Monthly Archives: November 2023

Anaphora

Posted on November 30, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

Time is a pain in the ass. Time is a cleaver that cuts up life. Time is anxiety’s husband and wife. I used to wear a watch. I used to look at it too often, worried about being on time—as if time is a surface under my feet like my lawn or my living room floor, or a cliff overlooking a rocky abyss with bones strewn at the bottom. So, I stopped wearing a watch. I put a piece of duct tape over the clock on my iPhone. I put away all the clocks in my house and taped over the microwave and oven clocks. When I was home, I didn’t know what time it was, until I noticed night and day induced by sunrise and sunset. Night and day are vague approximations of time, but they measure time nevertheless. So, I blacked out my windows. I would used lightbulbs to manage time as much as I was willing to manage it. But really, lights on was about being able to read and traverse my home without tripping and falling down—in other words, “light” was about seeing, dark, about not seeing.

After awhile, after completing my timeless regime, my boss called me and asked me where the hell I was. I quit, right there on the phone. I have my IRA and was eligible for Social Security. I stood to make more money by quitting!

I still had a time vestige or two that were almost impossible to shed—when I said “soon” or “sooner or later” I was doing time talk. I actually wanted to excise “soon” from my approach to life. But sadly, I bear “soon” in my body, along with other unavoidable aspects of time’s rootedness in consciousness. Given this realization, and the frustrating struggles it induced, I reconsidered my ay attempt to evade time. So, I want in the opposite direction—I timed everything. I wore a stopwatch around my neck and carried a pen and small notepad. I timed my toothbrushing. I timed putting on my shoes. I timed how long it took to go from my bedroom to the kitchen. I even timed how long it took to urinate! I changed my screen name to Father Time. I bought five cuckoo clocks that chorus every 30 minutes.

Now that I am immersed in time, I am pestered by the prospect of being early, on time, or late. Pestered. What does that mean? I am cowed. I am laid low. I am crushed. I am enslaved. Time is my master, I can’t master time.

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

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Anapodoton

Posted on November 29, 2023 | Leave a comment

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.

But I loved her anyway. The clock was ticking and I was licking the back of my hand. I was was drowning in memories, floating kayaks of regret, bobbing on small waves of pain, pushing me away from shore onto the horizonless waste of gratuitous imagery, like a nostril hair twitching tentatively on the left nostril of life, coveting the right nostril’s position, nearer the ear, due to a nearly imperceptible birth defect connected to heredity—almost inevitable, but not certain, like most of what we inherit. I am fat, blond-haired, green-eyed, left-handed, pigeon-toed, covered with moles, loose-jointed, near-sighted, allergic to dust, cats, and after-shave lotion. My kids have all the same traits as me with the addition of their mother’s: excess body hair (including a unibrow), dyslexia, assorted food allergies, bi-polar disease, scrolling toenails, and paranoia.

As you can imagine, our lives together are very complex. It seems like every six months we discover another inherited malady among us. My neighbor Ed thinks we come from another planet—maybe one the Air Force knows about, but is keeping hush hush due to security reasons. He believes people from our planet are mating with each other to destroy the human race. I can see how he believes that when he looks at us, but I’ve shown him my birth certificate a number of times, I was born in Staten Island, New York, where I was put up for adoption. Both my parents were in the Air Force and were part of a project that didn’t allow children. I never knew my parents, but I was told they “took off” right after I was born. Ed says that they literally flew away—back to their planet after finishing their work for the Air Force.

I should’ve gotten mad at Ed for claiming my parents came to earth to destroy the human race, but he was a conspiracy buff and there was no turning him around. Some of his theories should’ve landed him in the looney bin. For example, he believes John Kennedy is still alive and is giving orders to Elon Musk that will eventually lead to Musk’s total global control of the world’s electric appliances, weaponizing (among others) blenders, toaster ovens, and flashlights. Of course, this is insane, but they have the backing of the MAGAS, so it has been “debated” and “proven” true in the United States House of Representatives and funding has been allocated for “further investigation.”

There have been lights flashing over our house every night for the past 3 weeks. If I was crazy like Ed, I would believe it was a spaceship coming to take our family home. Ha! Ha!

POSTSCRIPT

He woke up to a humming sound. He looked to the left and saw his wife and children in the dim light strapped into cot-like beds. They were going home! He had denied it all his life, but now it seemed that Ed was right, minus the destruction of humanity. Maybe he would meet his parents. When they arrived they were escorted by humanoids to a replica of their earth home and told this is where they would live. There was a red line around their house. It was electrified and crossing it from either direction could be fatal. They settled in. Their maladies dissipated. Friends were supplied. As the years went by, the red line’s current diminished and they were able to cross it. The kids met their grandparents. They looked like Dolly Parton and Lyle Waggoner. He and his wife were shocked. The second time they met his parents looked Seals and Crofts. Someday, he would figure out what was going on. But for now, he was just happy to be home.

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

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Anastrophe

Posted on November 28, 2023 | Leave a comment

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.

At the beginning of the race, there are no winners. Try they must. There is hope. There is fear. But there are no winners. I don’t know why I did it to myself, year after year. My mother introduced me to it when I was a little boy. She told me if I kept it up, I would amount to something. So, I kept it up year after year for the past 22 years, and I hadn’t amounted to anything worthy of note. Sure, I had gone to college and majored in English. Sure, I have a job at Hannaford’s managing the fresh fruits and vegetables—spraying, trimming, rotating them. And of course, I was married. We have 3 kids—a boy and two girls—Dilbert, Dolly and Dorothy. Dilbert has just gotten out of jail for armed robbery and we’re looking forward to rehabilitating him. The first step is to keep him chained to the hot water heater in the basement. We got the idea from the book “Chained Straight” recommended by Dilbert’s parole officer “Time Bomb” Johnson. Oh, my wife has gotten really fat since we’ve been married. I don’t mind though. Since she has enlarged, I can fit in her clothes. We’ve invented our own kind of Cosplay. We pretend we’re mirrors and chase each other around the house, and then we stop for “reflection.” We send our kids to the mall whenever we play. We don’t want them to know how twisted we are. But, a couple of weeks ago, they snuck back from the mall in an Uber and peeked in the windows. They’re staying with their grandmother now until their therapy starts working.

Anyway—the race. I’m an “Egg-and-spoon racer.” I balance an egg on a spoon and dash to the finish line. The first person across the finish line with their egg still balanced on their spoon wins the race. I have a special racing spoon I got at Dick’s Sporting Goods. It cost $300.00. The spoon’s scoop is treated with an abrasive compound to minimize egg slippage. The spoon’s handle has a leather strap with a buckle to stabilize the spoon. I also have my own team colors like a jockey’s. The dominant color is hard-boiled chicken egg yolk yellow with duck egg pale blue/green pin stripes. I had my colors made in Hong Kong for $1,000.00. I’ve never won a race. I discovered last year that one of my legs is 1 cm. shorter than the other. It makes me rock back and forth, inevitably spilling the egg. This year I have a lift for my shoe that will level me up. I’m pretty sure that, at long last, I’ll win. My only obstacle is Buck Buck who moved here two weeks ago. It is rumored he runs the course with his eyes closed and wins every time, and has feathers in his public areas. I’m trying to figure out a way to cheat. In the meantime, I will just keep practicing.

Well, there you have it. The life of a competitive Egg-and-spoon racer. Let’s just say, I’m not going to crack.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Anesis

Posted on November 27, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

The most important thing in the history of the world was going to happen. Well, maybe not the most important, but pretty important. I was going to get my first tattoo. I had an appointment at “Etch-A-Flesh” tomorrow at 9:00 pm. I had one problem though: I hadn’t decided what I wanted to have “etched” on my flesh. Choosing your first tattoo is like choosing your wife. Chances are, you’ll be together for the rest of your life. I had already been married twice, so I knew the comparison was bogus, but I liked how it sounded.

I had spent the last month looking at tattoos on the internet and taking screen shots of tattoos I liked. I liked Loony Tunes cartoon characters. I liked Bugs Bunny, but Yosemite Sam was a winner. I liked his angry personality and gunplay. I stuck him up on my bedroom wall as a first pick. Then, there were the unnamed fiends. I like the one with blood dripping razor-sharp teeth. I picked one out that had red eyes too. There were tribal tattoos that I didn’t like. They reminded me of the pattern on my Mom’s bathrobe. Anyway, after a month of searching, I had found nothing that inspired me. Then, as I was searching through a pile of my old comic books, the second one in the pile was an “Inspector Gadget” comic book. It had promise. I set it aside and kept looking. I hit on something I had totally forgotten: “My Little Pony.” Twilight Sparkle was my favorite little pony. I had to have her on my skin, but I loved inspector Gadget too. I could’ve gotten two tattoos, but I had a better idea. I would get a tattoo of Inspector Gadget riding Twilight Sparkle. It would be a masterpiece. Plus, I would have the Ponys’ motto inscribed below: “Friendship is Magic.”

