Monthly Archives: December 2021


Anacoenosis (an’-a-ko-en-os’-is): Asking the opinion or judgment of the judges or audience, usually implying their common interest with the speaker in the matter [and illustrating their communally-held ideals of truth, justice, goodness and beauty, for better and for worse].

We are all here today for the same reason. We may have different feelings about it, but all of you can tell me why. We are here to support each other as we struggle with our loss. I lost my car keys this week. You lost your wedding ring two day ago. You lost your wallet this morning. You lost your battery charger last week. We could call each other losers, but that, in a way, ridicules our common problem: losing things, from little thing like Jane’s contacts, to big things like Ed’s truck.

We are tired of hearing “Why are you always losing things?” “You’d lose your head if it wasn’t fastened on.” “You give getting lost a new meaning.” “What’re you going to lose next, your mind?”

Do you know what I mean? Yes! Am I on the right track? Yes! What more can I say? Oh damn, I can’t find my notecard, but I’ll keep going. There are adhesive chips we can buy and put on everything we own. The chips emit signals that will lead you to a lost item through an app on your iPhone. Each chip has a distinct frequency, so you can trace and recover multiple items. Now, the only problem is if you lose your phone. However, there ‘s good news. Your phone has an app that will find your phone as long as it is turned on.

I lost the chip company’s internet address, but I am sure we can find it on Google. I think it may be called LoserFinder.

From now on, when asked where something is, we’ll never be at a “loss” again. Ha ha.

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

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.


Anacoloutha (an-a-co’-lu-tha): Substituting one word with another whose meaning is very close to the original, but in a non-reciprocal fashion; that is, one could not use the first, original word as a substitute for the second. This is the opposite of acoloutha.

My face, my soul’s mask, blurts out the breaking promise I am about to throw into your life—broken before it is made, in pieces in my heart like shattered ice melting into clear water: a small reservoir of fate spreading its imperial hopelessness throughout my being.

Forever! I promise. Forever to be your bride even as the deadly spores may carry me to eternity’s unimaginable edge, where souls wait at the abyss for permission to cross over to the timeless shelter built of faith and hope.

And now, I know not whether forever is real. And there, my promise to you fractures—like a tree limb in a storm, a piece of China dropped on the floor, a glass of wine to the same fate. Dropped. Shattered.

And why do I make a promise doomed to be broken as it is made? It is born of love and desire. I love you. I desire an infinite future, and since we do not know the future, we are free to wander through it by the light of our own desire, not caring whether it is prompted by truth’s call. So, the promise breaks, as it is founded on imagination claiming to promise something real. But still, I promise. My promise is a compass to navigate the perilous journey presented by the future and the anxiety it drills into our heads.

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.


Anacoluthon (an-a-co-lu’-thon): A grammatical interruption or lack of implied sequence within a sentence. That is, beginning a sentence in a way that implies a certain logical resolution, but concluding it differently than the grammar leads one to expect. Anacoluthon can be either a grammatical fault or a stylistic virtue, depending on its use. In either case, it is an interruption or a verbal lack of symmetry. Anacoluthon is characteristic of spoken language or interior thought, and thus suggests those domains when it occurs in writing.

The sun was setting, beyond Legos, beyond logos, beyond legible. There was this orange blot slowly sinking on the horizon like a round burning elevator headed for the ground floor of the universe. “Where is the truth in that?” I asked as I repositioned the funnel on my head so it pointed straight at the sky, held secured by the rubber band under my chin that I had threaded though the two holes I drilled on either side of the funnel and the knots tied at the ends of the rubber band.

This is what’s wrong with all of us, partially disguised platitudes wreck our concentration and ability to assimilate the grit of everyday life—like oysters unable to grind out pearls under the turbulent sea, we are gloppy and cold and undone. But all that is beyond me now. The stars are coming out. I point my funnel tip at Venus and put Dionne Warwick on my portable CD player: “The Look of Love” streams into my ears and the starlight beams through my funnel, directly into my brain. This is the “frame of reference” I drive, walk and run through life looking for as I eat the fried egg sandwich my Mom made me, with a hard yolk on white toast with butter, salt, and pepper. As I chew and swallow, I feel Eros drilling into my forebrain. Everywhere I look, everything I see, prompts love and affection— my car in the driveway, my lawn, the hollyhocks growing in the back yard: everything.

Dawn is breaking. The night sky has disappeared. The sun is headed up to the day’s top floor. I take off my funnel and put it back in its holster. I plug my portable CD player in to recharge on the back porch. In the kitchen, my hope is brewing fresh coffee. My Mom is frying two eggs, yolks hard. The toast is in the toaster. While in the toaster, the lights went out. Mom pounded on the outlet, and all is well.

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.


Anadiplosis (an’-a-di-plo’-sis): The repetition of the last word (or phrase) from the previous line, clause, or sentence at the beginning of the next. Often combined with climax.

I bought a pair of cowboy boots. Cowboy boots on my feet made me feel like a man. A man who is home on the range, where “the deer and the antelope play.” My boots were made from dead anteaters. Anteaters are manly like grizzly bears or boar hogs. Boar hogs grunt like weight lifters. Weight lifters can hardly move with all their muscles. Muscles make you strong, but when you get old they look like flesh-wrapped Crisco puff pastries.

