Monthly Archives: November 2022

Palilogia

Posted on November 5, 2022 | Leave a comment

Palilogia: Repetition of the same word, with none between, for vehemence. Synonym for epizeuxis.

“No, no, no, Johnny.” I heard that all the time. I was a 12-year-old prisoner of my mother’s never-ending prohibitions. The only time I heard her say “yes” was at night, and the bed was squeaking and Dad was saying “yes” too. At least they agreed on something when they were in bed at night. In the daytime all they did was argue, argue, argue. One of the best arguments had to do with John Kennedy running for President. My mother, like a lot of mothers, loved him—he was handsome and tanned and rich and he had a “cute” Massachusetts accent. To my father, Kennedy was as evil as they came—for the reasons my mother loved him, plus (and this was the big one) he was Catholic. Mt father was certain, if Kennedy was elected, he would take orders from the Pope and the United States would lose its sovereignty, and we would become a Vatican puppet-state.

Being a boy, I took my father’s side. When I stated my position on Kennedy to my friends, I was laughed off the porch stoop. So, I headed home to make up a plan so my friends would believe that there was a conspiracy. I watched Bishop Sheen every once-in-awhile on TV, but I knew he wouldn’t reveal the Papist plot to a Protestant boy from New Jersey. Plus, he was way too important to talk to me, a sinner doomed to Hell for being Presbyterian—a member of a rebel faction of the Christian faith, that along with other factions, had torn the true universal church to pieces.

I came up with a plan, I would disguise myself as a Catholic and trick one of the local priests into telling me the truth. So, I joined CYO—Catholic Youth Organization, where I would play basketball and look Catholic. Although it had “Catholic” in its name, in all of its literature, it used “Christian” to refer to itself. I thought this was clever—like Kennedy calling himself “Christian” instead of “Catholic.” I thought I was onto something—a conspiracy of stealth and concealment. My next move was to go to confession—where you sit in a wooden hutch and tell a concealed Priest the bad things you had done since your previous confession. I would be bold. I would not begin with the usual greeting. Instead I would ask directly: “Is Kennedy a puppet of the Pope?”

I anguished for two days. It was only three days to the election. It was getting cold outside. I told my father what I was up to. He gave me a dollar and told me to get some candy for myself. That meant he was on my side. I couldn’t talk to my mother, she would just say “No, no, no, Johnny” like I was assaulting her. I took a bath, combed my hair and set off for St. Vincent’s Catholic Church—a major landmark in our community. It’s tall steeple, numerous stained glass windows and statutes of saints were awe inspiring. The cathedral was full of squeaks and echoes as I headed for the confessional. I was nervous. I had met with Father Coaly once before to try and become an undercover Altar Boy. There were no openings, so he turned me down, but I was pretty sure he’d be in the confessional this afternoon.

I was 30 minutes early, so I just went straight into the confessional. I heard a voice say: “Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.” That wasn’t the usual routine, as far as I knew. So, I went ahead and asked “”Is Kennedy a puppet of the Pope?” There was laughter. “I’m sorry son, but I am John Kennedy. I came to this beautiful quiet place to practice my inaugural address should I be elected on Tuesday, even though it’ll be a few months until I will deliver it. I have one last campaign event in Morristown tomorrow, that’s why I’m here. I hope you can come. And no, I am not a puppet of the Pope or anybody else.”

I didn’t believe him. What was he doing in that confessional on the Priest’s side? I had heard there were microphones that recorded everything in order to blackmail congregants and add to the church’s massive wealth and give priests spending money too. I also thought that the confessionals have a direct line to Rome. On the other hand, Kennedy seemed pretty nice. I decided later that night that Kennedy wasn’t the Pope’s puppet. I told my dad and he locked me in the garage. About 1 hour later, I heard the lock get smashed. A man in a suit with what looked like a hearing aid in his ear said, “Hi. I’m Secret Service Agent Tommy Campbell. We were assigned to shadow you after your meeting with Mr. Kennedy, and also, we have been monitoring your father because of his association with a Northern Ireland Protestant terrorist organization. I am telling you this for your own safety. The FBI has taken your father into custody. I am sorry.” I wasn’t surprised. My father was a nut, especially when it came to politics. I said to the Agent: “Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.” He looked at me a smiled.