I got to the tattoo parlor early and showed the pictures to the tattoo artist and explained how I wanted it put together in the tattoo. She left the room and came back with a stack of legal documents for me to sign. I signed them, although I was a little worried.

I get a variety of responses when I show people my tattoo. The worst was “You should have your arm amputated.” The best so far is “Cute.” Most normally, I get “Ewww.” That’s ok with me, I’ve never been that popular or attractive. I’m used to rejection. So, I’m going to get another tattoo. It is going to be a basket of Brussels sprouts that says “Eat Me Raw” underneath it. I was pretty sure it would lure in the girls with the health food theme. It didn’t. “Disgusting” and “Get a life” were the two most frequent epithets hurled at my veggie basket. I have covered it with a strip of duct tape until I can begin the removal process.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Antanaclasis

Posted on November 26, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

Time was flying, but I wasn’t having a good time. When time flies, it sounds like flies buzzing over a carcass. Well, I guess I can’t actually hear it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have a sound. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have a sound—that I didn’t sound off all the time. I have a problem with saying out loud what I’m thinking—mostly with strangers. Yesterday I crossed paths a woman walking her dog. I yelled “That’s the ugliest goddamn mutt I’ve ever seen. Where did you get it? The ugly puppy mill somewhere outside of hell.” That earned me a “mean pervert” in return. That’s better than I’ve done other times. One time, when I was 10, I told my mother she looked like a whore. Her “boyfriend” held me over the edge of the balcony five stories up until I told her I was sorry. When I got older, I found out my mom was actually a whore and took care of most of the men in our neighborhood. She made a ton of money, so we never talked about it after my outburst.

When I was 17 I was walking down the street and saw my neighbor’s wife Mrs. Peloni bent over working on the flower bed in front of her house. I said: “Hey babes. Nice cheeks. Want to get a room at the motel.” She yelled to her husband: “Herb, it’s that crazy little bastard from down the street again!” Herb came out the front door holding a newspaper which he rolled up and beat me over the head with after he pushed me to the ground. I was starting to see stars when he let up and kicked me and told me if he ever saw my “perverted ass” within 100 yards of his home again, he would call the police and have me arrested.

I figured I had some kind of diagnosable illness. I went to the doctor, and yes, I have a disease: Blurto’s Syndrome. It is named after the 18th century priest, Father Judas Blurto. He was banned from preaching after he told his congregation that they were “A boring herd of sinful cheap-ass flesh bags with no hope for salvation.” This is something 99% of clergy believe, but never say out loud because they are able to keep their mouths shut.

There are only two known cures for Blurto’s. The first is to have your tongue cut out. The procedure is not covered by insurance because Blurto’s is not recognized by the AMA or the FDA. So, people who want their tongue excised have to be incredibly rich, or willing to go Juarez, Mexico, where the amputations are performed in delicatessens and butcher shops for $1000.00. The operation takes months to heal and patients often die from complications due to unsterile meat cleavers and butchers knives.

The preferred method of managing Blurto’s is wearing a gag—a silicone ball gag. Normally used in adult bondage activities, the ball gag is a perfect remedy for Blurto’s. It is light weight and removeable and effectively garbles your speech without removing your tongue. Also, if you feel like letting your Blurto’s lose, you can do it, although it isn’t recommended that you do so.

I wear my bondage ball in public. I wear a t-shirt that says “I have Blurto’s.” I also carry pamphlets explaining what Blurto’s is.

I met a woman in the grocery store dressed in black leather. She said: “Well, you look like a worthless little wimp. How’d you like to come hang out in my dungeon?” I shook my head “No.” She slapped me in the face and said “Move it goat butt. You always answer ‘Yes’ to Madame Spanky.” I moved it. I can’t begin to describe what we did, but when I took off my ball gag and went full Blurto, things went insane.

I’m living in the dungeon now. I have my own leather suit, leather carpet, leather-covered coffee mug, and leather sheets on my bed. Madame Spanky keeps me in line, disciplining me when I’m bad, which is all the time.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Antanagoge

Posted on November 25, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

I hate doing my income taxes, but without them, the government wouldn’t have any money, and go out of business. There would be no army or FBI, or Congress. NPR would cease to exist and Smokey the Bear would lose his job, and would have to raid dumps at night like other bears. The Lincoln Memorial would be closed down and his “Gettysburg Address” would be forgotten. “Fourscore and what?” people will ask each other trying to recapture the forgotten eloquence of the vanished speech. What about the arts: the NEH? Bye bye government support of the arts. Painters will be nearly bereft of materials— of acrylics, oils, water colors, canvases, brushes, stretchers, and easels, and models or bowls of fruit. And the studios will be locked.

Then, there’s the performing arts: music, drama, dance: all moved to street corners: “Cats,” “Oklahoma,” “Beetlejuice.” Classics dying in the streets, starved for money, bereft of talent, more players than audience members. Sinking. Drowning.

So, thank God we have taxes. It is no fun paying them, but they bring us benefits.

One year, about 20 years ago, I decided not to pay my taxes. I was mad at the federal government because the FDA banned the commercial sale of raccoon meat. I had hunted raccoons with hound dogs with my uncle Ellsworth since I was 10. Uncle Ellsworth had ignored the law about meat and sold furs too. The FDA agents came to uncle Ellsworth’s house and found a freezer full of carcasses marked with prices according to weight. Just as they were about to handcuff him, Uncle Ellsworth ran out to back door and into the swamp. We haven’t seen him since, but we were confident that he was ok—our family had lived adjacent to the swamp for hundreds of years, and we had made friends with it.

I owed the IRS $82.00. I burned my tax form in my fireplace. To hell with them until Uncle Ellsworth came home. Then, sometime in May, I got a letter from the IRS offering me a time payment plan with 20% interest. I panicked and wrote a check for the $82,00 I owed. One week later, I got a letter thanking me for paying my taxes and reminding me I still owed interest. I ignored the letter. They kept coming with interest compounding. My bill got up to $1,100. I was forced to rob a Cliff’s for the money. I was caught, tried and convicted. I spent 6 months in jail. I made pen pals with a woman who offered to pay my debt to the IRS. I took her up on her offer. We’re living together. She likes to throw crumpled-up balls of paper at me. She just throws the paper at me and acts like nothing happened. I’d like to get the hell out of here, but I’m temporarily stuck here until I can get another job. Maybe I could go back to raccoon hunting, but Uncle Ellsworth is still missing in the swamp. I hate to say it, but he’s probably dead.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Antenantiosis

Posted on November 24, 2023 | Leave a comment

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]).

Me: I’m not a genius. I never have been. I never will be. I am undeserving of the designation. Rather, I’m a nut case. I’m not totally crazy yet. I’m not close, but I’m moving in that direction. The police are looking for me. I aimed my finger at a police officer. I didn’t even say “bang bang.” He chased me down the street and ran out in front of a delivery truck and was killed. That certainly wasn’t my fault—he was just terminally over-zealous. Nobody knew he was chasing me, but I’m guessing CCTV will do me in, like it does on all the British detective shows. So, here I am to hide out, Luther. You’re my best friend and you can help me hide out if you can forget the ‘incident’ with Shiela. Did I get her pregnant? Judging by the baby stuff scattered around, it looks like I might be right.

You: You’re right, you are crazy. Wait here so I can go to Dick’s and buy a handgun and blow your head off when I get back. I think a .357 magnum will do the job.

He ran out the door. Shiela came down the stairs carrying the baby.

Me: Oh my God! He looks just like me! The birthmark on his cheek that looks like Argentina looks just like mine! Does he make foghorn sounds when he sleeps?

She: Yes he does. He sleeps in the garage with a space heater. He’s 14 months old and somehow he managed to get a tattoo of a teething ring oh his shoulder. We named him “Chock” after “Chock Full O ’ Nuts” the heavenly coffee. Luther, his fake father and my husband too (as you know) wants to leave Chock at the mall in a picnic basket. He says I spend too much time fussing over Chock—bathing him, feeding him, dressing him, changing him, reading a bedtime story to him.