Wait! What am I thinking? Somehow it must all tie together. The man-making boots. The anteaters. The boar hogs. The grunting weightlifters. The muscles. The pastries. My cowboy boots are mixing me up. I was going to get spurs for them, but now I’m returning them to Zappos. If I knew what an antelope is, I might keep them. But I don’t, so I won’t. Instead, I’m going to get a pair of black cowhide wingtips with built-in lifts, like rich people wear. 2-inches taller, I’ll walk down the street like I have a big time job— maybe as a television producer or a car salesman. My shoes will lift my soul as well as my body—in both cases, giving me a new perspective. I will be lifted up. But the “manly” aura of the boots will be lost. If I can find wingtip cowboy boots, I can project a balance of masculinity and while-collar wealth.

I found a place that will custom-make any kind of boots you want. It’s located in Laredo, TX and it’s called “Nancy’s.” My custom boots would cost $900.00. I robbed a couple of convenience stores on 8th Avenue and sold 200 caps of Ecstasy at the train station. Now I had enough money to pay for the boots and fly to Texas to be fitted for my boots.

Well, I got busted for robbery and drug dealing before I could go anywhere. Now I’m wearing cotton slippers and sitting on my bed at Rikers.

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.


Anamnesis (an’-am-nee’-sis): Calling to memory past matters. More specifically, citing a past author [apparently] from memory. Anamnesis helps to establish ethos [credibility], since it conveys the idea that the speaker is knowledgeable of the received wisdom from the past.

“It is a quite special secret pleasure how the people around us fail to realize what is really happening to them.” Adolf Hitler

I hate quoting Hitler. He was evil incarnate. He was a cold-blooded murderer. He was a racist. He exploited sensibilities already operative in Germany. He was a populist devoted to making Germany “great” again. He was an antisemite. Dissent earned a death sentence. His theatrical rallies struck the hearts and minds of attendees. Held at night with shining vaults of light and a jacked-up rostrum putting him above the attendees, an epoche was invited that blurred the distinction between theatre and real life allowing an amplification of feeling and a reduced sense of the reality of consequences, lost in the ethos of the “staged” performance and the persona of being part of national play—where “objectionable” or “morally abhorrent” is not what it appears to be if we remember why we’re doing it. The “people” believe that the glory of their past is being retrieved—that everything the star on the stage aims for and does induces the rebirth so ardently desired by the people, even if it calls for the murder of “others.”

But this is a lie. The biggest lie is the concept of “the people.” In practice, it excludes “people” based on criteria, promulgated by power, that lose their place at the table of brother- and sisterhood, that lose their right to the law’s protection, that lose everything due to: Sexual orientation. Race. Social status. Gender. Disability. And more.

Here, the failure “to realize what is really happening to them” affects the victimizers. They fail to realize that they are corroding their souls. Their collective participation in the night-time rallies themed around the National Socialist dream begins to spill into the streets, where opposing views are confronted with wooden clubs. It is a juggernaut, a force of nature, “our” destiny. And the salty tears of their victims flow under their feet unnoticed, as they look up to the leader and venerate his nationalist will—the murderer, the antisemite, the beloved demon who is making Germany great again.

So, do you know what is actually happening to you?

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” ( Gorgias has inserted the bracketed words [apparently] and [credibility].

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.


Anaphora (an-aph’-o-ra): Repetition of the same word or group of words at the beginning of successive clauses, sentences, or lines.

There once was a time when my life flowed along like a cherry syrup river, with me sailing in a candy boat.

There once was a time when dinosaurs roamed the earth eating giant blades of grass and each other.

There once was a time when Vikings sailed around the Atlantic and their women and men were equals. They tried settling at L’Anse aux Meadows on Newfoundland, and they knocked the crap out of the city of Paris.

There once a time when I got married and had a beautiful, smart and talented daughter.

I’m still married. I still have a daughter.

Now is the time to quit the past-tense musing and celebrate what I have.

Now is the time to Zoom.

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.


Anapodoton (an’-a-po’-do-ton): A figure in which a main clause is suggested by the introduction of a subordinate clause, but that main clause never occurs.

Anapodoton is a kind of anacoluthon, since grammatical expectations are interrupted. If the expression trails off, leaving the subordinate clause incomplete, this is sometimes more specifically called anantapodoton. Anapodoton has also named what occurs when a main clause is omitted because the speaker interrupts himself/herself to revise the thought, leaving the initial clause grammatically unresolved but making use of it nonetheless by recasting its content into a new, grammatically complete sentence.

I was. . . there was a quality of sorrow that I could hardly endure. All day, all night, I was wracked by the wretched sensibility. I tried to affect indifference, but the stabbing feeling wouldn’t go away. Sleepless, I stared at the ceiling and the wall. During the day I donned my bathrobe and watched TV and ate junk food—whipped cream from can to mouth, a jar of maraschino cherries, sour cream by the spoonful and the whole range of Little Debbie cakes. No shower. No toothbrushing. No looking in the mirror.