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

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Parabola

Posted on November 4, 2022 | Leave a comment

Parabola (par-ab’-o-la): The explicit drawing of a parallel between two essentially dissimilar things, especially with a moral or didactic purpose. A parable.

It was like I was a big tuna headed to the can—free one minute, mixed with mayonnaise, chopped onions, and pickle relish, smeared on two slices of white bread with lettuce and sliced in half. I am netted. I am canned. I am eaten. My death keeps somebody else alive, a fleet of fishing boats profitable, and maybe, the sandwich reputation of the corner deli “Sawdust.” I’m not really a tuna. I don’t even eat tuna. I just like to think of the entwinement of good and bad—how there’s nothing perfectly good or perfectly evil. It’s probably an old and boring riff on life’s complexities, but it weighs heavily on equity’s place in framing a level life with, perhaps, no gut-wrenching dips or destructive potholes, or, at least, fewer of both.

“The merciful consideration of circumstances.” This quality of judgment is usually affected, or called to be affected, in judicial cases. Like somebody steals a loaf of bread to feed his starving family. He is caught, arrested, tried and sentenced 19 years in prison. Where’s the equity here? This case makes most people angry (and even sick) to read.

Between 24 and 28, I “took care” of people for a living. I came from a good background: a loving family, hefty allowance and a degree from UPENN in Continental Philosophy—I studied all the philosophic bad boys. I also met this guy, Bobby Dollar. We made friends. He was filthy rich. He could buy whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. One weekend, we went to New Jersey and he bought an apartment complex in Newark. He paid cash out of the briefcase he always carried. Then, he would go door-to-door and evict people he “didn’t like the looks of.” After all that, about two months later, he would have apartment complex reappraised at a crazy-high value, reinsure it, and hire a mob torch man to burn it down. He was lucky that nobody got killed. He certainly didn’t need the money. He could’ve bought Newark if he wanted it badly enough. He was evil.

After we graduated, Bobby hired me to manage his properties. He called them his “zoos” because they hosted a few species of rat (including escaped white lab rats), many, many mice, all varieties of cockroach, fleas, and inch-long centipedes. Occasionally, an escaped pet snake would pop up in somebody’s shower, rearing it’s head out of the drain. The ramps he had built for wheelchair access were so steep that it took two people to push a wheelchair bound person up it. Bobby had the building inspector on his “alternate” payroll, reserved also for judges, police, and public officials.

My primary job responsibility was to “take care” of people prepared to take legal action against Bobby. First, I tried to talk them out of it. Then, I’d threaten them, in some cases with blackmail, and other cases, bodily harm—you know—take off a finger, smash a kneecap, pluck an eye, amputate a foot, take off an ear, etc. I can’t tell how much blood I spilled working for Bobby. At least 5 gallons. I had to get rid of him. My life was a horror show. He was evil.

If I turned Bobby in, I would be whacked. So, I opted for a DYI murder. It was simple. I invited him over to my condo. We went up on the roof to smoke some weed, and I pushed him over the railing. I waved to him as he fell screaming toward the pavement. It was ten stories down, but I still heard him thud when he hit the sidewalk. Bobby was pretty big.

I called the police, turned myself in, and was convicted of involuntary manslaughter: that I had patted Bobby on the back too hard when I was congratulating him on his 7th marriage, and he had lost his balance and went over the rail. In exchange for ratting on Bobby, I was given immunity from prosecution for every crime I may have committed in my life. As a token of appreciation, the police gave me Bobby’s credit card and a season ticket to the Yankees that he had had in his wallet. I was sentenced to one month in jail. Killing a fiend did a service to the community. Lying about how it happened got me off the hook. Too bad about guy who got 19 years for stealing a loaf of bread and telling the truth. If he had been “connected” like me, they probably would’ve let him go. But Justice is justice—according to Justice—the blindfolded lady holding the sword and scales—he got what was coming to him. Stealing vs. starving. He made the wrong choice, according to justice.