Me: I thought I was crazy. Luther’s clearly orbiting around cloud cuckoo land. I thought my hallucinations were bad, but Luther’s got some sort of murderous paranoia going.

The door flew open and there was Luther holding a .357 in each hand. He aimed at me and pulled the triggers! The guns weren’t loaded. While Luther struggled to shove some bullets into the empty cylinders, I ran at him with an unopened pack of Pampers. I put it over his face and held it over his face until he stopped struggling. He was dead. I was relieved. Shiela and I looked at each other like a jail cell had opened.

POSTSCRIPT

It was determined I acted in self-defense, although there was some question about the guns being unloaded. Shiela and I got married and we are raising Chock to be a wise and gentle person. I’m on Lithium, so my madness is a thing of the past. Every once-in-awhile I flip and Shiela and Chock lock me in the basement, but that’s rare. When I lose it, I imagine I’ve become an ironing board and there’s a hot iron gliding up and down my back that stops and scorches me, and then, moves on. I do a lot of crying out in pain.

We visit Luther’s grave every few months and brush the pebbles off that have accumulated.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Anthimeria

Posted on November 23, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

I’m a trucker. I truck my way along the highways and byways in the plush cab of my Peter-Built mobile. I just drive. I don’t ask what I’m carrying. I pick it up and drop it off. Sure, I have a bill of lading, but I ignore it. The company I drive for likes that, and I don’t care why. I’ve got six months before my resignation kicks in. I’ll miss the sights I’ve seen ridin’ the roads of America. Once I pulled over to take a whizz and stumbled across a group of people in a field. There was about 50 of them and they were tickling each other—rolling around, standing up, crawling through the dirt. They were dressed like panda bears, with different-colored pastel costumes. There was a lime-line circle drawn around them that they couldn’t overstep or they were out. A sweaty pink panda came up to me and asked if I wanted tickle. As far as I could see, that wasn’t permitted—we were outside the circle and I didn’t have a panda suit. She said “Good answer” and started tickling me. Her hands were like magic. They flowed over my body lie hot oatmeal. I laughed until I peed my pants. It took me an hour to find my truck. Luckily I carried a couple of changes of clothes. I was pulling on my clean pants when she popped up at the passenger-side window. She had removed her panda suit and she was beautiful. She said her name was Lolly and she needed a ride. She had a small carry-on bag and a black purse—that was it.

I let her in the truck and she slid over close to me. It felt good. We sang a few rounds of “Old MacDonald’s Farm” and she jumped out the truck window at 70 MPH. I threw her stuff out the window and kept driving. I have learned a long time ago not to get involved—especially in something like this. I needed coffee.

I pulled into the truck stop and there she was standing outside with her bags. I was shocked. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to walk past and ignore her. She pulled her panda suit out of her bag. She yelled: “You had your chance. We could’ve done the panda dance, you wimp! You chickened out!” Then, I noticed people were walking past like there was nothing there. There was nothing there! Then, I realized I had taken an extra dose of benzedrine to get through the night’s drive to Bakersfield. I never should’ve done it, but I did. The last time I did this, I started driving across the Pacific Ocean to Japan. When I snapped out of it, I was driving on Rte. 80 through the Delaware Water Gap. I shook it in a couple of hours, as the sun was coming up.

POSTSCRIPT

It’s lonely out there on the road. All you have is the asphalt ribbon stretching out in front of you and the hallucinations you induce when you snort a pile of speed every 2 or 3 truck stops. My heart longs for Panda Girl, but I know I can’t choose my hallucinations. Two days ago, I drove to Tacoma with a sloth hanging from my sun visor.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Anthypophora

Posted on November 22, 2023 | Leave a comment

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.

There is only so much you can do, but you must do something—save money? Spend money! Give it away? No way! Maybe. I don’t know. Stuck again in the tangle of imagined consequences for whatever I do, I don’t have any money or prospects of earning any. I believe money is the fruit of all evil. Accordingly, I am a barter-man. No money, just goods. It’s about trading stuff that is not valued in terms of a price, but valued in terms of another thing—where two separate things are desired by two people. and to some extent have a perceived equal value. Disparities can be filled in by items of lesser value. Like, you might be trading a bicycle for a lawnmower. To bring the bicycle “up to value” you may have to “throw” in a garden tool or a charcoal grill. It’s complicated, but it runs on gut instincts that existed before money scaled value numerically with metallic substitutes—much more portable than things—showing up with a bag of silver instead of a used catapult made things go more easily. But, I don’t give a damn.

I am looking to trade my burial urn. It is unused—ha ha. I am looking for 20 1qt. glass canning jars. I think I have about 10 years to live and would like to make strawberry preserves before I die. After I make 2 or 3 batches, I’ll trade back for another burial urn, and I’ll be good to go. Or, I might keep the jars and use them for my ashes.

Bartering is a real challenge. There’s a newsletter called “Swap It” that lists goods for trade. A few weeks ago it included an ad for “slightly damaged cardboard boxes of government documents for trade in exchange for safe and permanent exile.” They were for trade by John Barron at a post office box in Florida. There was also John Kennedy’s brain. I asked, and they sent me a picture of the brain in a freezer. It looked real, even down to the hole in it. I told them I could trade it for one of the boots John Glen wore when he orbited the earth. I had gotten it in a trade for Jim Morrison’s leather pants that he had been wearing before he fell in the tub with a space heater in Paris. My offer was angrily rejected, because it wasn’t “in kind.” That was a pretty vague dodge, so I did some research. I discovered that the”brain” people had been busted for selling falsely attributed body parts. They were sketchy, but, that’s the risk you deal with when you barter.

My worst experience was trading for Gene Vincent’s leg brace. He was a 50s Rock ‘n Roll singer. I had to have the brace and had a coin operated motorcycle ride—like the ones they used to have in front of grocery stores.—that I wanted to trade. I drove my pick-up with the ride loaded in the back to the Dick’ parking lot where I was supposed to meet the guy with the leg brace to trade. A blue ‘54 Chevy pick-up pulled up. A guy with a balaclava on jumped out swinging the leg brace and yelling “Be-bop I love ya’ Baby!” He smashed my truck’s windshield. He made me get out of my truck and made me help carry the motorcycle ride and load it on his truck.

I sat on my running board an cried. That was all I could do. At that point I decided to scale back on my bartering. Now I make wind chimes and trade them for food, clothing and a little money. I make my wind chimes out of lids from pots and pans, and also, used license plates I get for free at the DMV. I’ve also started rifling through recycling bins for items to trade or making things from. Currently, I’m working on a giant tin aluminum ball and soup can pencil and pen caddies.

AARP is writing an article about me. It’s called “Dismal Days and Nights.” It is about a man who failed to plan for his retirement and has been rejected by his family. Then, he invents a pencil and pen caddy and becomes a millionaire.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Tagged definitions, elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Antimetabole

Posted on November 21, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

It likes you. You like it. “Lovey Lax” works every time. As a chronically constipated bus driver, it is my saving grace. It ensures that I go before I go to work—I can’t poop on the bus, or pull over to use a public restroom. Before I was graced with “Lovey Lax,” I had a number of accidents that nearly lost me my job. One day I “went” in my bus driver pants. I didn’t know what to do. Passengers were coughing and yelling “What stinks?” I sat there with hot poop squishing from my bus driver pants, trying to act nonchalant, until I couldn’t stand it any more. I stood up and tore off my pants and threw them out the window, hitting a passing cyclist in the face. As he lost control of his bike, he ran into a mailbox and hit the pavement. I called 911 and they thought my call was a prank. I gave up and took off for my next stop. I got five feet, and all the passengers rushed the door and demanded to be let off. I told them I’d let them off at the next stop, but one of them grabbed the bus’s key, turned off the ignition, and took off out the door.

I had to be towed back to the bus depot. My boss gave me a clean pair of pants and told me he wouldn’t fire me if I did a good job of “cleaning up the shit.” I had to buy the cleaning materials out of my paycheck. When I was done, the bus was immaculate. I kept my job. I started wearing adult diapers. With my poo-poo roulette, I never knew when the time would come, so the diapers were a real help. The only problem was if I had an “event” early in my shift—I’d have to sit on it all day. You can imagine how that felt!