What the hell was I going to do? What the hell. I realized right then how easy it is to fall in love and how monumentally difficult it is to fall out of love, especially when you’re the dumpee. Somehow I had to find a way to stop caring and go on with my life. I’d heard the saying “time heals all wounds.” But it does not specify how much time. I’d been on this emotional escalator, going down, down, down for about two weeks. It was slow and continuous. I looked behind me to see if anybody else was riding the heartbreak escalator to the bottom of the pits. Nope. Just me. At that second I thought of the really cute woman at the office who always smiled at me and sometimes shared a piece of fruit with me—usually an apple from what she called her “mini orchard.”

The escalator stopped and reversed direction. The stabbing sensation started to go away. I wanted to take a shower and brush my teeth.

On Monday, there she was at her desk at the office. She smiled at me. As I walked toward her, I felt like I would throw up—but I didn’t. Instead, I made a croaking sound when I tried say hello. She looked down and then looked up again. She was blushing and smiling. I cleared my throat and asked if she wanted to go out to dinner on Friday. She said yes, but she was vegan. A red flag for me, but I didn’t give a damn. Flexibility was my new watchword.

It may be true that time heals all wounds. But in my experience, finding a new lover is a miracle cure.

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


Anastrophe (an-as’-tro-phee): Departure from normal word order for the sake of emphasis. Anastrophe is most often a synonym for hyperbaton, but is occasionally referred to as a more specific instance of hyperbaton: the changing of the position of only a single word.

He thought he was so funny. I asked him about his religious faith and he said “Well, that’s a deep subject.” He was one of those modern-day ministers seeming to take God lightly: on the walk of faith, for him, there was a place for tap dancing. When into his Bible he stuck his nose, his back turned, and he was beyond reach, he seemed like God himself.

Then, one day he fell down a flight stairs. Survived he did! But, while he lay at the bottom of the stairs in pain, waiting for the ambulance, half-conscious, he started muttering. “She was beautiful, an angel she was. Oh why God? Why did you take her from me? We were in love. We were going to be married. Why did it have to end that way? Why why why?” he sobbed and then he passed out.

I took a deep breath. I felt lighter. I was lifted and felt closer to God. I had read of agape in Paul’s letters and in Plato’s Phaedrus, but I thought it was an impossible hope. “Selfless” and “love” just seemed like oil and water. But, when Reverend Pillow mumbled out his pain and loss, a feeling rose up in me that emanated from a place between us, and a spontaneous uncalculated desire to assuage his pain, and his suffering to decrease. I decided then and there to hold this feeling, to embrace it like a child, and to live this feeling, to act this feeling as much as possible in every aspect of my life.

The suffering of a good man prompted me to find my spiritual compass. And now I realized why God sacrificed his own son on the cross. Rev. Pillow certainly wasn’t cruxified, but his suffering opened my heart.

Merry Christmas!

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.


Anesis (an’-e-sis): Adding a concluding sentence that diminishes the effect of what has been said previously. The opposite of epitasis.

Ted was smart, good looking and articulate, but he smelled like urine. If you got within 3 feet of him the smell was there—like he was wearing a public restroom instead of underpants, or he just came from visiting a nursing home. Yet, somehow he managed to live a more or less normal life. You see, the urine smell did not come from urine-soaked clothing, it was his “natural” body odor. He suffered from soma urinosis, an extremely rare disease that allows minute amounts of urine to seep through the pores of the skin in such small amounts that it does not produce moisture, just the odor of urine.

After high school, Ted gave up bathing in diluted Old Spice aftershave and wearing a Canoe cologne wick in his underpants. This took courage. Everybody respected him for accepting his natural smell. He started going on Hinge looking for a mate. He wrote: “Wanted. Loving woman who smells like urine.” The responses he got were disheartening—angry women who called him a pervert, and perverted women who liked being wet on. But, he persisted. Then it happened. A message hit his inbox: “My name is Bettina and I smell like urine. I suffer from soma urinosis, do you?

Eureka! Ted dashed off an answer: “Yes!”

One day later, Ted and Bettina met outside in a public park, immediately fell in love and were married outdoors in the same park 2 months later. Ted kept working at Pine Tree Air Freshener Company and Bettina took a job at Mennen Company. They pursued PhDs in biology and chemical engineering, respectively. It was rough holding down full time jobs and pursing PhDs at the same time, but they persevered and succeeded, and landed research fellowships at MIT.

To make a long story short, working together Ted and Bettina discovered a cure for soma urinosis. They were too old for it to work on them, but it worked perfectly on their baby, Nell. Now, they live in a lovely old home in Boston with a special ventilation system they created, and manufacture, earning them millions.

Next time you hear somebody say “that stinks” think of Ted and Bettina and their angelic daughter and the heights of fame and fortune they achieved.

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.


Antanaclasis (an’-ta-na-cla’-sis): The repetition of a word or phrase whose meaning changes in the second instance.

You don’t care if my head is killing me, you still want to head to Jersey. We’ll be driving 90 billion miles while you’re driving me crazy with your non-stop blabber about Frank Sinatra, Jon Bon Jovi, Martha Stewart, and all the other Malox memory-makers from the so-called Garden State. But I‘ll drive us there as long as you pay for gas and tolls and food— good food, not the crap they serve on the Turnpike.

Ok honey, we crossed the state line. We’ve made it to the Homeland. So! Wait an ef’n minute! Holy shit, it’s Bon Jovi standing there! I’m pullin’ over to see if he needs help.

Are you ok Mr. Bon Jovi? Something the matter with your steel horse?

