Monthly Archives: March 2024

Eucharistia

Posted on March 31, 2024 | Leave a comment

Eucharistia (eu-cha-ris’-ti-a): Giving thanks for a benefit received, sometimes adding one’s inability to repay.

“My life is a long and convoluted adventure in making decisions, most of them bad. Well truthfully, most of them have been catastrophic, ruining peoples’ lives almost with a snap of my fingers. But finally, after all the destruction I’ve caused, this decision is bound to go right and it’s all because of you. I never believed I could kidnap 50 people and hold them hostage in my late father’s beautifully built warehouse. There are drains built into the floor that will come in handy if I need to hose down the floor, if loved ones don’t come through with the ransom.”

“I hope this doesn’t make you mad, but children are being ransomed at a higher rate than adults, with ransoms receding the older the hostages get, to the point that people over 80 are being ransomed for $5.00. I’m sorry, but this is just the way of the world—the older you get, the less valuable you are. End of story. So, please let my colleagues examine your driver’s licenses so we can determine what your price tag will say. Also fill out the name tag and hang it around your neck. My colleagues will take care of the children’s tags.”

“Now, we’re going to play ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper,’ and you’re going to sing along.”

(After the song)

“There! Don’t you feel good? Fearing death could really make this kidnap experience a real bummer. Oh—we’re starting to get some phone queries. Ed Jones—your wife called and told us she’s not paying Jack Shit—that we can go ahead and blow you away. But before that, we are letting all the children go. Their whining is driving me crazy. We’re going to load them up in a truck and drop them off ten miles away from here.“

“Ok Ed, come on up! Anything to say?” Ed: “This is crazy. My wife’s bullshit shouldn’t determine my fate. I am Manager of ‘Tidy Fries’ at the mall. I . . .”

“BLAM!” Ed flopped to the floor. The Kidnapper-in-Chief kicked Ed’s lifeless body and started crying. Then he started singing Roy Orbison’s song “Crying.” He put his pistol to his head and pulled the trigger.

The police arrived and streamed into the warehouse, guns drawn. After things settled down a bit, one of them said, “He had a good idea, but he didn’t have the class to pull it off.” The cop standing next to him said, “Are you fu*king crazy?” And shot him in the head. All hell broke loose. Nobody knew who to trust. Gunfire was erupting throughout the warehouse. Ed came back to life, picked up a gun and yelled “I’m better off dead. No more mortgage and car payments, no more feeding and clothing my ungrateful kid, no more wife from hell, no more income taxes.”

“BLAM!”

It was a mess. None of it made any sense. It was so incomprehensible it wasn’t reported in the news. In fact, nobody believed it really happened. Except this guy: “My name is Ed, I was there, and it really happened. I have two holes in my head to prove 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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Tagged definitions, elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Euche

Posted on March 30, 2024 | Leave a comment

Euche (yoo’-kay): A vow to keep a promise.

“I swear to God I didn’t do it—I might’ve made a promise, but I never intended to follow through on that one. I never promised a family trip to Italy. I was crazy! But now, I’m going to make a promise I intend to keep. I promise to take us on a hike in the Great Swamp National Wildlife Refuge in Green Village—one of the cutest little towns in New Jersey. When I was a kid it was just a swamp. My anscestors hunted raccoons there—at night with hound dogs. When Uncle Howard finally invited me to go along, it was some of the best fun I aver had in my life. Howard sold the carcasses and fur, which at that time was worth $35. That was a lot of money back then.”

We got up early and headed to the swamp. The dirt road was still there, but it ended abruptly at a foot bridge. There was a little trail at the end of the bridge that ended at a shore. The swamp had been flooded! There was a big sign that said “Do Not Enter.” We were going swimming later on in the afternoon at Lake Hoptacong so we had our bathing suits. I was determined to have our hike. The mosquitoes were starting to get wind of us, so we sprayed up knowing that it would wash off in the water. We suited up and crossed the footbridge and stepped into the water. We walked about five feet and the bottom dropped off about four feet deep. Our daughter was up to her neck and screaming. I put her on my shoulders and we forged ahead. We came to a hillock. It rose above the water and had trees growing on it. I got out the insect repellent and spayed us all up again. The mosquitoes formed a thick cloud around us. Their whining sounded like little race cars racing around a track. It was starting to drive me crazy.

I saw a black ball in the crotch of a tree. I was curious. I got really close and touched it before I realized it was a tick nest! The second I touched the nest, all the ticks disappeared. Then, I felt a crawly sensation inside my shirt. I tore open my shirt and my chest was covered with ticks. They had latched onto me and were sucking my blood. There was so many of them, I could hear a slurping sound. I thought if I stood up to my chest in the swamp water that they would drown. They didn’t. The only option was Morristown Memorial Hospital emergency room.

As we rode to the hospital, the slurping got louder and I started to feel weak. When we got to the hospital, the ER nurse told me to open my shirt. She yelled “Holy shit” and people crowded into the examination room taking pictures with their cellphones and asking politely if they could pose with me. Ten Candy Stripers were assigned to work on me with Tick Tordaes, pulling out the ticks without leaving the heads behind.

I wrote a book about the incident titled “Tick Tick: Deadly Encounter.” I take some poetic license in the book, like the tick nest is overseen by an evil spirit—a Tick God. Another example of poetic license is the hospital duty nurse falling in love we me, drugging me, and trying to abduct me.

If you’re thinking of taking a family outing to the Great Swamp, bring a lot of bug spray and don’t touch anything that you’re clueless about.

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 elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Eulogia

Posted on March 29, 2024 | Leave a comment

Eulogia (eu-lo’-gi-a): Pronouncing a blessing for the goodness in a person.

I had spent a week at Presbyterian Bible camp. We read the New Testament, said prayers, and sang hymns. It was all very boring, especially the Bible. It was like Shakespeare without the wild turns of phrase and poetic nuances. The story of Christ’s cruxifixction had some drama to it, but nothing coming close to Romeo and Juliet or Richard the Third—“my Kingdom for a horse.” That’s something worth listening to. Think about it. It’s like saying “my back yard for a skateboard.”: the drama of desperation drips from King Richard’s lips. Whereas Christ’s cruxifixction is a sad tale of this guy who got screwed who was forced to drag the implement of his own execution uphill. He was already a bloody mess when he got up the hill and was nailed up on the cross he dragged. The he asked God to forgive everybody who played a role in his demise. This story, for example, does not hold a candle to “Romeo and Juliet.” It runs a straight line from betrayal to execution. “Romeo and Juliet’s” plot is, on the other hand, convoluted, layered and anti-papist.

Even though Presbyterian Bible camp made me into a non-believer, I wasn’t hostile to its tenets, like joining a country club, hiring a reliable stockbroker, going to a reputable private school and insincerely giving God credit for everything.

After Bible camp, I figured I should make it look like I got something out of it. So, when anybody I knew did something I considered good, I would say “God bless you” or “All glory to God.” Most of the time I would yell it so people would pay attention to God’s benevolence. I was very liberal in my bestowal of praise—for example: my sister’s chocolate chip cookies: “God bless you.” Or, my father got out of his chair to change the TV channel: “God bless you.”

Dr. Willap, the head of the local Presbyterian church heard about what I was doing. He came to our house to “counsel” me. I would hear none of it. He started yelling and threw a punch at me and missed. I knocked him out with my football trophy. When he regained consciousness, he apologized as he went out the door. I said “All glory to God.” He turned and lunged toward the door. I slammed the door in his face. He pounded on it for a few minutes and left.