Then, I subscribed to AARP magazine. I was reading an article about the top ten bowel movers. The one with the highest ratings for “ease of movement” and “predicability” was “Lovey Lax.” It was endorsed by David Hasselhoff, Eric Estrada, and Keith Richards, three idols from my youth. Estrada said: “I can ride my motorcycle from Pacific Grove to Carmel without worrying about making a mess.” This was just what I needed to hear! I went on line and bought a fifty-gallon drum of “Lovey Lax.” It was delivered the next day and I became regular for the first time in 10 years. I cried when the doorbell rang and the delivery person wheeled my hopes and dreams in a drum through the front door. I take one minty spoonful at night when I go to bed. When I wake up, I hear my stomach gurgling. Then, after breakfast and 2 cups of coffee, I make my morning dash to the toilet. That’s it. The quality of my life has improved more than you can imagine. And there’s a side benefit: I haven’t farted for a year. I miss farting a little bit, but not enough to really care.

I’m shopping for a bidet now. With the heated seat, flood of warm water, and blow dryer, my “movements” will be well-orchestrated from beginning to end. Just call me “the maestro”!

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

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Antimetathesis

Posted on November 20, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

Back and forth, to and fro. What about forth and back and fro and to? Why doesn’t it seem right? We’re not used to hearing it that way. The reversal is logically coherent, but we would probably say it that way: That swing was swinging fro and to. People might think there’s something wrong with you for putting it that way, or: the door swung forth and back in the wind.

But then, there’s good and bad, and bad and good. There may be a rationale to putting it one way or the other. As transformations of one to the other, they can be readily reversed, signifying, perhaps, the instability of one’s moral compass.

When I was younger, I used to worry about being good or bad. But, it seemed I was good or gad all day long. I’d tease my little sister and then, later in the afternoon, help an elderly person cross the street. This happened numerous times every day. Being bad always seemed more “real” than being good. It was more “fun” stealing candy than giving it away. but, then I was caught and punished for being bad. I had to work at the candy store on Saturdays. While working there, I continued to steal candy. I put it down my pants. I got away with it and experienced a sort of joy at becoming a good thief. Then, I realized that there was a sort of expertise that could be called “good” and had nothing to do with morality—with being a good person. So many people were praised for being good in the technical sense—skiers, bakers, dog walkers, etc. Hardly anybody is praised for being good in the moral sense. In my case, I discovered I was good at being bad. I had a number of criminal enterprises operating. I pretty much invented phishing. I even set up a fake Amazon 800 helpline number and collected credit card numbers from elderly people. I also invented computer operated roll backs on used car odometers. There’s more, but suffice it to say, I WAS GOOD.

I’m still good, but I’m serving a 3-year prison sentence for fraud. I come up for parole in 2 weeks. I have been a good prisoner—I followed the rules, didn’t get in any fights, kept my cell neat, and stamped out my fair share of license plates. When I get out, I want to be good at something that’s good. I’ll be thinking about it for the next two weeks. I am meeting daily with the prison chaplain.

POSTSCRIPT

He was paroled. He enrolled in the local community college and was majoring in electrical engineering. It was determined he was a genius and was allowed to work independently on a special project: a dog bark suppressor—a collar device that could remotely shock a dog to silence it. The day came for its test. The dog barked and he pressed the button. The dog exploded and the remote malfunctioned and electrocuted him.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Antiprosopopoeia

Posted on November 19, 2023 | Leave a comment

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 is jello bright and shiny on the outside, but jiggly when you pick him up. No, this isn’t a riddle, it’s my brother. He was born with no bones. He is like a giant talking dessert. My mother takes the blame for his condition. When she was pregnant she ate jello day and night. She would average 25 servings of jello per day. My father would put it on a plate and give her a straw to suck it up with. Her favorite was lime, and that’s why my brother Reggie is a sort of greenish color. He does not need diapers. Mom just lets him drip on the floor. She’s a wreck. The night Reggie was born, she’s started drinking cheap wine and throwing the empty bottles against the wall—she’s like an alcoholic tennis ball canon, only she shoots glass bottles. There are broken bottles on the floor abutting her target wall. The broken glass is dangerous, but my father won’t clean it up. He says, “She’s not my wife. I don’t clean up after strangers!” My mother would get up to get a broom from the kitchen, but she would pass out and lay there for hours. I sided with my dad and wouldn’t touch the mess—there was a swarm of fruit flies over it and as time went by, it smelled a little like vinegar.

Then one day my brother started flopping vigorously in his crib. He started making noises like he was going to speak. After grunting a few times, and squealing, he said “Side Show.” I thought I understood him: “Freak show?” I asked. He flopped up and down and smiled through the little slash below his nose. Freak shows are pretty rare these days, but we found one that wintered in North Caroline and travelled around the US in spring, summer, and fall. It was called “Freaky.”His stage name would be “Jellyfish Boy.” He would lay on a slab making gurgling sounds and charge punters $5.00 to touch him with one finger. For $10.00 they could pet him with one slow stroke.

As time went on, even though he looked like a jellyfish with eyes, a nose and a mouth, he could think and speak. So much went on in his head. Then, one day he started to sing. His voice was a mix of Elvis and Roy Orbison, but favored Roy Orbison. He would lay on his slab and sing “Crying.” Crowds would gather. The pathos was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Young women would sob. Older men would wipe their eyes and try to hide their emotions. When he was done singing, I would scoop Reggie up with his pizza paddle and walk him off the stage. He would shimmer in the stage lights—a beautiful multi-colored display of life.

As he became more and more popular, Reggie fell in with a bad crowd. I carried him on his pizza paddle to some of worst dives in New York. It was heartbreaking to watch Reggie killing himself.

Then he died. He was only 26.

We had a pink granite pizza paddle made for his headstone. His epitaph was from Roy Orbison’s “Crying”: “I was all right for awhile.”

Reggie was my brother and I loved him.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Antithesis

Posted on November 18, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

I live in the extremes. There is no middle ground in my life. I . . . Either. Or. I am blind to the in-betweens. It enables me to “jump” to conclusions, not plod, not walk, not waltz—just jump. I can remember the first time I jumped to a conclusion. We were standing in the ice-cream shop looking at the display of flavors. My friends were deliberating with each other over what to get. I simply walked up to the counter and said, “Give me a double strawberry on a sugar cone.” The clerk told me they were out of strawberry. In an instant, without hesitation, I said “Chocolate my good man.” He looked at me sort of funny, but went ahead and scooped up my cone. I was outside sitting at a picnic table eating my cone while my friends were still deliberating over what they wanted, as if the deliberating may be an end in itself. But I had it made, eating my cone and listening to my friends blabber.

When stuck in the middle of opposites—like eating meat or being a vegetarian—anything that you face as either/or—jump to a conclusion—grab onto one or the other without thinking at all, for no reason. When people ask you why you’re a vegetarian, you just say “I don’t know.” Stick with that and you’re good. Since you have no reason, your mind can’t be changed. Jumping to a conclusion has made you impervious to changing your mind, although, by jumping to a new and different conclusion, you can change your mind anyway.

But what prompts one to jump to a conclusion? Answer: Being faced with a decision—either/or. No middle ground, just a tangle of conflicted prospects—too conflicted and too tangled to allow closure—like is there an afterlife? Nobody knows. Does that mean you’re off the hook for making a decision. Of course not, but you don’t need a reason.

The best is when you mix with people who’ve jumped to the same conclusions as you. This is especially handy with conspiracy theories. With the appearance of certitude, you can yell things like “Stop the Steal” without even knowing what was stolen. If you can collect a group of conclusion jumpers who’ve jumped the same way, you may be able to foment violence as the dramatization of disbelief—as a play with real consequences.

I must admit I am seeing a counseling psychologist. She tells me I am unable to see shades of gray, or put things in hierarchies by making comparisons. As I did some of the prescribed exercises I realized that I actually wasn’t jumping to conclusions at all. I was in what she called “denial.” My unerring desire to jump to conclusions had clouded my consciousness and blocked out all the “in between” work I was actually doing, making me think I was jumping, when, in fact, I was walking. This new consciousness of my consciousness has made me so indecisive that it takes me an hour to get dressed in the morning. I am working with my therapist to develop habits—repetitive actions that will enable me to face each day armed with what I did yesterday. Now, I rarely forget to put my underpants on first, without pondering. Habits are like jumping to conclusion from a well-worn spring board, that isn’t even noticed.

