Monthly Archives: August 2023

Hyperbaton

Posted on August 4, 2023 | Leave a comment

Hyperbaton (hy-per’-ba-ton): 1. An inversion of normal word order. A generic term for a variety of figures involving transposition, it is sometimes synonymous with anastrophe. 2. Adding a word or thought to a sentence that is already semantically complete, thus drawing emphasis to the addition.

I felt really dizzy, ready to fall down. I had lost control of my magic carpet somewhere over Pennsylvania. I had gone 900 years without a tuneup. I should’ve taken it to the shop when I hit 700 years, but I was so busy flying all over North America granting wishes and cleansing souls that I’d lost track of time.

Wishes are constituted by desire and absence tangling together in deeply personal and intense feelings—so intense that they seep into one’s soul, throwing it off course—from its interest in eternity and salvation. My job is to determine whether to “wipe” the wish or manifest it. I routinely wipe evil wishes, which are surprisingly prevalent in North America. For example, there was a politician named Mich who was having such horrendous wishes that I had to turn him off in the middle of a press conference. Thank God he was led away, and the wishes went unspoken. That was an unusual case. Usually, evil wishes can be handled with a quick memory wash, cleansing the soul of the root of the evil wish, which is often very trivial. For example, in one case the wish was rooted in resentment of a mandated bedtime. It grew and festered until, as an adult, the person hated being on time and affected his liberation by always being at least ten minutes late. His wish, as it was perfected, was to eliminate time altogether. I washed the foundational memory out of his soul and manifested a solid gold Rolex wristwatch and gave it to him. When he put it on his wrist he looked like he had just seen a cute bunny running through his yard. He yelled: “Time is on my side!” He yelled: “I have an appointment with swimming pool guy in 10 minutes! I’m on my way. I refuse to be late.”

I circled the magic carpet Repair Dome and landed smoothly on the front ramp. It was located in the middle of New Jersey’s pine barrens, protected by ani-detection devices, that were probably dependent on some kind of advanced magic. I stepped off my carpet and went into the dome. It had a sign hanging over its entrance that said “Watch Out: This Place is Crazy.” That was Bento’s sense of humor. There he was, standing behind the counter making a cat’s cradle out of bread bag twisties. I told him I had gone 200 years past my 700-year tuneup. He dropped the cat’s cradle on the counter, started flashing red and making a sound like a car alarm. “What!?” He asked, wide eyed and trembling with fear. Two of his assistants ran up to the counter. “We heard the impending disaster alarm you blew, we’re ready for action.” Bento pointed at my carpet and yelled “Tune it!” I had forgotten that my carpet model was programmed to self-destruct if it wasn’t properly maintained. My carpet was not properly maintained. The self-destruct function’s origins were obscure. It is such a bad idea that nobody can find a good reason for it, yet it persists, like so many other things—like wearing a sword or Morris Dancing.

After he repaired it, Bento told me me my carpet’s “diectionator” was almost completely shot. A couple more turns without repair and my carpet would’ve evaporated, along with me. Now, I could be on my way.

There was a terribly deluded man in Florida who was wreaking havoc on one of the longest-lasting democracies the world has ever seen. His delusions are ubiquitous and are steering his soul toward absolute evil, I may have to give him a total cleansing, a “Big Wash”—sort of like rebooting a computer and bringing it back to its original state. But, I fear this person’s original state is evil. In that case, he will eventually go to hell where he’ll sit in a circle with his feet in a fire, moaning and screaming along with Caligula, Charlie Manson, Rasputin, Mengle, and the other devils populating the pantheon of evil. For his sake, I hope I can wipe him.

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

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Hypozeuxis

Posted on August 3, 2023 | Leave a comment

Hypozeuxis (hyp-o-zook’-sis): Opposite of zeugma. Every clause has its own verb.