I felt like a martyr. I didn’t like it. Maybe if I switched to the Episcopalian church, I’d have better luck with my spiritual stylings.

God bless you for reading this. May your walk in faith be filled with drama, suspense, and pathos, like a Shakespeare play.

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 elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Eustathia

Posted on March 28, 2024 | Leave a comment

Eustathia (yoos-tay’-thi-a): Promising constancy in purpose and affection.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fallen n love. It is the easiest thing in the world to do. If you have this flaming desire in your gut, you’re in love. When you were little it was for your hamster (creepy but true), next, your third grade teacher, then, your best friend’s sister, next the hooker from Philadelphia, and finally, your wife. I guess this isn’t actually about you. Rather, it’s about me and there are way more “loves” than I can possibly list here.

Let’s focus on my wife. When we got married we did the promising thing. As I took the vows I felt like I was forging chains. When I said “I do” I started thinking about divorce. it was like a switch flipped deep in my soul and my love turned off. It wasn’t her, it was me.

We’ve been married ten years. I pretend I love her. I’d hate to see her upset over such a thing. It would tear her apart. We have two beautiful children—Linda and Pete—they would be devastated if Mommy and Daddy broke up. So, I am a pretender. My life is an act.

Without realizing what I was doing, I fell in love with with the checker at the grocery store. My wife was attractive, but Carmella was beautiful. I started doing all the grocery shopping, to my wife’s great delight. I was exploding with desire. I spoke to her when she finished ringing me up. I asked her if she wanted to go for a drink. She sad sho couldn’t because she wasn’t old enough—she was 20. 10 years younger than me! She said she’d like to go to Baskin Robbins if I wanted to. We made a date. My head was spinning. What had I done?

Date night came. I picked her up at the grocery store. I told a lie to my wife—that I had to go to the library. We had some ice cream and she asked me if I wanted to go to a motel and have some “real fun.” When we pulled into parking lot of the “Sand Trap Motel,” I felt sick. I couldn’t go through with it. Carmella didn’t care and I took her back to her car at the grocery store.

When I got home, my wife was crying. She had fallen in love with one of the check-out men at the grocery store. She told me that she stopped loving me on the day we were married. She and Carl were going to get married and he was going to move into our house and I was going to move out. I was so disappointed that I hadn’t followed through with Carmella. Damn! What a missed opportunity.

I said, “Ok, I’ll leave.” I went outside and called Carmella and asked her if she wanted to live together. She said “Yes.” So now, I’m looking for an apartment in a complex with a swimming and jacuzzi. I am so lucky.

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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Eutrepismus

Posted on March 27, 2024 | Leave a comment

Eutrepismus (eu-tre-pis’-mus): Numbering and ordering the parts under consideration. A figure of division, and of ordering.

I had reached the bottom. I had gone crazy for dividing things—wholes and parts. I was sitting in bed trying to no avail to tear pieces of paper into tree equal parts. I couldn’t do it. My parts were not equal. Then, I realized that parts didn’t need to be equal! You just need three of them. Further, I discovered that making wholes into parts could have utility—it wasn’t just a game. For example, I could use them to “narrow down” options. That is, I have a stack of three slices of baloney. Which slice should I eat? First, not the one on the bottom. It is probably dirty from being on the bottom. Second, not the one in the middle because it made direct contact with the one on the bottom—the dirty one. So, what’s left? Third, the top slice. Now, you made a choice by numbering the slices. You have “sliced” through the thicket of uncertainty. Get the bread and mustard! You’ve got a sandwich on the way—with three parts—want to add a slice of American cheese? Woo hoo! Now you have four parts. Lettuce? Five parts! You’re on a roll. Now, take a bite!

I first became acquainted with parts and wholes when I tore the arms, legs, and head off my sister’s Shirley Temple doll, leaving the trunk as just this flesh colored thing with a belly button. My sister was upset and angry, beating me over the head with one of Shirley’s arms. When I put Shirley’s arms and legs back on, I put them on backwards. My sister went berserk and beat me over the head with Shirley and then put her back together correctly. By the way, my sister become a chiropractor. I think the Shirley incident was her inspiration. Shirley is displayed in a glass showcase in her office.

I know it influenced my career path. I started cutting things in half. Like peaches, or calves liver. There was something about the feel of the blade as it moved through victims—what I called the meat and fruit and vegetables I sliced apart. My high school guidance counselor advised me to get a job in a slaughter house. It was a perfect job for me. Every time a made a whole into parts, I heard my destiny calling me. I loved dismembering cows. They reminded me of Shirley—and I did not have put them back together again. I transformed cow carcasses into cuts of meat that people would enjoy eating for dinner, or a family gathering.

Soon, I started seeing people as cuts of meat. I couldn’t help it. They were everywhere—in the streets, on the subway, at the grocery store, everywhere. They needed to be made into parts if they were to achieve their end. If they stayed whole they would thwart the “Divine Plan: to go gently at the joints—find your natural divisions.”

I made this up to justify becoming a serial killer specializing in dismemberment. I would dress up in my butcher coat and prowl the back streets for victims. I was called the “Midnight Butcher.” I killed my victims at midnight because it was halfway through the night. I used a captive bolt stunning gun—the kind we used to kill cows—to kill my victims. I would wheel them to my home in the shopping cart I stole from Hannaford’s. I would pose them in the cart so they looked like they were having fun as I wheeled them along the sidewalk.

When I got home, I dragged them down the basement stairs to help them reach their destiny. I got caught when my sister came for a surprise visit. We were having baloney sandwiches and orange juice for lunch in the kitchen. She notice a blood trail across the kitchen floor leading to the basement door. She jumped out of her chair and ran down into the basement where she screamed and called the police on her cellphone.

After that, everything happened really fast—I was arrested, tried and convicted of 11 murders. I am incarcerated in the “Nelson Rockefeller Home for the Criminally Insane.” I continue to work on my part-whole theory and hope, at some point, to be vindicated. I have been provided with a Shirley Temple Doll. My psychologist believes that dismembering it every day is therapeutic. I would rather dismember her.

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 elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Exergasia

Posted on March 26, 2024 | Leave a comment

Exergasia (ex-er-ga’-si-a): Repetition of the same idea, changing either its words, its delivery, or the general treatment it is given. A method for amplification, variation, and explanation. As such, exergasia compares to the progymnasmata exercises (rudimentary exercises intended to prepare students of rhetoric for the creation and performance of complete practice orations).

“Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.” This was Little Orphan Annie’s mantra. So much for “Carpe Diem.” I guess Annie was posing as optimistic. But “loving tomorrow” may be the road to failure and even death. Anticipating a bed of roses may blind you to signs of the times predicting what’s next—like the weather forecast. A blizzard with five feet of snow is coming tonight. Do you still love tomorrow? If you do, you’re mentally ill.

I used to love tomorrow until my girlfriend broke up with me, I rolled my truck over, and got a hernia. All those things happened “tomorrow” and eventually today and yesterday. So then, I started thinking. Tomorrow never comes! This doubles Annie’s delusion. Maybe loving tomorrow involves a spiritual leap—maybe a leap toward the afterlife. That’s the “Big Tomorrow.”

Depending on your religion, you’ve got two places you can go: Heaven or Hell. You land in one or the other depending on what you do today. If you’re good, you go yo heaven. If you’re bad you go to hell. These destinations are eternal—you can’t leave. Hell is a world of eternal pain. Heaven is a world of eternal bliss.