But now, my therapist tells me I am a psychopath. We sit in chairs with wheels facing each other. We move toward and away from each other in our chairs based on what we say. I told her I wanted to kiss her and moved toward her. She said “no” and moved away. I kept rolling forward,. She kept going backward until she hit the wall. I kept rolling forward and wrapped my foot around her chair. She couldn’t move. Then, I backed up. She came toward me. I didn’t back up. She jumped into my chair, put her arms around my neck, and kissed me.

Now I am proud to be a psychopath. My car’s vanity plate is PSYCHOPATH. I have a t-shirt that says “Psychopath.” I have “psychopath tattooed on my chest. My screen name is “Psychopath 22.” My coffee mug says “Psychopath.” I’m all in!

I haven’t killed anybody yet, but I’ve got my eye on the school crossing guard at the middle school. His “Ho, Ho, Ho” demeanor fails to mask his authoritarian character when he holds up his stop sign that makes the children flee across the street. He is evil and eventually I’ll get around to killing him. In the meantime I have him under surveillance.

I married my therapist and she has great hopes for me as a remorseless crazy person.

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

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Antitheton

Posted on November 17, 2023 | Leave a comment

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]).

Good and bad. That’s all there is, except for time. Today you can be good. Tomorrow you can be evil. Yesterday’s character, might not be today’s. You can’t be good and bad at the same time. Most of us flip flop. Good today, bad tomorrow. Even though you might’ve been bad last week, you may remember it and relive it, as if the contents of your memory are real. They’re like a photograph—vivid, striking, representative, but not the thing itself—the image is not the thing itself, but it is what it is in its own right as an image.

I am driving myself crazy. I’m chopping myself into pieces with an either/or cleaver. There is no place to hide from decision, and decisions are either good or bad. But as I forge ahead through life, always all the time enmeshed in deciding, when decisions are made, they are immediately enmeshed in deciding or judging their worth. It goes on forever: my inability to settle on an answer. There are no stop signs in my head—I just keep going.

Forgetting is the only way to settle conscience. But inevitably, we remember and we are stricken with guilt, or some kind of benign pleasure. We get upset. We become the fool we were, no matter how many years have passed.

I stole your cat. I wanted that cat so badly that I couldn’t resist. He was furry and black with white feet. He had beautiful yellow eyes. He was perfect. Now that he’s coming down the home stretch, and you’re on your death bed, I’ll tell you the story: I waited outside your house that night. You were a creature of habit—you let the cat out every night at 8.00pm. I was there waiting with a kitty carrier. I had seen you calling him in by shaking a treat bag. So, that’s what I did, and he came running to me. I popped him into the kitty carrier and walked home. I had some new cat toys waiting for him and he settled right in. I put his food dish and water bowl in the basement. When you and I sat together on the couch and lamented his disappearance, he was down in the basement enjoying a handful of treats. Whenever you came over, I stashed him in the basement. Thank God he was a quiet cat, or my cover would’ve been blown. We’ve lived like this for a little over 14 years. I named him Phantom and never let him out of the house for fear you’d spot him.

You look quite angry. I wish you could talk, or even just open your eyes. Oh well. It was important for me to unburden myself of my guilt. I feel much better now and will probably get the good night’s sleep that’s evaded me as the years have gone by. I know you probably feel bad, but not as bad as me. I was bad, and I guess I’ll never forget it. All you had to do was cope with a short stretch of grief, not a lifetime of guilt and regret. In fact, now I’ve talked my self into feeling pretty bad again. I think, to some extent you’re to blame—your smug silence, the beeping monitor and all the tubes display you disregard for my feelings! You know, I didn’t come here to be ignored. I came here to be forgiven. But, that’s not possible, is it Mr. Mute-Lips?

How’d you like to give one of your pillows a big long goodbye kiss? Was that a “Yes?” I think it was. Here you go!

POSTSCRIPT

He smothered his “friend.” When he got home, Phantom had pooped on the wooden floor adjacent to the front door. He slipped on the poop and slammed the back of his head on the radiator by the door. He died almost instantly. He was found two days later after failing to show up for work. His eyes were scratched out. The EMTs were surprised to see a cat run out the front door when they opened it.

An aged Phantom was spotted at his first owner’s funeral. His sister picked him up and brought him home. Although he takes medicine for his joints, otherwise he’s a happy, napping cat.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Apagoresis

Posted on November 16, 2023 | Leave a comment

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.

“If you don’t stop drinking that crap it will turn your kidneys green.” Uncle Phil was sure he would get me to put down my favorite beverage and never pick it up again. He was wrong. So what if my kidneys turned green? Nobody would see them, and their colorization did me no harm. I was a running, jumping, climbing, healthy kid.

My beverage of choice, “Lime Lip,” came in 2” high wax bottles in a handy little six-pack. You bit off the top of the little wax bottle, and downed the contents—lime-flavored green sugar syrup. It was the heaviest hit of “sweet” that could be had from any candy. My uncle should’ve pointed out that it turned your lips and tongue an other-worldly green—like a diseased putting green. It became a sort of membership display. You’d see another kid on the street with green lips and you’d give each other a little wave of acknowledgement, without saying a word. It was so cool.

I scraped up all my money and went to the candy store: The Sugar Bowl. Mr. Metcalf, the store’s owner, had the usual dazed expression on his face, accented by his green lips and hardly visible green drool. I told him I wanted a case of “Lime Lip.” He went into the back room and came back to the counter holding a case of “Lime Lip.” He said, “Watch out for this stuff kid, if you drink more than three bottles a day, your kidneys will turn green.” I said, “So what. Who cares what color my kidneys are?” He said: “You should care. Eventually your blood will turn green. If you bleed in public, you will create panic among people unfamiliar with ‘Lime Lip’ and there will be stampedes and people will be crushed. Many of them will believe you are a space alien and try to kill you.”

Holy crap! How can that be true? If it was true “Lime Lip” would be banned by the FDA. All I could see was Mr. Metcalf’s demented face and the “Lime Lip” dripping from his chin. Why was he telling me this? I didn’t want to be killed by a mob, but now I knew there was some kind of conspiracy afoot. I concluded that Mr. Metcalf is from outer space, but I couldn’t tell anybody or they would think I’m crazy. But, one way or the other, I determined never to drink another drop of “Lime Lip.” I also wondered briefly, how my Uncle knew it would turn my kidneys green. I was hesitant to confront him. I don’t want to die.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Aphaeresis

Posted on November 15, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

I am nothing. I am low. I have no self-confidence, My pants are too tight, my feet smell, I own a cat named Buffalo Bill, my left hand is bigger than my right hand, I can’t thread a needle, I eat only canned food, I’ve never had an intimate relationship with another human. I am chronically constipated. I snore. I have many personal problems. I don’t get along with other people. I steal things. I am annoying. I keep pointing out people’s faults. I get punched in the face at least once per week—I bleed all over my shirt and whine. My life is a disaster, but, I’m gifted. Round and round I go. I am the world-record holding pirouetter.

When I am spinning I go into a trance, like a dervish. The world blends into one blur and my woes dissipate in the mist of dizziness. On one toe, spinning, spinning, spinning, my toe begins to smoke—my big toe is on fire metaphorically. For my record, I twirled non-stop for a week. I was hungry and sleep-deprived, but I kept going. Round and round like a merry go-round.

I have founded “The Whirlies,” a refuge for compulsive spinners that provides a no-questions-asked sanctuary. Any time, day or night, the sanctuary is open to people who need to safely whirl with arms outstretched, looking up at the ceiling, watching it blur into oneness. When the client is whirled out, they are provided transportation back to where they live—no matter where.

I discovered my whirling “gift” in college where I became a dizzy addict, needing to get dizzy at least once a day. I got hooked on dizziness after reading “Yearning, Spinning, Burning: Being Dizzy, Being Cool.” I got into being dizzy and my life improved. I would spin on one toe on the quad and crowds would gather and cheer me on. The adulation was addictive. At first it was the primary reason I spun. But now, as you’ve gathered, I seek spiritual sustenance from the spin. While in deep dizziness, I have had numerous visions. Last week I found myself pounding on the door of a chicken coop. I was down on my knees and crying. I was holding a cracked egg in one hand and a hatchet in the other. I was yelling “I will crush your baby,” Different-colored feathers were coming out of my mouth. Suddenly, one of the chickens turned into my mother and pecked me in the eye. I stood up and ran after her with my hatchet. When I caught up with her I chopped off her head. I felt no emotion. I was grateful that I had become a sociopath and just walked away with no remorse.