I waved the crayon around over my head. I smiled and jumped up and down. My chest tattoo of a dormouse started showing as my cowboy shirt started to come unsnapped—pop, pop, pop, pop went the snaps as they came undone, revealing the tattoo’s caption: “Feed Your Head.” From “Alice in Wonderland” to The Jefferson Airplane, I had fed my head. So, I picked up my gold-plated kazoo, and did my best Jimi Hendrix, blasting out “Voodoo Child” like somebody was sticking pins in me. Then, I ate a handful of Smarties, as I did every day, as a tribute to Princess Diana. It was her favorite candy. Some people say she was eating a handful Smarties when she was killed in the car crash in Paris. It is almost too horrible to contemplate, but they say she had a red one stuck in her eye when they removed her body from the car. It reminded me of the time I was hanging out with the Stones, and we all put Red Stipe bottle caps in our eyes pretending we were blind Jamaican zombies with our hands stretched out in front, bumping into each other. That’s when we found out that Kieth Richards actually was a zombie. He kept saying “I smell the brain of an Englishman.” I pulled the bottle caps out of Keith’s eyes and he returned to his aged, wrinkled, nicotine-stained 80-year-old looking 35-year-old-self. I never saw him eat a brain, but he would talk about it after he smoked a little weed. He would talk about how much a “prime” brain weighs, the different “cuts” of brain and how the medulla was tremendously useful in making the heart keep track of the beat, and how it was very soft because it didn’t do any thinking.

Eventually Kieth went to South Jersey in the US for the cure. He was buried up to his neck on the beach, a perfect target for urinating dogs. After being “splashed” 13 times, he was cured. It is rumored that “Honky Tonk Woman” came out of this experience.

I was in the rock group “Sputtering Flame.” We sang songs we composed about serial killers, farm animals, and roller blading—looking for the kind of success The Beach Boys had achieved with with surfing with our music about rollerblading, Our biggest hit was “Crazy Gacy,” a song about the American serial killer John Wayne Gacy. At the same time, we were booed off the stage even if we hinted we might perform it. So, we focused on farm animals and roller blading. “Old McDonald Stole My Pig” made it to 72 on the charts—that was the best we did, although “How Now Tattooed Cow” made it to 89. Rollerblading was a catastrophe—it was almost ephemeral in its longevity. “Let Me Roll You to the Motel Next Door,” “Squeaking Wheels,” and “WD-40” were our best, topping the charts at 105, 107, and 125, and then the rollerblading craze crashed. The venues closed and “Sputtering Flame” was extinguished..

We were heartbroken, but we had to carry on. I gave up my musical career. I was awash in drugs, and still am—mostly pot and opiated hash. Although I’m nearly 80, after 40 or so years of debauchery that makes Dorian Gray look like the Pope, I got a full tuition scholarship at Candy Land Community College. I’ve dyed my hair black and lost a few pounds. I was pretty sure my creative writing professor Ms. Wangford, had some kind of crush on me. She told me I needed to come to her office for a “special lesson.” My imagination took off. It would be amazing. I got to her office and she was on all fours on her desk. She jumped down and we both sat down. She took off her wig. It was Alice Cooper. He said “Do you get the irony my man?” I was coming on to my third pipe load of opiated hash. Alice looked like the yellow circle in the center of a daisy, with white petals. Only he wasn’t only yellow—he was flashing purple and red too. Misunderstanding him, I said “I don’t do ironing. Everything I own is wash and wear.” He started spinning like a wheel of fortune and cackling. I ran out the door, slamming it so hard the glass broke.

I am almost ready to graduate with an Associate Degree in Topiary Sciences. I specialize in making hedges into squirrels and ducks. But I do have my creative moments—my senior project was a firefighter with a mug of beer in one hand and a BIC lighter in the other. I have a job with “Trendy Trimmers.” Although it sounds like a hair salon, it is the Number 1 topiary operation in North Jersey. My first gig will be making all of Jon Bon Jovi’s hedges into parked Harleys. It should take about a year.