The heaven/hell destinations may provide an incentive to be good. So, even though tomorrow does not exist, I’m going to bet on being good.

So, I’ve started a charity called “Bootstraps.” It helps losers become winners—to be self sufficient, functioning members of the community. We get significant donations from the community’s businesses. Lately, I’ve been embezzling from “Bootstraps.” I have doubled my income and there’s no risk of getting caught. I also collect 10% of my clients’ income from their bootstrapping—doing odd jobs. I make pretty good money there too. I am pretty sure I’m going to hell, but I don’t know for sure. That gives me an opening for my illegal activities. That, and temptation, the king of evil impulses. But like everything, it isn’t totally bad. For example, you may be temped to help an elderly person across the street.

But, there’s always tomorrow. Most things can be put off until tomorrow. So relax.

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 elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Exouthenismos

Posted on March 25, 2024 | Leave a comment

Exouthenismos (ex-ou-then-is’-mos): An expression of contempt.

“I hate you! You are a disgrace! You stink! You are lazy! You are terrible! You disgust me! You are like a dog butt worm. I’m leaving!”

This altercation changed my life forever. I was 16. My mother made me French toast and scrambled eggs every Saturday morning. Then, out of nowhere, one Saturday she told me she wasn’t going to make the French toast and eggs any more—not on Saturday, not on any day. She told me I was old enough to cook my own breakfast. She told me she was getting arthritis in her spatula wrist, and it was painful to make the eggs and French toast. I called her a dirty liar and went upstairs to pack my bags. I was leaving home.

I emptied my piggy bank: $5.28. I tromped down the stairs to the living room where my parents were hanging out. Dad was reading the newspaper and mom was staring at the wall. I told them I was leaving. Dad said, “Good. You’re nothing but a pain in the ass.” Mom was staring at the wall, sobbing and saying “My son,” over and over. I told her she didn’t have a son any more, and walked out the door. I could hear my father yelling at my mother to shut up, as I walked down the sidewalk.

I worked for a year selling candy at Yankee Stadium. I got good at throwing the candy, but I had to walk to the customer to get their money. One day, I was working the punters along the third base line. Casey Stengel popped up and ordered a candy bar. I threw hm one. He said “Wow, that was a hell of a pitch. You’re just in time—I’m out of pitchers—they’re all injured, and my last one just sprained his shoulder.” I agreed to do it. I suited up and headed out to the mound. With me pitching, the Yankees suffered the biggest loss in their history, and in the history of baseball. Boston: 106. New York: 7. Casey paid me $200.00 and took me to Port Authority. Luckily nobody recognized me as I boarded the bus, or I would’ve been killed.

I had just turned 17 and I wanted to join the Army so I could take advantage of the veterans benefit of a college education after I served my three years. So, I served three years as a jeep driver for the commanding officer of Ft. Dix, New Jersey. He was a maniac. We spent most of our time running wild in Philadelphia. He had two wives there and a used/stolen car business. Eventually I had to testify at his courrmartial where I buried him. Two days later I was discharged. I had already applied to colleges, so I knew where I was going: Stanford. I had taken out a loan for $2,000 to pay the bribe to the the Office of Admissions.

I loved my classes. I had a book “Cheaters Prosper” that helped me immensely. There was never any question whether I would graduate. I majored in Business. The only reason I know it is that it’s printed on my diploma in big letters. My brother told me neither of my parents could come to my graduation because they had both died of heart attacks. I didn’t care. Then, I found out my brother had lied. I still didn’t care. My heart was hardened. It felt good to harbor a grudge, especially toward my mother. That Saturday breakfast had grown into a dagger that stabbed me in the heart at the sight of scrambled eggs and French toast.

So, I moved to San Francisco. Surprisngly, I became a successful songwriter. My two biggest hits were written for Donovan: “Electrical Banana” and “Hurdy Gurdy Man.” There are 100s more, ranging from Melanie’s “Roller Skate Song” to Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs, “Wooly Bully.”

Now, I am rich. I live in the redwoods. I have a girlfriend who makes me scrambled eggs and French toast every Saturday morning.

Mom, I still hate you. Make me happy. 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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Tagged elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric

Expeditio

Posted on March 24, 2024 | Leave a comment

Expeditio (ex-pe-di’-ti-o): After enumerating all possibilities by which something could have occurred, the speaker eliminates all but one (=apophasis). Although the Ad Herennium author lists expeditio as a figure, it is more properly considered a method of argument [and pattern of organization] (sometimes known as the “Method of Residues” when employed in refutation), and “Elimination Order” when employed to organize a speech. [The reference to ‘method’ hearkens back to the Ramist connection between organizational patterns of discourses and organizational pattern of arguments]).

Either it was greed, or avarice, or covetousness, or desire or cheese that could’ve caused Sir Reginald Corntwist to steal the wheels from Master Blinker’s taxi coach. Corntwist is neither greedy, avaricious, nor covetous. He waits his turn to fill his lunch pail with leftovers to take to work at his his sweatshop to eat in front of his desperate malnourished employees. Moreover—he is not avaricious. He is deserving of everything he has, even if he’s taken it from its owner, like Ned Bredlow’s horse. It was standing there outside the tavern. Corntwist needed a ride, so naturally, as royalty, he took it. “Sir” has got to be freighted with emoluments and privileges, or the foundations of our nation would collapse into a pile of anarchy and social chaos. The same goes for covetous. Corntwist holds onto his dream of stealing his neighbor’s wife—to save her from a life of boring drudgery and to ride off in his neighbor’s gilded carriage—to save the carriage from falling into a state of disrepair under his careless hand. This is noble, wise, and commendable!

Ah. Now we come to desire. Sir Corntwist has one desire: magnanimity. Especially toward the peasants whose hovels he burned down. He says: “I had no choice if I was to clear my land. I have set aside a 5×5 foot parcel for each family to build a multi-story hovel with a small footprint with land remaining for a chicken t roam and a small vegetable garden. The head of each family will be given a pair of rubber boots.” Clearly, Corntwist desires what’s good.

Now we come to the culprit: cheese. There was cheese crumbled on the ground where the wagon wheels were stolen. If we can connect the cheese to the criminal, we’ve got our theif. Corntwist is lactose intolerant. Just looking at cheese turns his stomach and gives hm a horrendous rash. So, who took the wagon wheels?

It was me!

My wagon wheel shop “Fine Wheels,” expects prompt payment of bills. Blinker was two months behind. It was within my rights to repossess the wheels. Ah—but the cheese. I don’t know what cheese had to do with any of this. The cheese was cut into cubes with toothpicks inserted. Maybe it was Eduardo the caterer who dropped them on his way to the Sumfit wedding—maybe he was in a hurry and didn’t have time to pick them up.

At any rate. My job here is done. Justice has been meted out in the bright light of truth and exemplary argumentation. If you need wagon wheels, large or small, come see me.

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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Exuscitatio

Posted on March 23, 2024 | Leave a comment

Exuscitatio (ex-us-ci-ta’-ti-o): Stirring others by one’s own vehement feeling (sometimes by means of a rhetorical question, and often for the sake of exciting anger).

How many of you have had your identity stolen? One day you’re Joe Jones. The next day you’re nobody— your identity has been stolen—you’re not a man any more, you’re weak, you have bad posture and you are the ceaseless target of teen-age bullies—calling you names like mommy’s boy and stealing your car no matter where you park it.