So, there are so many complexities to being human. Our maladies are a blessing and a curse. I know, I’m spinning my life away. But, it is my gift—up on one toe, torso spinning free, like a cosmic top, or an axle supporting the stars, or a washing machine spewing washwater down the drain.

I will put a spin on it

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Aphorismus

Posted on November 14, 2023 | Leave a comment

Aphorismus ( a-phor-is’-mus): Calling into question the proper use of a word.

I couldn’t take it any more. My boss had sad it again: “I am reticent to promote you. I don’t know how we would utilize you as an Assistant Vice President.” I don’t know what he’s going to do when I correct him on his use of “reticent.” He uses it instead of hesitant. and yes, there’s also using “utilize” instead of plain “use,” but I”ll let that pass for now.

I began by leaving a dictionary on his desk open to “reticent” circled in red. He called me into his office, held up the dictionary and asked “What the hell is this?” I have spellcheck on my computer, I don’t need this. Even though somebody marked it up, go ahead and donate it to the Salvation Army. Now, get out of my office!”

Clearly, Plan A didn’t work. Plan B probably wouldn’t work either. I copied the definition of reticent from the dictionary. I blew it up to poster size and printed it on the office’s double-wide printer. I taped one inside the elevator, on the wall over the men’s room urinal, and on the wall over the office coffee cart. This, I was sure, would get the boss’s attention without putting me at risk.

The boss called me into his office. I knocked and he called me in. He was holding one of my posters: “I’m sure you’re behind this, sneaking around like the coward you are.” I told him it was embarrassing to work for somebody who used “reticent” like he did. Sometimes it made me feel like I wanted to stick my head in my briefcase like an ostrich. Language is the pillar of civilization. Misusing it can lead to civilization’s downfall. Even if it’s a single word, it is a slippery slope, steeply headed toward anarchy and social chaos.

My boss looked at me like he wanted vomit. But instead, he picked up his stapler and threw it at me. It hit me on the head and I fell to the floor bleeding from a cut on my forehead. He was waving the poster over me like a blanket. I sat up a dug my attorney’s card out of my wallet and gave it to the boss as I stood up. He looked at it and said, “What about that promotion? Still interested?”

I told him “Yes,” but I was reticent to make decisions on such short notice. He rolled up my poster and hit me over the head with it and we both laughed.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Apocarteresis

Posted on November 13, 2023 | Leave a comment

Apocarteresis (a-po-car-ter’-e-sis): Casting of all hope away from one thing and placing it on another source altogether.

“Time will tell.” I was waiting patiently for the unfolding of my success as a human being. Part of the problem was that I didn’t know what it meant to be a “success” as a human being, but yet I knew it was the goal of all people. My Uncle Arnold taught me this, but also told me there are an untold number of routes to success. Whatever your answer to the question “What is a human being?” is, will affect your striving. His idea was “nasty, brutish and short.” He was lucky to be short; he was only 5 feet tall. He could rejoice in that! One out of three without even trying!

He worked hard on nasty and brutish. He learned how to insult people and hurt their feelings and never apologize. He wrote a book of insults that made it to number 10 on the New York Times Bestseller List. It was titled “Kiss My Ass Yo-Yo.” It established nastiness as a valued character attribute. “Kiss my ass!” became the rallying cry of acolytes. Fights broke out on subways, in parking lots and even at places of worship, where clergy began insulting their flocks, and making it clear that they were unworthy of a heavenly afterlife. At one evangelical church, the Preacher looked up toward God and yelled “Kiss my ass” and the congregation did likewise, yelling at each other, and eventually wrestling and punching each other. It devolved into a riot and police were dispatched. Teargas was fired and things calmed down.

Then, there was “brutish.” It related mainly to hygiene and deform—it was considered brutish to burp, fart, poop and pee outside; copulate in public in plain view, and eat boogers while standing on street corners or waiting for public transportation. Table manners were also altered—people ate with their hands right off the table’s surface, wiped their mouths on their sleeves, and fought over food like raccoons and bears. They would also pick on weaker people, and make them carry them around in sedan chairs, or on their backs.

I could see why this construction of “human being” would appeal to my little uncle, and vast numbers of other people. But, it did not appeal to me. I tossed it off like a hot potato. Frankly, it took too much effort to achieve. So, I went with “people are the leisured beings.” This quotation is from “Lay Down and Wake Up.” It is one of those ancient works that seems more insightful as the centuries pass. It was written by an ancient Egyptian mattress salesman, who would give the book away free with every purchase. Just to give you an idea of its content, Chapter One is titled “Do Nothing, Be Happy!” “Doing nothing” is extremely difficult to define. One must grapple with the meaning-laden question: Is nothing something? Written in a dialogue form, the text is a series of questions and answers between a nasty and brutish young man named Ank-Trumphet, and a wise philosopher named Omari. They are laying down on separate couches under the shade of a tent.

Anyway, I am a follower of leisure. It is good. Like the ancient author of “Lay Down and Wake Up” I sell mattresses for a living. I lay on a mattress in the store’s window. I wear silk pajamas, and sometimes, sip a Mimosa.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Apocope

Posted on November 12, 2023 | Leave a comment

Apocope (a-pok’-o-pe): Omitting a letter or syllable at the end of a word. A kind of metaplasm.

I’m in trouble. It’s my babe. It’s my hair. I can’t sleep. My brain goin’ jangle— like a radiator heating up in the morning. Maybe “clank” is a better approximation of my brain’s sound. It’s not my head, but I swear other people can hear it. They look at me and cock their heads, like dogs do when they think they hear something. Of course, my brain’s clanking is there to make a single irrevocable point: My girlfriend left me. I’m going bald. I think that’s why she left me.

Toward the end she’d pick up my fallen hairs from the floor. She would roll a hair between her fingers and say “Hair today, gone tomorrow.” Or, “Ridin’ that train, high on Rogaine.” “Hair is not the play for you.” Then there’s the jokes: “I first noticed I was going bald when it took longer and longer to wash my face.”

I should’ve see it coming. She was beyond cruel. I don’t know why I stuck around as long as I did. I think I was in this thing called denial. I’m not an expert on denial, but I think it means you deny things. I denied everything about her. For two lost years, I denied that she was too beautiful to have a relationship with a balding boring accountant. I denied she was too smart for me. She is an aeronautical engineer and designed ballistic missiles for the government. Her largest feat is a missile that can hit a person in the eye from 20,000 miles away. I couldn’t even make a wastepaper basket basket with a crumpled up piece of paper from 2 feet away.

I’ve thought about committing Harry Carry— I’m trying to put a cheerful face on leaving this incarnation by punning. But my puns stink.

My x-girlfriend just called! She wants to get together and brainstorm because things are getting “pretty hairy” at work. She showed up around nine.

I answered the door and there she was. She pulled a rag out of her jacket and started polishing my head. At that point I came to the conclusion that she was a sadist. She started crying, and she pulled a toupee out of her pocket. She very carefully positioned it on my head and gave me big romantic kiss and told me she loved me. She told me when we first met she was neither “hair nor there.” But, since we’ve been separated she has “trimmed” her ambivalence down to nothing. She is sure it’s love.

I’m not so sure. I don’t understand her, and that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I’ll see where it goes. In the meantime, we’ll “curl” up on the couch and watch another episode of “The Brady Bunch.”

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Apodixis

Posted on November 11, 2023 | Leave a comment

Apodixis (a-po-dix’-is): Proving a statement by referring to common knowledge or general experience.

It’s gonna get light in here if I flip that switch on the wall. There! I flipped the switch. The lights came on. Now you might believe me since I’ve established my credibility in the field of electrical engineering with a flip of a switch. Now, I will turn off the light. We will be thrown into darkness again and I can resume my experiment in togetherness, an exercise in the field of social psychology where someday I will establish myself as pretty good at it. We are going to see if being alone together in the dark will stimulate romantic activities, or the opposite.

Where are you going? It’s dark in here, don’t trip over anything. You forgot your coat! I’ll mail it to you. Now I have to go back onto the dating site. Why I am so repulsive to the women I meet on line?

So, I met Marylee. She was average looking, aside from being cross-eyed and missing one of her front teeth. We didn’t talk about her eyes and tooth. I figured I’d save that for when we got to know each other better. After meeting at my place and having sex countless times, I figured we knew each other long enough to talk comfortably about her eyes and tooth.