Bon Jovi: I’m wanted dead or alive. I missed a payment on my motorcycle. They put sugar in the gas tank: they give loan sharking a bad name. I almost hit that overpass abutment when the engine cut out. Here, hold this .357 while I push the motorcycle farther off the road.

Just then a black Cadillac pulled up. Somebody yelled “Drop the pistol shit stain!” I dropped the pistol.

I ran for my car with Bon Jovi right behind me. My wife was hiding in the trunk screaming. I yelled, “Give me the keys dammit!” She gave me the keys and we took off like a bat out of hell. I figured they would blow us off the highway, but when I looked in the rear view, two guys in black cashmere overcoats were dumping gas on Bon Jovi’s wheels. I looked again as one of them threw a lit match at the motorcycle, and BLAM it went up in flames. I floored it and we got the hell out of there.

As we drove away, I asked Bon Jovi why he would borrow money from a loan shark. After all, he’s a millionaire. He told me he’d lost touch with his New Jersey roots and was looking for inspiration—for the kind of Jersey-cred he’s known for. At that point a State Trooper pulled up on our ass. I pulled over. As I stood there with my hands up, I was reminded of what it was like growing up in New Jersey.

Needless to say we missed my mother-in-law’s birthday party, but Bon Jovi smoothed everything out with the law, and we made it back home safely.

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.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (


Antanagoge (an’-ta-na’-go-gee): Putting a positive spin on something that is nevertheless acknowledged to be negative or difficult.

The world is drying up, forests are in flames, packs of wild dogs roam what used to be streets. All the freshwater fish are dead and stinking up the air. The butterflies have vanished, cows have stopped producing milk. Inflation is 200%, and people all over world are whining about Armageddon. Wake up you weenies! These are the worst of times, but they are also the best of times.

Every day there are fewer people to compete with for food, clothing and shelter. Let that sink in. As long as you’re not dead, you’re winning. This is a time of great opportunity— I can hear it knocking! Whoops—that was machine gun fire. So what? FOX News is still on the air. If you have electricity you can watch them report from the secret bunker in Queens, NY. They’re showing reruns of Trump’s rallies and his unjust prosecution by a jury—an un-American vestige of so-called justice. Now, we’ve moved on to Kangaroo Courts—an Australian creation named after cute furry marsupials that kick and punch you to death.

Anyway, as your Supreme Dictator, I, The Pillow Man, will do nothing for you. All the talk of a Zombie onslaught can’t be true. Why? Because I don’t believe it. My mother told me not to believe in zombies and that’s the end of it, God rest her soul. Besides, if a zombie eats your brain you become a zombie: instant immortality. Let that sink in: instant immortality. I think that is a positive thing: immortality without having to toe some religious line or go all the way to heaven.

So, the world may be ending, but it’s a new beginning. Get on the gravy train while you still can! Lock and load and make something of yourself!

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

Paperback and Kindle editions of The Daily Trope are available at Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.


Antenantiosis (an’-ten-an’-ti-os’-is): See litotes. (Deliberate understatement, especially when expressing a thought by denying its opposite. The Ad Herennium author suggests litotes as a means of expressing modesty [downplaying one’s accomplishments] in order to gain the audience’s favor [establishing ethos]).

I am completely undeserving of this award. I’ve never done anything remotely close to the award’s intention. When I walked barefoot across Afghanistan, I wasn’t thinking about awards. I was thinking about saving my sorry ass from the Taliban who had stolen my shoes. They walked along with me, poking me with sticks and yelling at me through bullhorns. They did that for three days and turned around and left me as we approached an oasis controlled by coalition forces. They kept my shoes. The Americans thought I was hilarious. A Special Forces guy told me I was nearly “defeeted.” The medic bandaged me up. Suddenly we were under attack. The Americans jumped into their SUVs. One of them tried to carry me, but he was wounded in the leg and dropped me. I was stuck. And guess what? The attackers were the same Taliban who had stolen my shoes. Anyway, they let me go because I would die anyway. But I didn’t. I was picked up by a small Afghan circus troupe. They sold elixir as part of their act: Kabul Kaboom. It is a mixture of opium, juniper bark, rose petals, currants and the “No Name” ingredient, which was very special. The troupe made me work for my keep. Since my feet were a mess, they made work the “Hoister Chair.” They would hoist me into the air and then drop me on a pile of camel dung to the great delight of the audience who paid to watch. One night after being dropped into the dung nine or ten times, I took a swig of Kabul Kaboom which I had resisted doing up until then because I thought it might kill me. My feet healed the second I took the jug away from my lips. It was 2.00am, but I started walking anyway. By bare feet had turned into some kind of leather—I could walk across broken glass and feel no pain.

After walking for 3 weeks, I arrived in Kabul. I couldn’t get a ride along the way because the Kabul Kaboom had made my feet stink. I’d get into a car and everybody would start coughing and yelling, and I’d get shoved out the door. I’ve since gotten the stink under control, or I wouldn’t be here today to partake of your generosity and humbly accept this year’s Pedistench Award.

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.


Anthimeria (an-thi-mer’-i-a): Substitution of one part of speech for another (such as a noun used as a verb).