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

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Paragoge

Posted on November 3, 2022 | Leave a comment

Paragoge (par-a-go’-ge): The addition of a letter or syllable to the end of a word. A kind of metaplasm.

I am rugged—as strong-o as they come! I once lifted a bowling ball over my head, pumped it ten times, and threw it at my cat. He is nimble and got out of the way, but Rosalee didn’t. The bowling ball hit her in the forehead and killed her. I’m not proud of this, but I was sentenced to 1 year in Colesville State Penitentiary for involuntary manslaughter. Killing Rosalee was the worst thing I’ve ever done, so far. I know I’ll make more mistakes, maybe worse mistakes. Since I’ve been in prison, I got permission to teach myself how to juggle bowling balls—three at a time. When I started I dropped one on my toe. It broke my toe, and I limped for about a month. When that ball hit my toe, I thought of Rosalee and her crushed forehead. A little voice inside my head said “Kill your mother.” I started pretending to plan, to trick the voice into shutting up. But, then the voice said: “You can’t fool me, I’m in your head.”

That was true. The only way to get rid of the voice in my head, was to get rid of my head. But the voice wasn’t all bad—it had made me vote for Barack Obama. That was a good decision. Also, it taught me what to say to the elderly people I robbed in their homes: “Just be good and stay in your bed, and I won’t kill you.” Yes, I was really bad, but I didn’t want to be—I was pressured by the pressure in my head. The voice showed up when I was about 12. It sounded like Hopalong Cassidy, my cowboy TV hero. He had 2 guns and a while horse with silver encrusted tack. He wore a big black hat, and silver-studded black wrist guards. He would say, “Johnny, kick the neighbor’s dog.” Or, “Johnny, stomp on your little brother’s model airplane.” Or, “Johnny, take your father’s car for a drive.” Every time I would say “OK Hoppy” and carry out his command. I was flattered that he wanted to have anything to do with me at all. But, I was his “Pard” as cowboys say. We had a special relationship. Actually, I should say we have a special relationship. I haven’t watched his TV show for 50 years, but he’s still with me, giving commands that I carry out because he’s a cowboy and my “pard.”

At this point, you probably think Hoppy told me to kill Rosalee. That’s not true. I was actually trying to kill my cat Ranger. Rosalee’s death was truly an accident. Now, I’m tasked by Hoppy with killing my mother— as cowboys say, “That’s a tall order, partner.” She’s 86, and a fall would be good—it would make perfect sense. I don’t want to get into the shower with her, so I think I’ll push her down the basement stairs. Hoppy complimented me on the plan. I was elated.

I served my 1-year sentence and was released from prison. I took a cab straight home so I could hatch my plan. Hoppy was singing “Home on the Range” in my head as we rode home. “Good pick, Hoppy,” I thought as we pulled up in front of the house—the house where I grew up, and the place where I first met Hoppy on TV. There was Ma to greet me. The hump on Ma’s back had grown since I last saw her, and her eyes seemed a little cloudy—but it was Ma—she smelled like Ma, she looked like Ma, she sounded like Ma. I couldn’t wait to push her down the basement stairs so I could bask in the glory of Hoppy’s kudos. I said, “Hey Ma, could you go down in the basement and get a jar of those pickles you make?” “Sure Johnny,” she said. Suddenly there was a voice inside my head that I didn’t recognize at first, but then I tagged it. It was Paladin from “Have Gun Will Travel.” At the start of each episode, he would flash his business card with a knight from a chess set pictured on it. Paladin’s voice said, “Hoppy, you sidewinding varmint, get out of this boy’s head or I’ll shoot you between the eyes.” Hoppy responded angrily, “To hell with you Paladin, draw your .45 dead man!” “BLAM!” One shot was fired. Paladin’s voice said, “It’s all right son, he’s gone and I’m moseying along now. The only voice in your head from now on is your own voice. Adiós son.” I heard fading hoof beats, and then they were gone. I looked at Ma with new found love in my heart, and I vowed to pay back every elderly person I had ever robbed.

That was ten years ago. Ma’s gone but I managed to pay back most of the elderly people I robbed before they too passed away. I had my criminal record scrubbed and opened a TV Cowboy memorabilia shop on ETSY. It is quite lucrative. For example, I sold a Roy Rogers lunchbox yesterday for $5,000. I got a tattoo of chess knight on my right forearm. When people ask me, “Why a chess piece?” I lie.

