time keeping every illegal out of our sacred USA!

But that’s not all–we can plaster the wall with solar panels and make the United States of America the solar energy center of the world.

God bless America.

God bless you.

God bless me: Donald Trump, Wealthy Seer, Real Estate Mogul, and the next president of the United States of America!

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Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (


Paronomasia (pa-ro-no-ma’-si-a): Using words that sound alike but that differ in meaning (punning).

Finally we have somebody who knows the difference between a paratrooper and a parasailor–US Army airborne and US Navy S.E.A.L.s. Just remember, though, S.E.A.L.s are generally not towed by speedboats until they float aloft–they are sailors, not sailers! Anyway, only God and WARCOM know all the ways S.E.A.L.s may be deployed! But one thing is for sure: air, earth, or water, they never para-diddle!

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Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (


Parrhesia (par-rez’-i-a): Either to speak candidly or to ask forgiveness for so speaking. Sometimes considered a vice.

Joe: “I’m sorry, but you smell like you’ve been swimming in dog shit.”

Beth: “Don’t you know the difference between dog shit and cow shit?”

Joe: “Well, I’ve got to say ‘No’ and thank-god for that! Where I come from, Shit is shit. End of story.”

Beth: “Where are you from?”

Joe: “Stoner, BC.”

Beth: “Oh, I’m from Ding Dong, Texas.”

Joe: “Wow, cool! But, I hate to say it, you still smell like dog shit or cow shit or whatever the hell kind of shit you’ve been rolling in.  Why don’t you catch a quick shower, dump on some sexy cologne, and we can meet out by the pool?”

Beth: “Oh Joe–I think I’m going to be your cowgirl in the sand! See you at the pool.”

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Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (


Pathopoeia ( path-o-poy’-a): A general term for speech that moves hearers emotionally, especially as the speaker attempts to elicit an emotional response by way of demonstrating his/her own feelings (exuscitatio). Melanchthon explains that this effect is achieved by making reference to any of a variety of pathetic circumstances: the time, one’s gender, age, location, etc

I closed my eyes, but the darkness made me more aware of the smell–unblended, sharply distinct smells squeezing through the sticky blood oozing from my nose–organic, inorganic: chalky dust from powdered plaster, rubber, blood (theirs), offal (theirs), burnt plastic, piss (my own), and through the ringing in my ears: unstoppable shrieks, droning groans: the sort of uncontrollable keening whining sound brain-injured victims make as they hover on the edge of comatose, and the tearful, angry, fearful, pain wracked, sorrowful, terrified yelling: “Help me” and “fucking hell,” “god damn it,” “my baby,””Jesus Christ,””shit,””fuck,” “I can’t see” and more.

Tractor trailer on its side–smoking. At least eight cars, and pickups and a FEDEX truck smoking and burning, leaking oil and gasoline, slickening and shining the pavement with rainbow pollutants. Among the dead, one teen-aged kid still clutches a blue and white can of America’s cheapest beer brand–the torn case crumpled behind her; cardboard soaking up her blood, cans strewn for fifty yards. Her legs are severed from her torso, below what used to be her hips. And she’s not the only one mutilated beyond belief, but there are others dead from crushed chests and skulls, others sitting sobbing bleeding grieving, others sitting cracked, fractured and broken, others are milling about. Still others, who escaped injury, trying to help what might be the handful of helpable victims: coats become blankets, blankets become shawls, flares are lit and cast their emergency-red glow and shadows of the fallen, the standing, the sitting, the kneeling awash in tangled metal, tires, mirrors, glass and chrome, scattered on the cold hard asphalt.

Broken car horns blare in competition with far off sirens singing “we are on are on our way.” “We are on are on our way.” “We are on are on our way.”

. . .

And the happy little nineteen-year-old student sits at the lunch table, staring at the old professor as he takes a sip from the third glass of  wine he’s had in the past 2.5 hours. She weighs 99 pounds; he weighs 265. She’s about 5.5 feet tall; he is 6 feet 3 inches. He has a beard. She has a smooth freckled face.