He holly-jollyed his way into the office, red suit mistletoed from top to bottom and wearing one of those stupid red conical hats with a white pom-pom tassel. His black boots made of vinyl, with gold plastic buckles, made me sick. And I thought, the big wide black patent leather belt would work well to strangle him. When he said “Ho, Ho, Ho” he sounded like he was counting the prostitutes who hang out in front of our building. Then he threw a candy cane at me, hitting me in the eye. That was his idea of gifting. I wanted to kill him, but he was the boss. And besides, I would surely be caught.

Now we had to drink his disgusting homemade eggnog. I felt like I was in Jonestown. He poured two bottles of rum into the punch bowl to “enhance” the egg nog. In about 30 minutes everybody was drunk, slurring their words, and rubbing against each other. Truly weird as we tried to sing “Jingle Bells.” A couple of people were draped over their desks and Harry Little was passed out on the floor. Then I saw Marla Gino standing by an open window with her blouse unbuttoned beckoning the boss by moving her shoulders back and forth. As I watched the boss stagger toward her, I realized why the window was opened—we were 15 stories up. The fall would kill the boss. Everyone who could still stand, silently watched the boss stagger toward Marla’s hypnotic gestures.

Marla stepped away from the window at the last second and the boss tripped. He flew out the window without a sound. Everybody started singing “Jingle Bells” and Marla called 911.

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.


Anthypophora (an’-thi-po’-phor-a): A figure of reasoning in which one asks and then immediately answers one’s own questions (or raises and then settles imaginary objections). Reasoning aloud. Anthypophora sometimes takes the form of asking the audience or one’s adversary what can be said on a matter, and thus can involve both anacoenosis and apostrophe.

A: Am I from planet Earth? No!

A: What planet am I from? No!

B: There’s such planet as No.

A: No? That’s where I’m from you idiot. No! No! No!

B: You sound like a toddler.

A: I turn green when I’m angry. Am I green now? Yes! Am I going to zap you now with my hand-held eco-friendly toilet-paper roll atomizer? Yes!

B: Don’t shoot!

A: Am I green?

B: Yes, yes, yes!

A: Liar! I’m not angry any more. What planet am I from?

B: No?

A: No? Yes! Well, not really. Am I actually from Jersey City? Yes! It’s a very small planet adjacent to New York. Earth is good distance away.

B: Oh well, let’s head to the New Years party & leave your atomizer here, ok?

A: I’m turning green.

B: Ok, bring your damn atomizer.

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.


Antimetabole (an’-ti-me-ta’-bo-lee): Repetition of words, in successive clauses, in reverse grammatical order.

I look at my Facebook page, and my Facebook page looks at me. It has a consciousness of my life’s triviality, the causes I’ve championed, the countless memes I’ve posted: none of them truly loved, none of them striking a chord, none of them shared. Every day I ask”How do I get 5,000 likes?” “How do I go viral?” “Should do a Tik-Tok dance covered with Nutella, with a Roman candle firing out my ass?” Oh? Too cliched. Begging for attention. Not cool. Been done already by a Tibetan monk? Oh.

Then, there are all the hot-looking women who want to be my friend. Why? They’ll know I’m stupid and desperate if and when I friend them. Even though I am stupid and desperate, I don’t friend them. They are not friends, they are enemies, at least I can figure that out. They would ruin my marriage and bankrupt me if we became friends: How ironic that friends can be enemies on Facebook. And anyway, I don’t want to be their friends, simply because they are evil.

But on the other side, Facebook archives many positive memories and makes new experiences for me: family and genuine friends. Also, my news streams keep me posted. It is hard to believe that Trump got re-elected.

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.


Antimetathesis (an-ti-me-ta’-the-sis): Inversion of the members of an antithesis.

Hope and fear: why do some people hope to fear and others fear to hope? With fear, I guess it is about anticipating excitement, which is itself exciting—the so-called adrenalin rush: sky diving, bungee jumping, observing sharks, roller coaster riding. You name it! It’s about taking risks—fear infuses a quality of excitement that is intense and very different from having a winning lotto ticket or watching your child be born. People crave excitement in all of its forms and hope and fear may work together to induce it. Hoping to fear spices the fear with anticipation.

On the other side, people fear to hope. This may be the result of previous hopes badly fulfilled and fearing the same hope as it may re-emerge. The pain induced by dashed hope can ruin your life, cause you to sell yourself short and build walls around yourself: you never want to hope again, and when you feel it you fear it, and you bury it away somewhere deep in your being so your reaction almost feels genetic—like some kind of survival mechanism that you’re wired to perform, when in fact it’s a habit, maybe based on a single bad experience. Hardly genetic, and probably surmountable—if you want to hope again.

Hope and fear. Both functional. Both not functional. Their proper play depends on a sort of practical wisdom, what the Greeks called phronesis: “wisdom in determining ends and the means of attaining them, practical understanding, sound judgment.” ( As you can imagine, phronesis is one of freedom’s bulwarks. It’s cultivation should be one of the key aims of public education in a democratic society.

But I fear I’m going off point. I hope you don’t mind. Bye bye.

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.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (


Antiprosopopoeia (an-ti-pro-so-po-pe’-i-a): The representation of persons [or other animate beings] as inanimate objects. This inversion of prosopopoeia or personification can simply be the use of a metaphor to depict or describe a person [or other animate being].