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

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Paralipsis

Posted on November 2, 2022 | Leave a comment

Paralipsis (par-a-lip’-sis): Stating and drawing attention to something in the very act of pretending to pass it over (see also cataphasis). A kind of irony.

I’m not going to tell you what a world of shit the world is in. We don’t need to hear what to do about it. We need to do something about it. But the shit-list is long—stretching from communicable diseases to rising ocean levels that will soon inundate my million-dollar beach home with waves of salt water, and eventually, schools of fish and lobsters. What could be worse? Wild fires! They’re worse. They are stealthy. They sneak into towns and cities, making ashes and embers as they go, and poof, there goes another little town in the Cascade Mountains. Gone, along with all the people who live there, fleeing for their lives like Prairie Dogs from a grass fire. What about the recent floods? Deluges come down from the sky and trickling creeks turn into raging rivers, filled with floating junk and struggling people. You may see a chicken coop float by, ridden by a family of four. Or, a telephone pole with an extended family on board—fifteen people, from babies to elders headed to God knows where. Maybe over the 100-foot high waterfall 1/4 mile down river? There goes a rich guy in his Land Rover! He can’t pay his way out of this one, like the affair he had with his daughter’s best friend. He’s blowing his horn at the man in front of him riding in a planter box, trying to steer with a garden trowel. Mr. Land Rover vehemently motions to Planter Box man to get out of his way. Then, he hits a bridge abutment and drowns.

I bet you had a great dinner last night. Pretty much everybody else didn’t. Famine is real—it affects everybody who does not have enough to eat. Go to the mall and see the jiggly woman in the electric shopping scooter who has a bag of “Caloroni Chocolate Chugs Chugs” on her lap while she shops for “Fatty Bars” and “Weight-Loss Winkies.” It makes no sense, but that’s how it goes in the land of plenty. Here comes another jiggler—a man! It seems the battery in his scooter is going dead, or something. Smoke is billowing out the back. It looks like his weight is straining the motor. If the seat catches on fire he is a dead man. He has a bag of “Flabbusto Chocolate Covered Crisco Treats.” The mall guards spray his scooter with fire extinguishers, as the flames subside, he slowly gets off his scooter and waddles to a nearby bench where he immediately farts and reaches for another “Flabbusto” as he waits for his life-boat scooter to be delivered. Meanwhile, somewhere else in the world, a family shares a dinner of a single broiled locust and a handful of boiled tree bark. They are so skinny they could work as skeletons in anatomy classes. Their clothes consist of used fertilizer bags with head-and arm-holes cut out. They can almost remember their small farm where they used the fertilizer before hell descended on their land when it stopped raining two years ago. They don’t have a chance. Hello Hyenas!

As we review the world of shit, we see there are varying depths of shit constituting the world of shit: there are worlds of shit. Your devastating flood may be my big puddle in my back yard. Your flash fire that burns out your life and destroys your belongings, may be my leaf pile fire gone out of control. Your famine may be my hunger pang that prompts me to go to the deli and get a pastrami sandwich on rye. My brother Eddy has just finished writing a book about all this. He has absolutely no qualifications, so the book is a fictional conspiracy theory that’s all about blame, with no solutions proposed. He says that once you know who to blame, you’re halfway there. The book’s title is: “THEY Have Taken Our Water, Our Food, Nice Weather, and Started Fires.” “They” are a conspiracy of Democrats and Aliens from “Planet Par,” a race of golf-loving fiends that look human and wear loud plaid golfing attire and golf hats that say DARN, “Democrats Against Republican Nonsense,” making it look like they’re chastising Republicans when they are actually to blame. Anyway, the space aliens plant bombs all over Earth to destroy it, plan to take the Democrat collaborators with them when they leave, and will let everybody else be blown up. As the aliens get ready to leave, though, they can’t get their spaceships started. The mission to blow up Earth is temporarily scrapped. At this point, the great Republican scientist Elan Muck offers to help fix the spaceships in exchange for peace with the aliens, and also, to collaborate with them to fix the world of shit. Elan discovers a cure-all for the earth’s ills and purchases the World Wide Web from its mysterious owner so he can inform the world of the means of salvation. Everybody rejoices, except Democrats who, for collaborating with the aliens, are relegated to work camps, mining “the cure” 24-7.