As it happens every once in awhile the old professor’s head has come alive with clogged-up Vietnam memory lanes, veins, and arteries. God only knows what triggers it, but there he is, fighting for his sanity while the happy little nineteen-year-old and the other five students chomp away on whatever they want! The old professor is generous. He thinks, “We could all be dead.” And then his stomach jumps and the happy little nineteen-year-old laughs and looks up at him from behind her fork. He fakes a smile. He wants to go to bed.  He wants to watch television. He wants to be asleep. He wants to be somewhere else, living in somebody else’s head. Sometimes he just wants to be dead.

“Time to go.” “Finish up,” I say. “Big day tomorrow.”

I drive them back to the hotel.

The next day, at lunch, the happy little nineteen-year-old tells me she feared for her life “last night” when I drove them all back to the hotel after “drinking.”

I am horrified. I am stung. I am worried. I say, “After all I’ve been through, do you think I would ever put you or any other student in harm’s way?” She says, “You are not allowed to drink,  and especially, drink and drive. I will not tell the Dean if you promise not to tell anybody we had this conversation.”

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Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (


Perclusio (per-clu’-si-o): A threat against someone, or something.

If you don’t get the delegates you need for the nomination, when you get to Cleveland you better get ready to hear the RNC floor chant: Better call Paul! Better call Paul!  Better call Paul!

But we know this Paul guy’s no dummy.  A little pressure applied in the right places will keep his answer on target.

I’m not saying we’re going to harvest anybody’s thumbs, I’m just saying Ryan better start saying, “Don’t call Paul!” “Paul doesn’t want to talk to you!” or his DC glory days are done forever.

If he wants a bright future: if he wants to keep pulling out plums, Pauly Porgy better call Georgy Porgy and find out how to be a good boy for the next five years.

So, panic not, we have a plan!

We’re here for you Teddy-Ready-Bear. Unfortunately, though, Trumpster’s ass is going to get a free pass off of you on this one. BUT: Have no fear, we’ve got one waiting for Mr. T-rump and it isn’t his favorite scotch or an Eastern European supermodel. It doesn’t go ‘boom’ either–it goes ‘bust’ as in collapse, fiasco, scandal, financial ruin.  Ha! Ha!

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Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (


Periergia (pe-ri-er’-gi-a): Overuse of words or figures of speech. As such, it may simply be considered synonymous with macrologia. However, as Puttenham’s term suggests, periergia may differ from simple superfluity in that the language appears over-labored.

The morning wind stole clothes. 6.00 a.m. in my underpants. I should’ve pitched a tent, made a shelter, used my head, slept in my clothes, knew better, looked at the weather forecast, stayed home, or listened to my mommy when she said “Son, your feet are made for blisters, and that’s what they’re going to do after you walk to Colorado in your brand-new Danish shoes.”


Even if I had listened to my mommy, I would still be standing here in my underpants.  Besides, Mommy is mentally unbalanced. That’s why I left her in the garage duct-taped to the red wheelbarrow I bought at Bill Williams’s yard sale when it was raining last Tuesday. Damn, I should’ve pinned a note on her. Something like:

So much depends on the duct tape

Holding Mommy to the red wheelbarrow

Glazed with chicken shit

I have gone camping

Latitude: 37.3192
Longitude: -108.509

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Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (


Period: The periodic sentence, characterized by the suspension of the completion of sense until its end. This has been more possible and favored in Greek and Latin, languages already favoring the end position for the verb, but has been approximated in uninflected languages such as English. [This figure may also engender surprise or suspense–consequences of what Kenneth Burke views as ‘appeals’ of information.]

The mud slings are manufactured on the street by experience, success, and flailure–yes–flailure: the endless waving of banners of hope over the blown up handbrakes and double dealing mandrakes raking in fortunes like hot coals over naked backs born of misfortune horning up and down the narrow so-called side streets of the Village, where cats cool and otherwise once surmised acoustically, sipping beer in coffee houses hassled by tormented landlords raising their hands, raising their rents, raising violets and violence in late night bill collections from hand banging tambourine men (and women) in high-heeled Spanish sneakers  singing a sort of beautiful rage in voices like rusted braces walking across dim lit puddles of ice, slushy grammar, molding dog shit pilasters commemorating the last acid flash, and five yard dash toward a smoldering stark white butt faintly glowing on the tarmac tossed off by a poodle walker walking poodle toward Washington Square, past the shop of Hollywood underwear, past the glowing benches into the sirens’ call–up 5th Avenue, up, up up.