What can you do? What can we do to get your identity back—that tough no-nonsense you that once roamed the streets of Utica. But you say, “I don’t know who stole my identity, I don’t where it is or how to get it back.” The first thing to do is buy a big fat handgun, load it and carry it. Make sure you load armor piercing magnums. That way, if you see somebody with your identity you can put him six feet under, go home and watch TV with your wife and be done with it—throw the pistol in the Mohawk River, unloaded.

Now, how do you know when you’ve found the scum that’s stolen your identity? How do you know when you’ve got him dead to rights? First, realize, if he’s stolen your identity, he can make minor improvements to it and be a slightly better version of you.

He will have tattoos identical to yours—a dead giveaway. He will be wearing a recently knitted duplicate of your favorite sweater.

If you follow him into Cliff’s you’ll see he uses your credit card and driver’s license to buy beer and cigarettes just like you.

Now that you know he stole your identity, go ahead and shoot him. Take him down by the river late at night. Put the gun to his head and put an end to his humiliating rampage. Shoot him two three times in case you have to plead self defense.

One more thing: it is easy to confuse an identical twin with an identity thief. So, if you have a long-lost identical twin, make him take a DNA test before you kill him. Also, talk to your mother. She might be of help.

If you find out he’s your twin brother, don’t let that deter you. You still have the option of shooting him, but it is more complicated than blowing away a stranger, like you’ll probably have to go to the funeral.

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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Gnome

Posted on March 22, 2024 | Leave a comment

Gnome (nome or no’-mee): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegm, maxim, paroemia, proverb, and sententia.

“If you can’t find your whey, try cream cheese.” My hobby is making pithy sayings. They had to be “brief and forceful” to qualify: “If you can’t stand the heat, stick your head in the freezer,” Another home run! “Drink the whole bottle of gin if you want to die,” I lust saved another life. I’m on a roll. “If you can’t read a map, stay home.” You won’t get lost now! “It only takes one match to burn your house down,” You won’t hear sirens now!

I’m writing a book. It’s called “A Garden of Gnomes.” It contains 14,000 pithy sayings I’ve written over the past 2 months. I’m so good at writing sayings I call myself “The Saying King” on the dating site I frequent, “Muskrat Love” named with permission after the song of the same title. It makes the little muskrat sounds when you log in.

So far, in six months, I have dated one woman. She stole my computer and TV and disappeared. I have video monitors all over my house, so I got her image leaving in the middle of the night with my computer and TV. She slept fully clothed on my couch, so she was able to leave without arousing suspicion. The images I gathered did not match her headshot on “Muskrat Love.” I had a couple of good images from my cameras and ran them through my facial recognition software. I entered my zip code and started the program. An alert signal went off! The program had found her.

She was the “Egg Lady” who sold eggs by the side of my road. Freda Chernobyl. She had moved here from Russia last summer. She was unmarried. I called her on the phone and told I knew everything. She gasped and asked me not to tell the police. I told her I had taken pity on her and she could keep my computer and TV on one condition: that we go on a date again & that she bring a dozen eggs. Actually, that’s two conditions.

She showed up at my door wearing a balaklava. She told me she didn’t want anybody to know she was dating me. I let it pass. We went to a Polish restaurant and had a good time, and maybe, a little too much Polish beer and vodka. We had to take an Uber home.

It was about a 15 minute drive. Her house was just down the road from mine—a five-minute walk. I turned to go and she told me to stay for awhile. Inside, the house was filled with appliances stacked along the walls. I pointed it out, and she said “Oh that. I rent out storage space to make extra money. Eggs aren’t all that lucrative.” That sounded plausible to me. (“Plausibility is 9/10 of the truth.”)

When I woke up on her kitchen floor, the house was empty and Freda was nowhere to be found. I got to my house just in time to see a Ryder truck driving away. (“When your truck is loaded, drive it.”)

Freda and her boyfriend Alexi were apprehended before they got out of town. Freda was not a real egg lady. It was a front for her criminal activities—it was a big yolk. Ha ha. Freda and Alexi are in jail for 6 months each. Freda was put in charge of the chicken coop where she supplies the mess hall with eggs. She also supplies black market eggs to inmates to throw at their enemies. (“An egg in the nest is worth two in the chicken.”)

I signed my book contract today. I will get $1.00 per book for the next ten years, thereafter, I’ll get $1.75. There was a $5,000 set up fee. I think I got ripped off. (“All that glitters is not glitter.”)

I’ll end with a few more choice gnomes:

“Itch where it scratches.”

“Fire and water make hot beverages.”

“When it’s dark, turn on the light.”

“If life gives you lemons, throw them away.”

“Truth is a slave-master. Lies will set you free.”

“If you don’t like the way you look, stop looking.”

“If you’re going like a house afire, get a hose,”

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 elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Graecismus

Posted on March 21, 2024 | Leave a comment

Graecismus (gree-kis’-mus): Using Greek words, examples, or grammatical structures. Sometimes considered an affectation of erudition.

Homer was blind. He was a famous Greek poet. He is a great tribute to the saying “It’s all in your head.” His famous “oínopa pónton” (wine dark sea) is a case in point. I guess he was a little off. The Mediterranean Sea is actually deep blue and clear. Why wasn’t Homer corrected? One must assume he had a lot of friends, and also, they didn’t clue the poor blind man in to his error. Maybe,

But there are accounts of Homer’s “sκακή διάθεση” (bad temper). When he wrote that Odysseus would “shoot an arrow through 12 axe handles,” one of Homer’s friends, Ludicrous, pointed out that it was γελοίος (ridiculous). Homer stood up and yelled “Lead me to the traitor.” Ludicrous knew what was going to happen. He ran out the door and headed to the docks, where he bought a ticket in steerage to Crete, where he would aspire to be a liar like the rest of the Cretans.

As time went by, Homer’s contemporaries “The Cyclic Poets” found a way to remedy Homer’s “all in your head” errors, like “wine dark sea.” They came up with the idea of figurative language— language that does not “literally” mean what it says—i.e. metaphors. This liguistic discovery was a boon to poets who could claim their errors were τρόπος του λέγειν (figures of speech). This license was given solely to poets because it did not matter what they said or why they said it. For example, William Carlos Williams’ wet wheelbarrow, or Sylvia Plath’s ramblings about her “Daddy.”

In the 20th century the barrier between literal and figurative language broke down. “Everyday people” started “living by” metaphors. this movement of thought was initiated by two mischievous trolls from the netherworld of anthropology, encroaching on the field of creative writing, creating havoc, and starting to make creative writing into an oxymoron like jumbo shrimp. Perhaps this trend will be an ameliorated by a rebalancing of the literal and the figurative, giving them an equal shot at your attention and belief. One would hope so.

But there are new developments. This discourse has been generated by AI. It’s like riding in a car without a driver. Your destination is a brief essay. You say a few words, and off you go.

Artificial intelligence is better than no intelligence at all.

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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Heniadys

Posted on March 20, 2024 | Leave a comment

Hendiadys (hen-di’-a-dis): Expressing a single idea by two nouns [joined by a conjunction] instead of a noun and its qualifier. A method of amplification that adds force.