He’s a pimple. He’s a pile of shit. He’s an emotionally disturbed pile of shit with a pimple.

We were married 27 years and had 14 children because he couldn’t keep off me and he never used birth control. I didn’t either because I was pro-life. He’s been gone for five years. Seven of our children are in foster care, six are missing, and one is in prison for negligent homicide after he drunkenly veered off a rural road and collided with a farmer tilling his field. The farmer fell off his tractor and was sliced up like mortadella in a butcher’s window.

Now, I’m starting to think that pro-life is a misnomer. Of course, my children were born, but their lives have been sheer shit—abusive foster parents who’re doing it for the money, missing kids who may be dead or enslaved, a son justly rotting in prison. After all I’ve been through, and what I’ve suffered at the end of my husband’s penis, I am definitely not Pro-Life because I’m not Pro-Shit Life.

Wow, if I hadn’t had all those kids, I might’ve done something with my life—don’t get me wrong, having 14 children is doing something—but it was doing something wrong. Don’t tell me about self control and abstinence when a 225 pound jerk is on top of me, and I believe it’s my “marital duty” to spread my legs and let him pound away.

I could’ve been a flight attendant, a stockbroker, a bus driver, an actress, but instead, I’m a lump of shit all alone, living in Roach Land Fun Park, and cleaning toilets in New York subway stations. Somebody has to do it—it pays the bills and puts some food on the table. I haven’t had a hamburger in 3 months. I’m still wearing my flower-print polyester bell bottoms from the 70s. You can smell me coming 25 feet away. The up-side of slowly starving to death is keeping my figure.

Living with abusers, walking the streets, and spending ‘life’ in prison is not living. It’s having a heartbeat.

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.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” ( Bracketed text added by Georgia’s.


Antirrhesis (an-tir-rhee’-sis): Rejecting reprehensively the opinion or authority of someone.

A: You’re so full of crap your breath smells like a gas station restroom! There’s no way out you lying piece of flattened roadkill! You will never learn, you chunky puddle of vomit on a priceless Persian carpet! I think it might be time to call it quits with you, you overflowing urine bucket in a crowded jail cell!

What is “right” about what you’ve done? Bullshit! You wouldn’t know what’s right if it bit you on the butt. What can be “right” about going hunting at the zoo? You shot Hermy the popular and adorable sloth! Your reason for shooting Hermy? “All the other animals moved too fast.” That’s the kind of answer I’d expect from a psychopath, and you’re a psychopath. So, get out of here. I hope you get caught Mr. Pervert. I never should’ve bought that damn handgun for your birthday. All these years you held your malicious hostility toward zoo animals in check. I guess the gun prompted you to play out your perversion. I’m sorry, but not that sorry.

I’m going to the veterinary hospital to visit Hermy. I don’t ever want to see you again. Do the right thing: turn yourself in. What’s that? A sloth costume!! No, I won’t put it on! Ever! No! Never! No. . . .

B: Put it on very slowly.

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.


Antisagoge (an-tis-a-go’-gee): 1. Making a concession before making one’s point (=paromologia); 2. Using a hypothetical situation or a precept to illustrate antithetical alternative consequences, typically promises of reward and punishment.

Who would’ve known? Who could’ve known glass wallpaper wouldn’t work? Ha! But, it was a great idea, the shimmering beauty! Maybe I should’ve done some research and found out more about glass. And you’re right, I shouldn’t have let everybody we know and their relatives and friends, and even their enemies, invest in Wall Glass. Just think, if I had succeeded with Wall Glass, we would have been fabulously wealthy, but I failed and we’re in debt for couple million. I should’ve realized that there is no such thing as Wall Glass already because it’s a stupid idea. Glass is brittle and you can’t manufacture it in rolls. And there’s glass tiles—that’s nothing new. If only I had taken five minutes to check the whole thing out more thoroughly before I took everybody’s money.

So, I went on Orbitz and bought two one way tickets to Mali with what’s left on the credit card. I’m going to put my military experience to work as a mercenary and maybe you can get a job in retail sales or as a mule moving small arms and drugs. Now we need to find a place on to stay while we’re hiding out. Ooh! Look at this: “Windowless bunker near airport. Walls one meter thick. Will deter small arms fire, up to RPG. No electricity. No water. No bed. $10.00 per week.” Here’s a review: “I am recovering in hospital from shrapnel wounds sustained while I was sunning myself outside the bunker. I didn’t see it coming. After I was wounded, I dragged myself into the bunker and grabbed the complimentary AK-47. I blew two of the attackers away. Unfortunately, the remaining assailants kidnapped my wife. Over a 3-week period, 27 ransom notes have been hand-delivered to the hospital where I am recovering. With each iteration, the ransom is lower. This has been a soul searching experience. I doubt if I’ll ever see my wife gain. I have learned an important lesson. Rating: ***** Highly Recommend.”

Let’s book it—five stars! Highly recommend! What a hideout! Bye bye to all the irate investors and the police. Oh. Do you mind being kidnapped?

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

A paper version The Daily Trope is available from Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.


Antistasis (an-ti’-sta-sis): The repetition of a word in a contrary sense. Often, simply synonymous with antanaclasis.