“Do you go to the dentist for regular cleanings and exams?” I asked. She looked at me like I was crazy. She said, I’m like everybody else. Of course I go.” “Have you ever considered having your front tooth replaced?” She looked at me like I had lost it: “What the hell are you talking about? I think I should leave.” “Wait! Let’s look in the hall mirror.” We stood in front of the mirror, her tooth was clearly missing, but she denied it. She said “It is not missing.” I said, “So what about your crossed eyes? Are they non-existent too?”

She ran into the kitchen and grabbed a spoon and aimed it at me. “Do you want me the scoop out your eyeballs? Do you think I am an idiot? You’re going to start making excuses to quit seeing each other by making up maladies that make me undatable. You don’t know how many men have played the cross-eyed and missing tooth cards on me!”

“No! No! I just want to get to know you better. I’ve been keeping track and we’ve had sex 142 times since we met 3 months ago. I know it’s creepy, to keep track, but I can’t help it. Anyway, it should be clear to you that I love you and I’m not going anywhere.

POSTSCRIPT

One night while they watched TV Marylee made her special herbal tea. After five minutes, it knocked him out cold. When he woke up late in the morning, there was blood all over the sheets, one of his front teeth was missing, and so was Marylee. He started to cry, when suddenly Marylee walked into the bedroom with a bag from CVS containing mouth wash and cotton balls. He got cleaned up and they stood in front of the hall mirror together and smiled

Now he understood—Marylee’s cultural norms and rituals were complex, but now, they were married. They had exchanged teeth, He has hers and she has his. The teeth were mounted on rings symbolizing their eternal commitment. Oh—Marylee had surgery to correct her crossed eyes.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Apophasis

Posted on November 10, 2023 | Leave a comment

Apophasis (a-pof’-a-sis): The rejection of several reasons why a thing should or should not be done and affirming a single one, considered most valid.

It’s that time of year! I’m a professor at Dalmatian University, where I am the DeVille Chair of Puppy Husbandry. I am not sure what “husbandry” means. The best I can do is use my relationship with my wife as a foundation for my concept of puppy husbandry, and there’s really not much going on there—not exactly neglect, but very close. For example, I am not taking my wife with me on vacation. .

Being a Professor, I get the whole summer off. I have been planning my vacation for two weeks. I am having a tough time deciding where to go. I’ve done some research in connection with my vacation. He’s my reasoning about my top three destinations:

1. Whiner’s Puppy Mill. It is the biggest puppy mill in the US. All breeds, all day and all night. They have the highest per capita mortality rate in the US. Everything about the place is sub-standard. They should be shut down., but, they provide me with a healthy grant every year to support my research “and other things.” I think the yipping of hundreds of puppies day and night would drive me crazy, so I’m staying away. I get enough of that irritating craziness during the academic year.

2. Dog Walkers. Exercising dogs keeps them from chewing on furniture or other mischief due to being locked inside. Some people can walk five dogs at once, and there is a championship every year in Saratoga, NY, where they yield the race track to the dog walking championship—The Golden Paws—for two days. Dogs are added to each competitor’s clutch after they go around the track. 1 dog is added after each circuit. When a competitor’s dogs get tangled up or otherwise thwart their handler’s attempts to control them, their handler is eliminated. Last year’s winner finished with 44 dogs of various breeds. Some people say he is part dog, and that’s cheating. As much as this seems interesting, I’m not going. My bum hip won’t let me walk very far, so I wouldn’t have the kind of hands-on experience my research demands. There’s only so far you can get with observation without participation. So it’s nix to dg walking.

3. Mocking Bird Acres. This estate is nearly the size of Rhode Island. It has beach front, mountains, a lake, and a river. Golf carts are available for people like me with a hip problem. There are also clothing optional sectors along the beach and up in the mountains. The food is all gourmet—beautiful to look at and wonderful to eat. But the most attractive aspect of Mocking Bird Acres is it’s no dogs allowed policy. I can get away from dogs for two whole months. A hiatus from stinking, barking, whining, crapping dogs, not to mention, squirming puppies.

I don’t know why I settled on puppies in graduate school. But now, they make my life miserable. My main line of research has to do with determining why puppies stick out their tongues when they do. As of yet, after five years, I don’t even have a working hypothesis. But, nobody seems to care, so on I go.

And now, on I’ll go to Mocking Bird Acres.

POSTSCRIPT

Due to budgetary issues, Sumer vacations were shortened to 2 weeks. Faculty were assigned to “Summer Service” jobs—mowing grass, painting, sanitizing the dining hall, cleaning restrooms, polishing the bronze statue of the college’s namesake—a 100 foot tall Dalmatian. Everybody griped, but everybody had tenure. Nobody had been denied tenure in the college’s 200-year existence. Nobody wanted to risk dismissal for cause, for disobeying a direct order from a Dean or the President, so they did what they were told to do without a single complaint.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Apoplanesis

Posted on November 9, 2023 | Leave a comment

Apoplanesis (a-po-plan’-e-sis): Promising to address the issue but effectively dodging it through a digression.

Is it true I had a five-year affair with my secretary along with two children, a condo and a place in the Bahamas? Whoah. Let’s back off a little bit. My wife tried to kill me last week with a handgun I gave her to protect herself with. Now, she’s in jail and there’s a bullet hole in the kitchen wall. Let me say again: my wife tried to shoot me. Thank God she’s such a bad shot, or I’d be laid out on a slab at the Coroner’s.

Given the lax safety standards, I never should’ve bought her the gun. She was becoming paranoid and wearing a holster around the house. It was disconcerting seeing her grilling chicken with a .45 strapped to her hip. She almost killed the Amazon delivery person. She was persistent in banging on our door when nobody answered. My wife pulled the .45 and was about take shot at the door when the delivery person identified herself and my wife holstered her gun with a smug look on her face. The package contained a fast-draw cowboy holster. Now, my wife began practicing her fast draw in front of a full length mirror with my picture taped on it. When I saw that, my worry really kicked in. My wife was going crazy. What could I do?

We went to see a psychologist, Dr. Fudgy. He came highly recommended. He had gotten his Doctorate on Zoom from Mt. Insight University, which is so technologically advanced that it is “Delocated.” It has no physical presence anywhere, which is good for the environment. We would meet with Dr. Fudgy one a month. The meetings were vexed. Dr. Fudgy would ask my wife how she was doing and she would spit at him and yell, “What the hell do you think Fudgy?” He would start to respond, and she would stand up and point at the ceiling and yell “See that. It’s not the floor Fudgy!” At that point, Dr. Fudgy would instruct her to put some pills in a paper bag he gave her. He called them “Whoah Nelly Pills.” He told her to take two every half-hour for the next half-hour and then take one per hour for the next hour. It was confusing, but we complied.

We got home, and my wife followed the pill-taking regime. It was getting late and she passed out on the living room floor. I checked her pulse to make sure she was alive. She was alive, but her breathing was shallow. I was thirsty, so I drove to Cliff’s and got an apple juice. I also got a slice of pepperoni pizza, and 3 Take Five scratch-off lotto tickets. When I got home my wife was sitting on the couch holding a fork up to her head. She said: “I have an itch.” Things were spinning out of control. I almost called 911, but decided not to because I couldn’t describe what was going on in a way that warranted the call.

My wife went to bed and so did I. I was hoping that the next day would be a better day. I was going to get up early and see the sunrise and listen to the birds singing. I was sure, that with time, my wife’s problems would disappear under the guidance of Dr. Fudgy. But instead, she’s in jail for attempting to murder me.

If I could think of her motive, that would help me deal with this unanticipated tragedy. I have wracked my brain. I can’t think of a reason for what she did. All I can do is send my thoughts and prayers to her jail cell.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Aporia

Posted on November 8, 2023 | Leave a comment

Aporia (a-po’-ri-a): Deliberating with oneself as though in doubt over some matter; asking oneself (or rhetorically asking one’s hearers) what is the best or appropriate way to approach something [=diaporesis].

You’ve heard of a Leprechaun. What about a Supercon? His empire of lies stretches around world. The is no rainbow or pot gold—there’s just a thick fog and a crock of shit.

What is the power he has over people? How does he get them to join him in his mad conspiracy theories and everything else? How does he get people to march on the capital with bullhorns blaring, beating up police, and breaking windows?

I believe it is his hair and dentures. His dentures are as white as shaved ice. Each tooth is an idol to a god or goddess of oral hygiene and beauty, and together, to the Smile God that they all share a common interest in as the Oral Pantheon. They have no fillings or gaps, or other defects deemed unsatisfactory by the One Great God of human beauty.