I am resting comfortably at Leghorn Institute. My days are mapped out with therapeutic activities, like shredding Lance Armstrong bracelets to be recycled into Taylor Swift zipper pulls. Today, I shined my shoes, sat on pick-up sticks and made a clay dart that I threw at the wall and was punished for doing so. My punishment was to play solitaire quietly for three days and let Butty the Institute.s goat butt me twice. Last, I had to stay blindfolded for a day. Nobody helped me around and I fractured my nose on the wall.

Dr. Vorgall, the Institute’s Director makes all the punishments up. He is what is called a “sadist.” He is proud of it. He starts every day on the PA system with “Who wants to feel some pain today? Do something bad!” So, how did I end up in this place?

I was a member of a subversive group opposed to distance learning. Any college or university with an online presence was a target. We called ourselves “Bricks Mortar” after real centers of learning—with walls and floors, roofs and windows, parking lots and quads. we felt that sitting alone in one’s bathrobe (or worse) would not provide the optimal educational experience. Can you imagine studying Plato via email? Or painting via your computer screen? You might as well just watch Bob Ross’s “Joy of Painting” and not be able to ask him any questions, like “What color is that?”.

Bricks and Mortar’s new president, Sally Wingle, wanted to notch things up. She was tired of listening to us sit around and whine. We needed to “Take it to the streets.” We needed to be destructive, like anarchists. So, we made balls, like snowballs, out of brick chips and mortar. We would make slings like Samson made, and hurl our “Samson’s Balls” at buildings housing on-line learning facilities, mostly, we broke windows and ran away. But one day, the Administration at Vapor U. were told we were coming. The police were waiting clothed in riot gear. I was slinging Samson’s Balls when I was hit over the head with a truncheon and knocked unconscious. When I woke up I was crazy. Leghorn Institute had admitted me because I had a crack in the top of my skull and I clucked like a chicken and my head bobbed up and down when I walked. Dr. Vorgall was interested in pain’s place in the transmigration of souls. Clearly I had become a chicken after having my skull cracked. Dr. Vorgall had a pottery chicken beak made, and super glued to my face. As my head healed, it kept me from talking—I could only go “Buck, buck” because of the beak’s tightness. Then one day I was scratching around in the playground and I sneezed and my beak blew off. I could speak! I was mad and went to Dr. Vorgall s office and yelled “I’m not a chicken. I am a man.” “Oh yes, I see,” he said. He told me if I kept my mouth shut, I would be moved into a 500 square foot suite with a sauna and jacuzzi and a70” plasma TV and more. I took his offer and strutted down the hall to my new room, clucking loudly. If I was a rooster, I would’ve crowed.

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 elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Heterogenium

Posted on March 19, 2024 | Leave a comment

Heterogenium (he’-ter-o-gen-i-um): Avoiding an issue by changing the subject to something different. Sometimes considered a vice.

Honey, you say I lied, but my dog Chrono is wagging his tail rapidly. If we could teach him to measure increments of time he would make an excellent metronome ticking and tocking musical beats. His tail is like a whip. When I’m wearing shorts and he gives me a wag on the leg, ouch, it hurts! So, we must harness his wag power; put it to use for the good of humanity and the well-being of my household.

I pondered the wag. Chrono’s tail pointed in the wrong direction for stirring. But then, I realized I could make him a sling and turn him upside down over pots and pans and say “Good boy” and he would start wagging/stirring. After the sling was ready, we mounted him up over a pot of green pea soup, which was rather thick and needed vigorous stirring. I said “Good boy” and Chrono went at it. His tail hit the sides of the pan and made a ringing sound. Quickly, the soup was so well-stirred it became frothy.

I removed Chronos from his sling and poured a bowlful of pea soup for each of us. My wife was first to sample it, and she spit it out. “This tastes awful!” I tasted it and spit it out too. I had never tasted a dog’s tail, but the soup was suggestive of wet dog—of bath water left in the basin after a dog’s bath. Disgusting!

Why wife’s brother was “Inflato the Clown.” He was fairly famous around Toronto birthday circles. He could make a balloon into any shape—from pirate ships to tigers, or, apples to zebras. From certain activities I engage in with my wife, I got the idea of putting one Inflato’s balloons over Chrono’s tail, shielding whatever he was stirring from the taste of dog’s tail. Inflato had the perfect ballon. He used it to make wiener dogs, blimps, and torpedos

The balloon was easy to install: stick the tip of Chrono’s tail in the opening at the end, roll the balloon up Chrono’s tail, secure it with a wire twisty. Voila! The soup is protected from the tail’s foul flavor. It was time to try it out. We put Chrono in his sling, affixed his balloon, and lowered his tail into the soup. I said “Good boy.” Nothing happened. I said it again. Nothing happened. I suspected why he would not wag, but I did not say anything. Instead, we put Chrono to work stirring non-edibles without his balloon, mostly washable paint and lithium grease. We’ve also taught Chrono to be a metronome which is a much more effective use of his wag than stirring.

We rigged him up with a ticktock generator and he works for a piano teacher right in our town. He sits on the piano, marking time, a skill he has learned through extensive operant conditioning: with dog biscuits, petting, and endless good boys.

Two days ago, I was listening to music and working on my lawnmower in my garage. Blue Oyster Cult’s “Burnin’ for You” came on the Bluetooth player. Chrono stood up, looked around, and started dancing. He circled, and dipped, and jumped and dragged his butt across the floor. I was stunned. I’ve hired a dance coach with the intention of putting Chrono on tik-Tok. He is a remarkable dog. I hope you’ve found Chrono’s “tail” entertaining.

After I told “Chrono’s Tail,” my wife forgot she had accused me of lying, and we went on with our happy life. Chrono wagged his tail.

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 elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric

Homoeopropophoron

Posted on March 18, 2024 | Leave a comment

Homoeopropophoron: Alliteration taken to an extreme where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant. Sometimes, simply a synonym for alliteration or paroemion [a stylistic vice].

“Demons drove Dodges deliriously, dreaming dramas denting dump-trucks.”

It was the time of year for the “Homoeopropophoron Festival.” A “homoeopropophoron” is a phrase where nearly every first letter of evevery word is the same consonant—it is alliteration on steroids. People compete to make the longest Homoeopropophorons. They also strive to talk in homoeopropophorons during the festival. Since making sense is not required, our little village descends into incoherence during the festival. It is like the Biblical Babylon has descended.

The festival was founded sometime in the 1600s in New Amesterdam, later New York. Erasmus who studied and wrote about rhetoric, and was revered by the Dutch, favored homoeopropophoron over all the schemes and tropes passed down by the Greeks. He believed it taught people that not making sense could de a greater challenge than making sense, and that consonants build “a ladder to heaven.” Vowels, he believed, “paved the way to hell with their sweetness.”

I passed my wife on the street. She smiled and said: “Cradled crayfish caught colds, coughing, choking. Drinking coffee.” “Good try” I said as I continued on my way, “drinking” had killed an othwise excellent homoeopropophoron. During the festival there was no conflict, because people didn’t understand each other—which is different from misunderstanding.

Each year, we try to build Erasmus’ “Ladder to Heaven” made of a ladder truruck from the fire department with the ladder plastered with sticky notes inscribed with homoeopropophorons that are religiously themed, like: “Lustrous Lord, loading lampshades lovingly lifting light—look!” Of course, everybody knew the fire engine’s ladder didn’t actually reach to heaven.

So, like most things founded in past practice, the festival is crazy and just gives people an excuse to take off work and act silly. It’s like the annual Popeye festival with the spinach eating-contest, and the Olive Oyl look-alike contest. all good fun, but no meaningful import.