This house is beautiful. It has a roof, and walls, and rooms and all the rest, but you never rest, worrying about getting robbed. In its 200-years of existence your neighborhood has had only one robbery. In 1690, Edward the Firebrand raided your neighborhood and killed everybody who owned a cow—-that was everybody except Eggleton Shad who lived alone and was our state’s first vegan. His neighbors hated him because he bragged almost constantly about his dietary superiority to his meat-eating, milk-swilling neighbors. When the neighborhood was wiped out and only Eggleton was left standing, due to the acrimony between him and everybody else, Sheriff Smigton arrested him. Eggleton protested as he ate a raw carrot in his cell, “I am studying to be a vegetarian chef at the Rosy Raddish in Elizabeth Town. I go one day per week and stay over night after my lessons. I was at the Rosy Raddish when my neighborhood was scourged by the truly vile brute.”

Sheriff Smigton let Eggleton go. He searched every inch of the neighborhood. Just when he was ready to give up, he saw something shining on the ground. It was a painted cameo. It was a woman’s face that the sheriff had never seen before. He picked the cameo up and turned it over. It was inscribed. But the inscription was in Latin. Sheriff Smigton headed straight to the Catholic Church where he knew Father Joseph could translate it. Father Joseph put the cameo on his desk and held a magnifying glass over it. Translated, it said “Edward the Firebrand is my own true love.” Well, now the sheriff had the evidence he needed. He set about tracking down Edward. And he found him! He was living like a king in Elizabeth Town. He owned three taverns and a victualing house called the Rosy Raddish, where no meat was served. Given his connection to the Rosy Raddish, Eggleton was immediately rearrested and held on suspicion of conspiracy. He was eventually acquitted—people said it was because he could screw his face up and screw the jury with his fake sobbing.

Edward the Firebrand wasn’t so lucky. He was sentenced to hang, but he escaped. It was rumored he travelled to Boston and became it’s most famous Old Mole dancer, always wearing an elaborate disguise, usually calling himself Eggleton the Teribble and registering his hatred of milk.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

Paperback and Kindle editions of The Daily Trope are available on Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.


Antisthecon (an-tis’-the-con): Substitution of one sound, syllable, or letter for another within a word. A kind of metaplasm: the general term for changes to word spelling.

I had brunch at the Broker’s Bar, Grill, and “I scream.” I had the poached egg sundae with strawberry ice cream, and 4 lean “barkin” strips on the side. Woof. Woof. Ha! Ha! Good.

After brunch I went to the bus station to pick up Tess. She’d been out of the City for a couple of days visiting an ashram in Northern New Jersey. As usual, she was dressed like a slut, but I don’t care—she’s my sister, and she stops traffic with her naughty garb—all the tattoos hanging out. One of them is a total puzzle though. It’s a red pickup truck with her driving and giving the finger out the window. I’ve asked 50 times what the tattoo signifies and she won’t tell me. I know she dated a used car salesmen for awhile, but she never bought a truck from him (as far as I know).

Anyway, me and Tess had a great afternoon. We spent some time “riminiscing” about my professional basketball career. My nickname was “Basket Case” and she always thought that was very funny. Then, I asked her about the truck tattoo again. She laughed and pulled up her dress and showed me the leg. The tattoo was gone! She told me she had it removed because she was sick of me asking her what it signified. I hung my head and asked her if she was going to fill the space with a new tattoo. She told me she was thinking of Trump with a bullet hole in his forehead. I almost fell out of my chair. Then, Tess laughed and said, “Just kidding. I’m actually getting a tattoo of Jeff Bezos’ spaceship ‘Blue Origin’ with Scrooge McDuck riding it.” I could see what that signified. I asked if Huey, Dewy, and Louie were riding inside. We laughed. Then, Tess said she had to go. She was painting a mural in the lobby of a very upscale hotel. The theme was “Coming and Going.” She said she was listening to Boy George’s “Karma Chameleon” while she painted. That was pretty funny. We laughed again and hugged goodbye.

I love my sister. I can’t wait to see her again.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

Paperback and Kindle editions of The Daily Trope are available on Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.


Antithesis (an-tith’-e-sis): Juxtaposition of contrasting words or ideas (often, although not always, in parallel structure).

Open and closed—doors, windows, safes, wounds. What is opened will not always eventually be closed, no matter how desperately we may desire it to be. We know this. We live this. We may fear this in the anguish of not being able to close what is open, or open what is closed. A door with a broken lock. A window painted shut. A safe that won’t unlock. These things can eventually be repaired DYI, or by a tradesperson. But wounds aren’t as straightforward. Doctors may do their best to heal festering cuts and swollen scrapes, but there is also chronic illness—it must be managed, it can’t be cured. And, of course, not all disease or wounding is physical. For example, a battered and broken heart, torn and twisted by love’s travails.

Nobody knows how to heal a broken heart: when hope contracts, despair expands. The passage of time may make it sort of well, or it may make it worse. Finding a new lover may make life better. The person may be like a medicated bandaid stuck across your heart. They may soothe. They may dull the pain. They may even heal almost all of your heart’s despair.

It is your memory that thwarts complete healing: The person you ran from visits your dreams. The “good times” filter through your consciousness. The dinners. The TV time. The sex. The vacations. The good memories start to eclipse the bad memories—being bossed around, being belittled, being marginalized. In dreams, day and night—bereft of the ordeals—your life together is sanitized, romanticized, idealized, and yet, there is still the pain. The pain may be indelible—a reminder of where not to go, and how not to get there. With your new lover, though, the pain may be dimishing, but it will never completely go away. Let it be a source of wisdom. Let it lecture your soul.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

There are paperback and Kindle editions of The Daily Trope available on Amazon under the title of The Book of Tropes.