So, it looks like I’ve landed fairly gently in life. With all my failures, it looks like I might have some success ahead. But still, I like to reminisce about the bad old days—taking the stage with “Sputtering Flame” and trying hard to be a star.

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

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Hysterologia

Posted on August 2, 2023 | Leave a comment

Hysterologia (his-ter-o-lo’-gi-a): A form of hyperbaton or parenthesis in which one interposes a phrase between a preposition and its object. Also, a synonym for hysteron proteron.

“Under” (wrote the Swiss poet) “where” confusing and shocking literary critics and breaking new poetic ground, along with the “red wheelbarrow,” and “milk wood,” and “my thumb” thus eclipsing Ricola, Heidi, Swiss Miss, and the Swiss Army Knife as foundational to Swiss self-understanding along with safe deposit boxes, wrist watches and tidy smooth-running ski lifts. Nevertheless, despite the emergent markers of Swiss cultural identity, Swiss Cheese maintains its preeminence as Switzerland’s national odor.

Recently, it was discovered that Pinocchio fled to Switzerland when he was accused of elder abuse against Geppetto by shaving off his mustache when he was sleeping and hiding his glasses in a big lump of donkey poop. He is wanted in Italy and Geppetto has disowned him—saying Pinocchio will never be a real boy. Pinocchio assimilated well to life in Switzerland. He works in a Swiss Army Knife factory. Part of his job is to think of new functions for the knife. He is currently working on the hemorrhoid scratcher, tattoo needle, tea warmer, and glow-in-the-dark toothpick. Even though Pinocchio will always be a wooden boy, at 52 he’s still going strong and looks great with his youthful birch bark skin and red dye 40 dyed lips and cheeks. That’s not all—he keeps his joints lubricated with Emu Oil, never a squeak. He’s going a little bald, but that can be remedied with Super Glue and black rabbit fur. He takes medication that keeps his nose from growing.

Pinocchio lives with his wife Marloda who is a Russian nesting doll. Accordingly, Pinocchio has an extended family to take care of. He pops open Marloda on Friday nights and dumps everybody on the floor—removing them one-by-one from each other. Then, lining up and forming a chorus they sing “Edelweiss” and “Smoke on the Water.” Now, it’s bedtime and everybody scrambles back inside Marloda for a good night’s sleep. Pinocchio gives Marloda a kiss and they go to bed.

Meanwhile, in Italy as the years go by Geppetto, almost 90 years old, becomes angrier and angrier at his errant son. His mustache never grew back and people laugh continuously at the fat lip it’s absence revealed. He has been training a small troop of fashion designers from Milan who can cross borders without raising suspicions and “get” Pinocchio. He has equipped each one with a concealable pocket saw to “Cut that bastard down to size.” They each have a quart of gasoline “In case worse comes to worse.” Geppetto has become mad with his obsession. He has started making dangerous toys. The worst is the rocking horse with shards of glass protruding from the saddle. You can imagine what it does to its rider!

Geppetto and his troop of Milanese mercenaries were ready to go. When they got to the Swiss border, Geppetto cracked, pulled out his gasoline bottle, dumped it on his head and set himself afire. The Milanese mercenaries ran back into Italy discarding their pocket saws and bottles of gasoline. The Swiss guards bagged Geppetto up and dragged him back across the Italian border. The Milanese mercenaries left Geppetto in a ditch and continued back to Milan. Pinocchio heard about his father’s demise at the border and wanted to retrieve him for a proper burial. However, if he crossed into Italy he would be arrested on the elder abuse charges that had been leveled by Geppetto years ago.

Pinocchio contacted a local Gnome for help. He knew Swiss Gnomes were beneficial to gardeners. He told the Gnome if he brought his father’s body back over the border, he could use it for fertilizer. The Gnome agreed and, feeling compassion for Pinocchio, dumped the Geppetto fertilizer onto Pinocchio’s garden, greatly improving the garden’s yield of tomatoes and peppers, and winning Pinocchio a gardening prize.