I think Eddy’s book sucks. We need real solutions to the world’s real problems. I’m going to do my part by raiding supermarkets, clearing the shelves of unhealthy food, and sending it by chartered jet to hungry countries.

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

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Paramythia

Posted on November 1, 2022 | Leave a comment

Paramythia (pa-ra-mee’-thi-a): An expression of consolation and encouragement.

“Now, now honey, it’s not like it’s the end of the world.” I said, trying to console my wife Roxie. Then I realized it was probably the end of the world. Smoke filled the air. Sirens were blaring. My neighbors were eating their dog Sarah right there on front lawn. It was disgusting and fascinating at the same time. Mel was holding Sarah, their little dog, like corn on the cob, spinning and chomping like he was at a summer picnic. Mel’s wife Gloria was chewing on Sarah’s tail. Mel had always treated her like a second-class citizen—even eating their dog together, Gloria got the short end of the stick. She didn’t mind though, she had already chewed off half Sarah’s tail, and was still going strong, with bloody fur on her chin and no sign of slowing down. I couldn’t stop looking out the window at the carnage—little Ricky Ranker standing in the street, licking his headless hamster like it was an ice cream cone. Then, there was Grandma Tuttle with what looked like a finger in a hot dog bun. She was squirting mustard on it and looking at it like it was some kind of religious icon.

I was on the verge of vomiting when there was a knock on the door that quickly turned into pounding. Without opening the door, I asked who was there. “Police, open up!” The voice sounded like it was talking with it’s mouth full. Normally, I would’ve thought it was a donut, but given that it was the end of the world, it was probably a piece of the guy across the street who I could see through the window, holding his arm and screaming. So I looked through the front door’s peephole and saw my friend Bill, a police officer. He had blood down the front of his shirt and was holding my bank teller’s severed head by her hair, swinging it back and forth by his side like it was a bleeding bowling ball.

“Bill! I think you want to eat me and Roxie—you’ve always looked at her like she made you hungry, but I thought is was sexual. But now, I see it isn’t. You want to make her into some kind of human rainbow roll, smear on some wasabi, and eat her along with shots of sake. What the hell happened to you?” He yelled through the door: “I don’t know Goddamnit. I went to bed, got up and put on my uniform, and ate the bank teller, and now I want to eat you and Roxie, especially Roxie. My mouth’s watering and my stomach’s growling like a mad dog. Open the damn door, or I’ll shoot my way in.” He was lying—he had an axe and started chopping his way through the door. I wondered why he hadn’t just broken the picture window and climbed through. I didn’t have time to ask. I could see the axe’s blade tearing through the door. I ran into the kitchen where Roxie was, but she wasn’t there. I didn’t blame her for taking off on me. It might save her life. Just then, Officer Bill broke through the front door. I ran as fast as I could out the back door. I looked over my shoulder as I ran and caught a glimpse of Bill and Roxie—evidently she had been hiding in the bathroom and he had found her. I felt sick. I got down on my knees and yelled “make it stop!”

And it stopped. I had awakened from yet another one of my mega-nightmares. They were vivid and inevitably apocalyptic. I have been seeing a psychologist to find a way to put an end to what I call ‘My night horrors.” She seems to think the nightmares are triggered by my vegetarianism and abhorrence of meat. Anyway, waking up, I felt like Dorothy arriving back in Kansas. Aside from our neighbor’s worthless dog Sarah’s barking at whatever the hell she barks at, things were quiet and serene. I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. It was late, but somebody knocked softly on the front door. Trixie came downstairs fully dressed. I noticed she was carrying a suitcase. She opened the door. It was my friend Bill the policeman. “Shhh” she said and went out the door, and quietly closed it behind them.

“This is the end of the world,” I sobbed as I thought of all the ways I could kill, and possibly, eat Trixie and Bill..

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.

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