Antitheton (an-tith’-e-ton): A proof or composition constructed of contraries. Antitheton is closely related to and sometimes confused with the figure of speech that juxtaposes opposing terms, antithesis. However, it is more properly considered a figure of thought (=Topic of Invention: Contraries [a topic of invention in which one considers opposite or incompatible things that are of the same kind (if they are of different kinds, the topic of similarity / difference is more appropriate). Because contraries occur in pairs and exclude one another, they are useful in arguments because one can establish one’s case indirectly, proving one’s own assertion by discrediting the contrary]).

Him: Opposites attract. I’ve heard that so many times. Did you ever see hot and cold running toward each other like soup and ice? The soup melts the ice. The ice cools off the soup. What kind of attraction is that? They kill each other. What about light and dark? A cheap flashlight will make the dark into light. I don’t see how they’re attracted to each other. If they were attracted, they wouldn’t cancel each other out.

Her: As usual you’ve got it wrong. It isn’t natural order (except for magnets) that the saying pertains to. It’s people and their character attributes, their life choices, their preferences, their manners. “You say tomato, I say tomahto. You say potato, I say potahto.” You have a smell that I find repelling and compelling. I shower every day and smell like a rose, and you like it. You like to bike, I like to jog. I think biking is sexy—your legs and buns in motion. You think jogging is sexy, the way I jiggle and sweat. There are a ton more examples—we’re not soup and ice.

Him: But shouldn’t we have common likes and dislikes too?

Her: Of course! What we like in common is each other. If we just liked what’s the same about us, it would be like being alone, looking in a mirror. Come here honey! Let me smell your neck!

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

Paperback and Kindle editions of The Daily Trope are available at Amazon under the title of The Book of Tropes.


Apagoresis (a-pa-gor’-e-sis): A statement designed to inhibit someone from doing something. Often uses exaggeration [or hyperbole] to persuade. It may combine an exaggeration with a cause/effect or antecedent/consequence relationship. The consequences or effects of such a phrase are usually exaggerated to be more convincing.

Dad: If you don’t stop doing that every night, your thing will wear down to a tiny nub and you’ll never get a chance to use it the way God intended—as a procreation implement, like the bull out there in the corral with his thing. Did you ever see him do to himself what you do to your self? Of course, the answer is “No.” Big Ted’s not a pervert. He’s a bull. And if people find out what you’re doing, you might be hauled off to the State Mental Institution for unnatural impulses and self abuse. Then, you will have a permanent record. You won’t be able the get a decent job, and your mother, God bless her, will be humiliated and will never leave the house again.

Son: So Dad, how do you know what I do in bed at night?

Dad: There’s a spy cam hidden in your room. It’s the best way I know to monitor your nocturnal habits and take measures when they overstep the limits of propriety, as your nightly self-abuse certainly does. We should’ve had this talk a lot sooner, but I hate confrontations. I’m glad we finally got around to it.

Son: You’re a pervert. I’m shocked, hurt, angered and disgusted, you scumbag creep. I’m getting the hell out of here and checking into a shelter until they can find me a foster home. I’m packing. You better stay out of my way asshole! Your days as a voyeur are done. You may be hearing from the police very soon. Now, get the hell out of my way!!

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

Paperback and Kindle editions of The Daily Trope are available on Kindle under the title The Book of Tropes.


Aphaeresis (aph-aer’-e-sis): The omission of a syllable or letter at the beginning of a word. A kind of metaplasm.

A: If an ant can’t do it, can an aunt? Ha ha! This is the kind of humor that makes the world go ‘round and maybe even go out of orbit. Ha ha! Then, we’d have to write its orbituary. Ha ha! Get it? Obituary/Orbituary? Ha ha!

B: Can you please shut up so I can finish filling out these divorce papers?

A: What? Since when are we getting a divorce?

B: Since I’ve been putting up with you and your stupid jokes for five terrible years.

A: Are you saying my jokes stink? Should I drain them down the sink? Ha ha! Get it? Stink/sink. Come on. You can crack a smile.

B: Crack a smile? I’ll crack your head if you don’t shut up.

A: You’re making Butch very mad. He wants you to apologize to me and tear up the divorce papers. He may be a dummy, but he does what I ask.

Butch-the-dummy: I am damn mad now, and it is no joke Mrs. Ratcar. Tear ‘em up Mrs. Ratcar.

B: Why don’t you climb back in your box, Butch, and take Mr. Ratcar with you?

(one half-hour later)

Knock on the Door: Is this where Henry Ratcar the comedian lives? We’re here to interview him for Entertainment Tonight for his upcoming special “Ratcar Comedy Live From Las Vegas.”

A: Yikes! I completely forgot! Come in. Never mind my wife. She took a sleeping pill and fell asleep in her chair. Please excuse the torn up papers on the floor—junk mail headed for the trash.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

Buy a print or Kindle version of The Daily Trope! They’re titled The Book of Tropes and are available on Amazon for $9.99 (or less).