Check this out: “Echoes etch emblems everywhere, ennobling everyday endings.” It is made of vowels, not consonants. Will its sweet smoothness conduct you to hell? Is it giving you an elevator ride into the inferno?

Remember, rhetoric properly wielded,w has the power to transform you into a better version of yourself.

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 elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric

Homoioptoton

Posted on March 17, 2024 | Leave a comment

Homoioptoton (ho-mee-op-to’-ton): The repetition of similar case endings in adjacent words or in words in parallel position.

Note: Since this figure only works with inflected languages, it has often been conflated with homoioteleuton and (at least in English) has sometimes become equivalent to simple rhyme: “To no avail, I ate a snail.”

“To mime is to climb. Like a bug on a wall starting to fall and quickly swatted leaving a stain, signifying death’s infallibility like a mind-freezing tale pouring from a poetic pail to further muddy the earth’s already profane surface.”

This passage is from “Linda Lou” written by the famous poet Gosh Bissle. It was written solely for his 8-year-old son Alfonso to decorate his birthday cake in Helvetica font. It was baby-blue and bold. Gosh stuck his finger in the cake and licked it as he struck the match to light the cake’s candles. Given that he was trying to lick his finger and light a match at the same time, the lit match fell from his grip and lit his shirtsleeve on fire. Luckily there was a bowl of Fizzy Clementine punch on the table. He stuck his arm in the punch and effectively extinguished the flames, ruining Alfonso’s birthday celebration, but saving himself.

For what he had done, his wife Susannah stuck his head in the punch bowl, hoping she might drown him. But she realized he made pretty good money with his poetry and relented. Gosh choked and sputtered and ran out of the dining room door, to his study. “I am inspired” he said quietly to himself as he sat down and picked up his pen, and flattened a piece of parchment he was about to write on. He squirmed around in his chair, kept looking at the ceiling and out the window at the washing blowing on the clothesline. His mind was blank, like the parchment in front of him.

Then, a bolt of light shot through his brain. “I’m having a stroke!” he exclaimed and fell to the floor, writhing and foaming at the mouth. His family gathered around him, knowing there was nothing they could do. Suddenly, his eyes opened wide, and he asked “What’s going on?” Susannah told him he had been dying of a stroke. He said, “Not any more. Now please take your leave. I’ve got work to do.” Alfonso and Susannah left him alone.

He wrote: “Love is a Titan wearing hand-made pants, carefully stitched and nicely draped and hung in a cedar-lined closet in my chamber. Suddenly my left arm is fraught with unforgiving pain. Full of sorrow, I will die now of a heart attack.”

Gosh Bissle was dead. Although he wrote only 12 known poems, they all received critical acclaim. The hand-written manuscripts were worth millions, so Susannah and Alfonso are well taken care of. It is rumored that there is a bound volume of additional poems of Gosh’s somewhere.

Some medical experts have concluded it was Gosh’s lifestyle that killed him before his time. He refused to eat vegetables and ate a bucket of whipped cream before bed every night. Just now, science is showing us a connection between a healthy diet and longevity.

I will leave you with one last twinkling example plucked from the darkened sky of Bissle’s galloping genius:

White Room

The wet and balmy wind I pushed forth through the rearward seams of my fine satin pants was like a Jamacian ceiling fan parsing the air with it mahogany blades—ancient, dearly bought at Manilla’s lumbermart, leaving behind massive stumps where the Manananggal dance to draw in men to to tear apart and eat.

The sun rises like a balloon full of urine collected from sheep in quarantine at the train station, where I await my conveyance to Edinburgh. I nervously rub against other passengers on the platform, moving my hips rapidly and thinking of you.

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 figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Horismus

Posted on March 16, 2024 | Leave a comment

Horismus (hor-is’-mus): Providing a clear, brief definition, especially by explaining differences between associated terms.

“Time is conscious of waiting.” It does not go “tick tock” or hum. It is not about day or night. Time is used as a measure called “per” or before or after, late or early or on time.

I was thinking about time because I had gotten a wristwatch for my 12th birthday. It was a Timex Boy Scout watch. It had glow-in-the-dark numbers, a sweep second hand, and a little square with the date in it. It was Boy Scout green and waterproof to 200 feet. It was also shock proof and anti-magnetic. It ran on batteries and was made in Japan.

I wasn’t a Boy Scout, but I still loved the watch. I wore it to school the day after I got it. I wore my sleeves rolled up so I could show it off. I was even ready to join the Boy Scouts—the BSA—the Boy Scouts of America. Then, Louie Pezzo showed up wearing a solid gold Rolex. His father was into crime and could get anything for Louie. That included alligator shoes, fireworks, a color TV, an electric popcorn maker, and more. Louie always had to one-up somebody. He had 100-plus-upped my Boy Scout watch with his Rolex. I was hurt, but I didn’t show it. Instead, I asked him if he wanted to join the Boy Scouts with me. Since he had no friends, and everybody hated him, he jumped at the chance.

Mr. Bangholtz was our Scoutmaster. Louie and I were the newest members of the troop. Already members were: Floyd Leash who lived at the edge of the swamp, Rollo Bing who lived in a mansion on a hill, Pardor Scanson who just sat in a corner sharpening his knife, and Bulgy Branford who was morbidly obese. It was very unusual, but I was the most normal person there.

Mr. Bangholz told us he was going to show us how to light a fire so we’d be ready for next week’s camporee. He picked up a red Jerry can and a boom box and told us to follow him to the parking lot out behind the YMCA. We got out there and there was a pile of wood about five feet high. Mr. Bangholz doused it with gasoline from the Jerry can and lit it. Then, he pressed the play button on the boom box and “Fire,” the weird 60s song, started to play. Mr. Bangholz started skipping around the flaming wood pile waving a lit road flare over his head. Floyd Leash yelled “I’m going to home.” Louie said “You’re a dead man.” Bulgy yelled that he wanted a snack “immediately.”

We heard sirens. It was fire trucks coming to put out the fire! “Who’s in charge here?” asked the firefighter. I am,” Mr Bangholz sobbed as he stood in front of the fireman’s hose and begged “cleanse me, I am filth, I have sinned.” The firefighter yelled “Get out of the way you friggin’ lunatic!” Mr. Bangholz made a sound like a train whistle and jumped into the fire. He had doused himself with gasoline and quickly went up in flames. Luckily, the firefighters were there and were able to quickly douse the flames. He lived.

In court, Mr. Bangholz testified that he had planned to give us a surprise tutorial on dealing with burn victims, but it got out of control. He was found not guilty of lighting a bonfire in a private parking lot. We found out later that he was divorced four times and refurbished used bicycles in his basement for a living. He suffered from bi-polar disease and took medication for it, but that he hadn’t taken his medication for three weeks and had been talking angrily to himself.

We sued the Boys Scouts for not properly vetting Mr. Bangholz. We won. Now the Boy Scouts ask prospective Scoutmasters three key questions: 1. What year is it?; 2. Can you tie a square knot?; 3. Do you eat your spinach?

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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Hypallage

Posted on March 15, 2024 | Leave a comment

Hypallage (hy-pal’-la-ge): Shifting the application of words. Mixing the order of which words should correspond with which others. Also, sometimes, a synonym for metonymy (see Quintilian).