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

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Hysteron Proteron

Posted on August 1, 2023 | Leave a comment

Hysteron Proteron (his’-ter-on pro’-ter-on): Disorder of time. (What should be first, isn’t.)

I woke up wearing only my underpants on a bus driving in reverse on the New York State Thruway, going at least 70 mph. Everybody on the bus was in sartorial disarray. Nobody was naked, but I was the least clothed. The woman sitting next to me was wearing socks on her hands. The man walking up the aisle was wearing a necktie, boxer shorts, Birkenstocks, and knee-high black socks with birds embroidered on them. The bus driver was wearing a bus driver hat, underpants, a peace medallion, and flip flops. He seemed to be enjoying himself, driving us backwards to our doom. I looked out the window and saw that all the other traffic was going backwards, then instead of getting later, it was getting earlier. When it got to setting, the sun started rising. “This is so irritating” said the man across the isle wearing a top hat, red bikini briefs, and blue bedroom slippers. “Last week I was on my way to a funeral and was redressed from somber black to some kind of neon jogging shorts, a Taylor Ham advertising T-shirt, and hot-pink pumps. It was hard saying goodbye to Aunt Crystal in that get-up, but everybody else was dressed inappropriately, so I fit right in.”

There was only one person on the bus who looked normal—jeans and a t-shirt and Nike trainers. He had ear buds in his ears and was obviously listening to music, bobbing his head up a down to the beat. I said hello to him. He didn’t acknowledge me. He just kept bobbing his head and started tapping one of his feet. I started to get angry, so angry I pulled out his earbuds. A high-pitched sound came out of his ears. It was painful to listen to—the passengers were screaming and holding their ears. “You fool!” He yelled. I quickly stuck a Marlboro 27 in each of my ears, so the high-pitched sound wasn’t affecting me that much. I noticed there was an eye peering out of his ear. It was hazel and quite captivating. Ear buds boy stuck them back in his ears, covering the eyeball. He said, “Look, this isn’t my fault. It squirmed into my head through my Bluetooth earbuds. I wore them too much and it gave the creature an opening. It “integrated” with Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘Burnin’ for You’ and infected my mind to the point of betraying Humanity by depriving them of their clothing autonomy and becoming dupes in the creature’s cause, not to mention her institution of “backwardness” in time and place. Right now, she is mocking me inside me head. She wants me to throw you out of the bus and kill you. Are you ready?”

I yelled “Screw you!” I hit him in the face as hard as I could and reached over the bus driver’s shoulder, turned off the bus’s ignition, and pulled out the keys, opened the door, and jumped out when the bus slowed down enough. As the bus rolled to a stop, I heard screaming and the passengers came running out of the bus normally dressed. Something big had happened to turn things around, including the bus which had somehow gotten turned in the right direction on the Thruway. I looked at the earbuds boy sliding down the bus’s steps. He looked like he was going to die. The eye looking out his ear looked cloudy—it had lost its charm. With his nose bleeding the life out of him, earbuds boy spoke with a woman’s voice: “I am the granddaughter of Circe. I use my musical stylings to waylay lovers of bad music on their wireless listening devices. Together we use my magic to induce people to dress badly and forget the difference between forward and backward. My grandmother turned men into goats and pigs. I turn them into fashion disasters going backwards through life. You have defeated me for now. I will return.”

After this fiasco, the FCC passed a law regarding wireless earbuds: they were not allowed to be worn more than one hour per day. Violators would be subject to a $1,000 fine and 3 years in prison. Also, people were cautioned to wear smart watches and pay attention to sunrise and sunset.

I moved to Florida. I had grown accustomed wearing only underpants and I hoped Florida’s warm climate would afford me the opportunity to wear them year-round. I was wrong. I was arrested. Now, I wear a Speedo banana hammock all he time,

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. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

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