His dentures project an air of respectfulness, like an expensive car or a boat. This “Denture Power” attracts people like an expensive car or a boat. There is longing that, like a magnet, pulls people along is his wake. One problem he has with this, is people following him can’t see his dentures from behind and their desire for him begins to wane. This is where his hair comes into play.

Combed and stiffened, it looks like a complex freeway clover leaf, feeding into a circular race track running uphill into a wing, finally ending in a wave rolling back to the top of his head. His hair can be seen and work its magic from 360 degrees. No front or rear, its bright blond aura is everywhere. Its intricate comb-job belies the fact that it is a pile of hair—its greatest power stems from this fact: it looks like Mt. Sinai. One can imagine Moses climbing it, undaunted by the stiffener and the comb-rows. One may believe that his hair has a sacred aspect; that it may feed his brain with divinely-mandated commandments, that may supplement or alter the original ten. So there is a quality of piety aroused by the hair, and a feeling of religiosity from following the hair. The First Commandment has already been changed: “You shall have no other hair before me.” Some theologians have objected. They are missing and it is feared they have “climbed the stairway to heaven.”

So, the entanglement of religion and beauty through perfect dentures and a mountain of blond hair induces fervent allegiance to the bearer of the teeth and hair. if somebody stole his dentures and shaved his head, his reign would come to and end. A plot to do just this was uncovered in New York. A small cabal of dentists and hairdressers was conspiring to take the teeth and the hair. Their plan was to rush the stage at a rally, carrying M-15s, rope, and a folding chair. As soon as he was tied to the chair, the dentist would remove his dentures. Then, the hairdresser would fire up his rechargeable clippers and shave the villain’s head. Sitting there toothless and bald, it was the conspirators’ hope that the scales would fall from the audience’s eyes and they would rush the stage and kill him. Well, it wasn’t meant to be, The conspirators’ lair in the back room of a local Speedy Lube was raided by local police before they could execute their plan. When the conspirators raised the hands they were shot for making threatening gestures. One was found with his middle finger raised.

Well, there you have it. Is this what happens when truth speaks to power? Are we stuck with beautiful teeth and mountainous hair as inducements to vote for their bearers? Is democracy in trouble?

George Washington had wooden teeth and wore a wig. He did a damn good job. What is the significance of this?

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Aposiopesis

Posted on November 7, 2023 | Leave a comment

Aposiopesis (a-pos-i-o-pee’-sis): Breaking off suddenly in the middle of speaking, usually to portray being overcome with emotion.

I was always about to cry, but I never did, i’’d just let myself be overcome by emotion. Sure, crying can be considered as a sign of being overcome by emotion, but not for me. I have my reaso. . . . my reasons—I’m sorry I get all choked up when I think about my reasons for not crying. Basically, there’s only one reason: I can’t cry. My body’s physiology won’t permit me to cry. It is a dominant gene in my family’s heritage. None of us can cry, not matter what the trauma is. When my grandma jumped off the Goethells Bridge, landed in a garbage scow, and was killed by a shard of glass from a bottle of cheap gin, I almost pulled a sob, but alas my genes wouldn’t let me. And, when my pet kitty became a floormat under a car tie in the street in front of my house, I looked up and asked, “Why God?” But, there’s no catharsis there. One more example: Grandapa choked to death on a turkey bone. It was on Thanksgiving. Only ten minutes before Grandpa choked, we had given thanks for all our blessings. Nobody knew the Heimlich Maneuver and grandpa writhed around on the floor choking. As he turned purple, Aunt Gabby thought to call 911. But it was too late. I could feel my whole being wanting to cry, but again, my genetic makeup wouldn’t let me.

I couldn’t live this way—with no outward expression of grief. I started looking for answers. I ran across Stoicism—the idea that everything is open to interpretation, and you can interpret them in ways that are good for you. I tried really hard to interpret incidences prompting grief in ways that were good for me. But I still WANTED to cry. However, if I told people I was a Stoic, they accepted my failure to cry as a consequence of my philosophic commitments—a criterion immunizing my dry eyes from rebuke.

This was fine for me, but when I was with family, I still felt the need for a shared overt expression. My cousin Carl, who worked at the comedy club “Laugh Track” as an MC, nailed it! We can’t cry together, so, why don’t we laugh together? We would have to find the humor in tragedy, but if we could do it, we could share an experience.

Together as a family. So, we spent a little time developing punch lines and jokes we could deploy. What about Grandpa’s choking death? We came up with some lines that were somewhat funny: “Grandpa got so choked up he died.” “Grandpa had a bone to pick.” “Who said a turkey can’t kill you?” “He should’ve stuck with the mashed potatoes.”

Over the years, we’ve all become stand-up comics. We laugh in the face of death.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Apostrophe

Posted on November 6, 2023 | Leave a comment

Apostrophe (a-pos’-tro-phe): Turning one’s speech from one audience to another. Most often, apostrophe occurs when one addresses oneself to an abstraction, to an inanimate object, or to the absent.

Me: I came here today to replenish your stock of belief—to expand it, round it out, and give it new life. I am pleased that you were released from home confinement, remove your ankle bracelets and be here now. Each of you has wronged your fellow man in some way. Mr. Rice—you embezzled millions from your brother’s dog leash company. Mr. Gonnocle, you ran over your neighbor’s dog on purpose—you killed it just because it started barking at 6:00 am every morning. And Mr. Triggert, you burned down your neighbor’s garden shed because it reminded you of something bad that happened to you in a garden shed on your 40th birthday.

I could go around the room with brief summaries of everybody’s crimes. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to freshen your beliefs and give you a reason to go back home, put on your ankle bracelet, and watch TV or something.

Now, I will summon Belief: ‘Oh Belief! Driver of decision. Purveyor of error. Harbinger of the future. We are free to believe what we want to believe—unlike truth, you don’t dictate with knowledge, rather, you render yourself likable and it is affection that stimulates our embrace—often to determine what to do next. The future can’t be known—it is your province, Sweet Persuasion, or, if I may say, Peitho.’

Ok, so “Belief” epitomizes your freedom. It does no compelling like truth. If you want to go to the corner store, you can take the shortest route, or, you can first take a bus to Buffalo, and then, turn around and come back to the store. It is up to you and there is no intrinsic reason not to to take the bus. “Common sense” may come the closest, but it does not rule out “take the bus”—it needs to be balanced, vetted, discussed, argued.

Now, Mr. Vetch, this should be especially relevant to you as far as you actually stole a bus, hijacked it to Buffalo, and then attempted to hitch hike back to Syracuse to go to the movies, and burn down a vacant motel. Can you clue us in as to your thought processes?

Mr. Vetch: Yes. It was all a matter of belief. I believed I was doing the right thing, and I can believe whatever I want to believe. Sure, there are mental health issues surrounding my decision making. There is the lobster that follows me everywhere and nips me on the back of my ankle if I don’t do what he tells me to do. It hurts, so I comply.

Me: I looked down and noticed the lobster standing behind Mr. Vetch. He had his claws raised and was making the snipping motion like what he probably made when he nipped Mr. Vetch’s ankles. But what was even weirder: the lobster was smoking a filter-tipped cigarette and blowing smoke rings up Mr. Vetch’s pant leg.

I had to get a grip. Here I am in the middle of talking about belief, and I am confronted with something unbelievable that I believe, making me mildly insane, I think. But, if two of us see the lobster, maybe that’s proof of its existence. But only I and Mr. Vetch see the lobster. But now, I have a lobster following me!

I am constantly trying to confirm its existence. I confront strangers in elevators and elsewhere, “Do you see the lobster on the floor behind me?” Then, one day I decided to catch the lobster and eat it. I bought a net at Dick’s and cornered the lobster in a stairwell, scooping him up, and running to my apartment. I boiled some lightly salted water and put the squirming lobster in and slammed down the lid. The lobster screamed and I felt bad for him, but not bad enough not to eat him.

I told Mr. Vetch how I had gotten rid of my lobster. He said, he might try it, but his lobster had stopped nipping him on the ankle, and he thought they could make a go of it.

I got lonely. I bought a live lobster from the lobster tank at Hannaford’s. I put it on the floor and walked away, but the lobster didn’t follow me. I boiled him up, made him into lobster salad, and ate him on a bun for lunch the next day.

I’m pretty sure I made the right decision.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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