I knew it was bad to kill people, but I didn’t care. Only Ernie could save me from doing it. I think it was the tone of his voice. He sounded like Elvis. In fact, he was studying to be an Elvis impersonator when tragedy struck.

Me, it was, that wore me down. Like an evil angel, present always, like the sky, the earth, my best friend Ernie. He was my best friend because he was my only friend. I had an explosive temper. I would “lose” it at the slightest provocation. Once I kicked my toddler brother because he asked me where his Buzz Lightspeed doll was. Clearly, he was accusing me of stealing it—an unfounded accusation worthy of being kicked on the ankle as retribution for slander. I was getting ready to follow up with a fireplace poker whipping, when Ernie said “You might kill him.” “Whoops” I said. “Thanks for the reminder. I think it would’ve been justified, but you’re right.”

The only thing that kept me from murdering people was fear of the electric chair, lethal injection, or gas. There was also the prospect of spending life in prison—the big smelly prisoners, possible marriage to a loser, the food and no tools handy to beat people to death who made me lose my temper. It would be hell, and hell, I wasn’t ready for. But I had Ernie, ever present, to remind me I was about to do something that would land me in prison or get executed.

There was the time our teacher had called on me and I thought she was taunting me. It made me mad. I jumped out of my chair with my circle-making compass in my had, prepared to stab Miss Jones to death with the pointy thing. Ernie yelled from the back of the classroom “You’ll go to prison, or worse,” Miss Jones was saved and I had to go to weekly counseling for two months. They showed me pictures of dying bleeding people with “BAD” over the image. Then, they’d show a picture of two smiling people shaking hands with “GOOD” over the image. I had no idea what was going on.

Ernie and I were hanging out in my room. In keeping with his Elvis studies, Ernie said “Hey baby, let’s go to Dairy Queen.” Ernie had called me “baby.” “Son-of-a-bitch!” I yelled. Before Ernie had a chance warn me not to, I grabbed my autographed Yogi Berra baseball bat and hit Ernie in the middle of his head. He had called me “Baby” when I was a teenager—bastard. I threw his body out my bedroom window and dragged it into garage, where I put him in the kiddie pool. I felt no remorse, so I knew I was on the right track. So what if it’s Ernie? He called me “baby”—he even had a crooked smile on his face.

I cut Ernie up with Dad’s electric chainsaw, I put his head up on a shelf behind a gallon can of paint. Then, I put the rest of Ernie in a large garbage bag and stuffed it in my big travel suitcase with the wheels. My plan was to dispose of him that night. I was still as mad as hell and couldn’t wait to get rid of him—the insulting loser.

The zoo was only a mile away. My plan was to break into the zoo and feed Ernie to meat-eating animals, like lions. I climbed over the fence and waded through the moat surrounding the lion enclosure. I opened my suitcase and dumped the pieces of Ernie’s butchered body on the ground. Two lions came trotting out of a cave—straight for me! I ran for the fence and got halfway up when one of the lions got me by the foot. It let go and I scrambled over the fence.

I left my suitcase behind, and that, along with the baseball bat and bloody kiddie pool are what got me. They were able to connect the suitcase to me by checking my purchase history on Amazon.

Well, you guessed it: my worst nightmare has come true. I’m serving a life term in Marcus Welby Memorial Psychiatric Hospital. So far, I’ve threatened to kill all of my fellow inmates and staff. I am bereft of weapons and strangling makes me queasy, so my desire for vengeance is thwarted. It’s too bad Ernie ended up as piles of lion poop. I have no remorse—he deserved it. I guess my only regret is that I didn’t debone him and cut him into smaller, bite-sized, pieces.

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 figures of speech, rhetoric

Hyperbaton

Posted on March 14, 2024 | 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 was worried—REALLY worried: panicking. My carnivorous goat had escaped and was trying to eat peole all around northern Pennsylvania.

I am a genius. But, I admit, I’m a little off the mark. I had graduated with Honors from the Frankenstein School of Genetic Engiheering. The school’s motto was “It’s Alive!“ (Et Vivit). The school’s mission was ”To train mentally unbalanced young geniuses to produce mutants of all kinds to make the world more interesting and dangerous.” I was attracted to the word “dangerous” in the mission statement. As a child, I had been brought up in the lap of luxury—never a worry, never a care. Our family had infinite wealth. Just to stay busy, my father watched TV all day. He could recite all of the ads and sing all the shows’ theme songs. The “Green Acres” theme song was his favorite. He hired a country western band to back him up when he sang it. Was headed by Tennessee Ernie Ford.

Anyway, my doctoral project at Frankenstein School of Genetics was “Attack Butterfly and Squirrel Extermination.” I developed a butterfly that disguises itself as an acorn and poisons a squittel when it picked up the faux acorn. The “Pixie dust” on the butterfly’s wings is genetically modified to be fatal to the touch by small mammals. Humans become seriously ill, vomiting and produce flatulence almost constantly for one week. Look but don’t touch, Ha ha. I graduated with highest honors and moved to Pennsylvania

The carnivorous goat became my obsession, eventually I crossbred a goat and raccoon. The raccoon’s propensity for rummaging through garbage was a perfect match to the Goat’s fondness for tin cans. However, I could not have predicted how viscous the Racgoat would be, and how pronounced its appetite for bloody meat would be. The Racgoat has nearly wiped out northern Pennsylvania’s Cottontail Rabbit population. I don’t think anybody cares. After all, what good are rabbits? Also, currently there is only one Racgoat wreaking have in Northern Pennsylvania. The others were dispatched in their cages before they could escape. However, it has been reported that the remaining Racgoat has grown to the size of a dinosaur, and can only be dispatched by a military tank, a flame thrower, a drone, or field artillery.

I am quite pleased that things are developing into a sort of B Grade 1950s science fiction movie, like “Gorgo.” I have already been contacted by Taylor Swift’s agent to make her movie debut in “Racgoat.” The crisis isn’t over yet. Today, the Racgoat invaded a daycare center and nearly succeeded in eating the children. The monster was repelled when a firefighter kept yelling “Baaaa baaaad!”

I just got word the Racgoat is headed for Philadelphia, absorbing all the armaments the US has to throw at it. Oh well, at least he can’t fly. People will be able to evacuate well-before the he gets to Philadelphia.

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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Hypozeuxis

Posted on March 13, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

I went to the supermarket. There was shopping to be done. I saw a candy bar on the floor. It was a Wonker Bar. With the special silver coupon, it could be worth millions! I picked it up and put it in my backpack. A whooping siren like a car alarm went off and I was surrounded by security Guards. “You took the bait, big shot! It was “Whammy” Bontern who I had gone to high school with. He dropped out in our sophomore year and tried to become a policeman, but couldn’t pass the intelligence test—division did him in, as did his police record. He had stolen a bicycle and held it for ransom—for ten dollars. He was caught when he agreed to meet his victim in the park for the exchange of the ransom money for the bike. He was arrested when he rode up with a balaclava on this head. It was a scandal because Whammy’s mother was mayor. Whammy was sent to reeducation camp for 2 weeks. When he returned, he was hired as a security guard in the grocery store.

I had gone to college and gotten a degree in restaurant management. I opened a place called “Eats.” It was informal. We specialized in unhealthy food and drew customers from 100s of miles around, even from Canada. Most of our customers were overweight and smoked. Of course, Whammy hatred me because I had gone to college and had my own business, while he hadn’t progressed in the past ten years. I told him and the other goons that I was going to turn the Wonker Bar in when I cashed out & maybe even pay for it. They were convinced. since I had put it in my backpack, that I intended to steal it. The million dollar coupon would give me an incentive.