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


Periphrasis (per-if’-ra-sis): The substitution of a descriptive word or phrase for a proper name (a species of circumlocution); or, conversely, the use of a proper name as a shorthand to stand for qualities associated with it. (Circumlocutions are rhetorically useful as euphemisms, as a method of amplification, or to hint at something without stating it.)

She’s pulling another Hillary!

Pre-Democratic Primary Election, she keeps talking about New York as if she’s been here since the 17th century! The “as if” factor is wearing thin.  I, for one am tired of listening through the vague repetitive references to aspects of Hillary that I, as a New Yorker am supposed to identify with.

The “Hillary” she’s pulling regarding New York is the “I was your Senator . . .” move. Yes, it’s a fact. She was my Senator, but without being reminded, I don’t remember anything that happened on her watch aside from the fact that everybody knew she was using her elected office as a stepping stone to bigger and better things. For all the time it’s taken her to step off the New York Senator stone, she might as well have made New York a hiking trail to the moon. But really, what the heck did she do for me when she was senator?

Oh–thank you Google!

Hillary sponsored 363 bills! Three became law. Perhaps the least memorable bill to become law was “A bill to designate the facility of the United States Postal Service located at 2951 New York Highway 43 in Averill Park, New York, as the ‘Major George Quamo Post Office Building’.” Just in case you’re wondering what the other two are:

Kate Mullany National Historic Site Act

A bill to designate a portion of United States Route 20A, located in Orchard Park, New York, as the “Timothy J. Russert Highway”

3 for 363! I think I may just have Bernied Hillary (look up all the stats)! I must admit though, I do like the Tim Russert Highway! Too bad Bernie.

Oh–I just thought of another piece of pre-primary Hillarying: Hillary’s trying to Hillary New York with her NY residency thing!

We’ve all heard the cliche “A house is not a home.” Even though it’s a mansion in Hillary’s case, I would like to know how many days per year she spends there chilling with The Billster. I know it can’t be less than zero, but I don’t whether it’s more than that.

Hillary: Is your “residence” in New York a house or a home? That is, shouldn’t  you call New York your House State rather than your Home State?

Hillary. Hillary. Hillary. It’s an innuendo crescendo! An allusion collusion! A salami tsunami! (I can’t think of a word that rhymes with “baloney”)

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Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (


Personification: Reference to abstractions or inanimate objects as though they had human qualities or abilities. The English term for prosopopeia (pro-so-po-pe’-i-a) or ethopoeia (e-tho-po’-ia): the description and portrayal of a character (natural propensities, manners and affections, etc.).

Wisconsin has given Ted and Bernie a big thumbs up and Hillary and Donald two big thumbs up–up their  keisters! Ha ha!

Oh, and what did Wisconsin give Kasich? A greased flagpole? A barbed wire banana? A cheddar noose?

Maybe this isn’t funny. But this is Wisconsin, not Wyoming!

Cheese and crackers! Have a brewsky! Take a load off. Relax.

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Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (


Polyptoton (po-lyp-to’-ton): Repeating a word, but in a different form. Using a cognate of a given word in close proximity.

There you go again. Your cautious optimism is optometry gone wild.

You’re so far gone that going your way is like going back to Karl Marx, Vermont–AKA Burlington–home of the vast left-wing conspiracy that is winging its way toward Washington on the carbon monoxide clouds of your eye-watering hot air.

I’m wondering Bernie: Where’s the beef?

You are no Jack Kennedy.

Why don’t you go back to your plume-filled back room down in Foggy Bottom and hatch plots with your vape-huffing cronies?

Even if I or anybody else inhales the juice you’re vaping down there, you’re making a giant sucking sound and your voodoo economics and your vision thing look like a thousand points of light shining out your ass toward New York.

Have you no sense of decency, sir?

Bernie, why don’t you just close your eyes and disappear until it is morning again in America and your socialist poison has been purged from the air?

I would remind you that moderation in defense of the status quo is no vice.

To all you doubters out there, I say “Read my Email, no new ideas!”

Ich bin ein Berliner!

Sie sind ein Spargel!

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Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (