Daily Archives: April 6, 2022


Meiosis (mei-o’-sis): Reference to something with a name disproportionately lesser than its nature (a kind of litotes). This term is equivalent to tapinosis.

You know, I’ve been biting into these things, eating all kinds of cakes and pies, drinking their juice and alcohol made from the juice. They make a big part of my state’s economy profitable, but still, I think they are way overrated. It isn’t popular, but I call them “crapples” for what their cultivation does to us. “Huh?” you ask.

You’ve heard of Adam & Eve, right? The story of what happened in the Garden of Eden should be enough to prompt the outlawing of crapples. Satan hangs out in apple orchards and the fruit section of grocery stores. Every time you eat an apple you are doing Satan’s bidding and will probably become a prostitute, bank robber or heroin addict, scraping the bottom of life’s barrel, catching diseases, going insane, and going to prison. You may say “I’ve partaken of apples all my life and I’m not a prostitute, bank robber, or drug addict.” To that I say, Satan is clever— just wait—keep consuming crapples and you will fall. Believe me: it is inevitable. Look at Jeffery Dahmer—he loved crapples and ate them all of his life. And then, one day he became a serial killer and switched over to eating people. Satan rejoiced. Or look at Charles Manson: he religiously followed Satan’s apple a day dictum. Satan rejoiced.

So there. You risk damnation every time you bite into a beautiful red Cartland, a crisp Red Delicious, or a bright green Granny Smith. Do not please Satan. Stop consuming all crapple products and you will help thwart his plan. Save yourself! Put down that apple and pick up a nectarine or an avocado!

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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Mempsis (memp’-sis): Expressing complaint and seeking help.

Since I started getting old, my butt has started shrinking. It used to be like a big baked ham. It provided a cushion to sit on no matter where where I was—on the rocks by the ocean, at a wooden picnic table, on a bar stool, on a park bench. Since my butt has more less disappeared, sitting on any of those hard surfaces has become uncomfortable, almost to the point that I’d rather stand. Shore rocks are especially difficult, as well as quarried blocks. I’ve taken to carrying a small round pillow that belonged to my mom and held a prominent place on our living room couch. She left it to me in her will with a cryptic message: “Don’t fear the surface.” Evidentially my butt-shrink malady was hereditary. Although the pillow is great, there’s another shrunken butt problem that I think I’ve solved.

When my butt was like a baked ham, it provided a sort of shelf for my pants to rest on. Now that my butt has diminished, the shelf is gone and my pants have started falling down. When I bent over or squatted my butt crack showed. For example, a few weeks ago, I squatted down in the grocery store to grab my favorite cereal off the bottom shelf. I felt a cool breeze and a woman started yelling at me, covering her eyes, and calling me a “dirty old butt flasher.” A crowd gathered and somebody threw a loaf of Italian bread at me. It was humiliating, and painful too.

So, I tried tightening my belt three notches, but all that did was cut off the flow of blood to my kidneys. I also tried smaller pants—they were uncomfortable, especially on my man parts: if I moved the wrong way, it was like I got shot in the crotch. Besides, my pants still managed to inch their was down my hips and I couldn’t pull them up because they were too tight. Here’s my solution: suspenders! I always wondered why people wore them. Now, I know why: to gracefully manage the symptoms of the terrible physical condition I relentlessly suffer from: Dwindling Butt Syndrome (DBS). The suspenders will keep my pants up. I made this discovery last Christmas when I took my granddaughter to the mall to see Santa Claus. When he got up to get a drink of water, I noticed he had diminished butt. I saw that he had a big pillow on his Santa Throne. I understood that. But what I didn’t understand was how he kept his Santa trousers up in the face of his case of DBS. So, I asked. He said, “Ho, Ho, Ho, son. See these babies?” He stuck his thumbs behind his suspenders, pulled the suspenders out, and snapped them. “Get yourself a pair of these, and your pants will stay up like your butt has regenerated.” Santa smiled and handed me a little candy cane, and gave one to my granddaughter too.

Well there you have it. Santa gave me a tip for life that was the best Christmas gift I ever got. Even though I am deeply grateful to Santa, I’m considering having my butt cheeks pumped full of collagen.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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