Whammy said “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.” Then, he handcuffed me and led me to the”the back room.” He said, “You were going to steal the Wonker Bar.” I said “No.” He said the same thing over and over and I kept saying “No.” He called the police to come and arrest me. They told him to get a life and to let me go. As I was about to go to checkout, he said, “I’ll have to confiscate that Wonker Bar.” I said “No you’re not, I’m paying for it.” He became enraged and tasered me. As I went down, I notice a thing like a mouth on his forearm. He kept putting his arm up to his ear. At first, I thought it was a nervous tic, but he was actually listening to his arm. Why hadn’t anybody noticed?

When I regained consciousness, I ran to the dairy section and grabbed 3 packages of cream cheese. I ran back and Whammy was sitting on the floor in tears. I unwrapped the cream cheese and stuffed it in his arm mouth. It started gagging and chocking and slowly disappearing. Whammy brightend up and his voice lost its menacing tone. I promised not to say anything about the tasering. I thought to myself self—no wonder he’s such a mess, taking advice from his arm all those years.

I payed for the Wonker Bar and headed for my car. I put my groceries in the trunk. Sat down behind the wheel to open the Wonker Bar and check the coupon to see if I won millions of dollars. There was no coupon! Somebody had stolen it.

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

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Hysterologia

Posted on March 12, 2024 | 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.

I had fallen, without warning, down a blowhole! It was the same dream I’ve had over and over again. I am pirouetting on the back of a whale. I am ecstatic. My tu-tu goes up in flames. I panic and trip over a barnacle and fall down into the blowhole. My mother is already down the blowhole wearing a two-piece bathing suit and sunglasses and a huge diamond ring. She reaches out to me making hand signals I don’t understand. She says “It’s all right little Poo-Poo” and winks. My tu-tu’s fire goes out, I reach out, and start toward her. The whale’s belly is filled with objects that I have to climb over to reach my mother. The first is my father, passed out with an empty gin bottle nearby. I jumped over him without a problem and landed in a shopping cart filled with packages of jiggling liver. I stood up and fell over backwards, landing on a wedding dress made out of zip-lock freezer bags. I stand up and am poised to embrace my mother and then, at that moment, the whale blows me with great force out its blowhole. I can hear my mother laughing as I am blown into the sky.

Now I am sitting in an airliner, dressed normally, and accompanied by my comfort pet Calliope the parrot. Luckily she’s staying quiet. Uh oh! She’s ruffling her feathers. She straightens up. Loud and clear she says “We’re all going to die.” A steward grabs her cage and runs to the back of the plane. There’s a sickening gurgling sound. The steward comes back with the cage with dead Calliope lying on his back in the bottom of the cage. Suddenly Calliope jumps up on his perch and says “We’re all going to die!” This process repeats itself at least ten times, until we land in Ecuador—at Quito. Calliope is dead, so I leave her on the plane.

Now I’m wearing warm weather clothes. As we’re standing in line to clear customs, my shorts fall down. The woman behind me in line snaps my underpants waistband. I pull up my shorts and turn around and look at her. It is my blue-haired grandmother who is supposed to be locked up for life in New Jersey for sabotaging a ski lift and killing 25 people. When asked why she did it she said: “Colorado is for skiers.” She was judged “somewhat insane” but not enough insane to get her off the hook. I looked at her and she said: “Colorado is for skiers.” “What? I said. She said “Read my lips! Colorado is for skiers!” That did it! I swung my suitcase at her head and she evaporated. I was quite embarrassed by the whole thing. I clicked my heels and said “I wish I was in New Jersey.”

Suddenly, I’m in Boonton. I am working for a company that pumps out grease traps. I love my job. I smell like cooking oil.

I wake up. As usual, I am not in New Jersey. I wake up on the back seat of my car out in the woods somewhere in the USA. There’s a guy with an orange vest that says “Search Party” on it. He has a hotdog in one hand and a beer in the other. He’s smiling and he raises his beer and says, “We’re all going to die!” I hope this is a new dream as I sit there in my car’s back seat waiting to die.

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

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Hysteron Protern

Posted on March 11, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

I was #3 of “The Three Blind Mice” . Our hit song “Three Blind Mice” had earned billions in royalties. My name is Curly and I faked being blind. Moe and Larry were actually blind. I helped them get around and did their banking. We had had our tails bobbed after the song made number one on the Black Forest Charts—it was all about authenticity. Being blind wasn’t enough.

After we made our first billion, we bout 2acres on the Hudson River from a Dutch ancestor of New Holland’s first settlers. We built a fromagerie—a cheese factory specializing in gourmet cheese. We specialized in Brillat Savarin Fresh French Cheese and Perlagrigia Italian Truffle Cheese. We would invite our hundreds of friends to our cheese orgies on the banks of the Hudson. It was like the Pied Piper played his tune and everybody ran wild. We had Roman Styled vomitoria set up all over the property for the convenience of our overstuffed guests. We had music—the laboratory mice band “Little White Lies” would play for us and we would dance “The Cordless Mouse,” we mimicked a cordless mouse to the music: pointing, clicking, and highlighting. To point, you bend over and wiggle you whiskers. To click, you’d bob up and down, sort of like a chicken pecking. To highlight, you’d drag your front paws across the floor. It was bliss. But then, tragedy struck.

“The Nashville Cats” breached the estate’s defenses. The “cats” were a blight on an otherwise perfect world. They were homeless and lived off the land. Their leader “Fluffy” had been abandoned as a kitten down by the river. We pitied them and hated them. We threw globs of “Fancy Feast” and “Purina Kitty chow” off the ramparts thinking it would help us make friends. But it didn’t, as the massacre showed,

I put the 2 blind mice in our golf cart and took off full speed to our panic room. We barely made it. Fluffy’s lieutenant Caligula almost got me with a swipe as I shut the door. Finally, the cats left, and left a field of carnage in their wake. It took weeks to clean up the mess, and we established a memorial cemetery down by the river. We repaired the walls, electrified everything, and installed razor wire, but we knew that was not enough.

There was a gaze of raccoons called “The Dumpsters” living in the woods adjacent to the estate. I met with their leader “Wrappers.” I explained our plight and asked him to field a standby force of raccoons to fight off cats when they invaded. He took the cigar out of his mouth and said “Yeah. Sure.” We agreed on remuneration, and he signed the contract I had prepared. Raccoons are notoriously dishonest and easily distracted, but I didn’t have much of a choice. We considered dogs, but when they get together they go wild and run amok.

So far, so good with the raccoons. We hear the cats meowing outside the walls, but we are not fooled by their pity-seeking noise. We still throw them food, but it does not seem to be working. Wrappers assures me the raccoons are ready for the next invasion. I’m not optimistic. Next week, I’m meeting with Fluffy to talk peace. I probably should’ve done this in the first place but I’ve been afraid he will eat me.

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

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Inopinatum

Posted on March 10, 2024 | Leave a comment

Inopinatum (in-o-pi-na’-tum): The expression of one’s inability to believe or conceive of something; a type of faux wondering. As such, this kind of paradox is much like aporia and functions much like a rhetorical question or erotema. [A paradox is] a statement that is self-contradictory on the surface, yet seems to evoke a truth nonetheless [can include oxymoron].

I couldn’t believe he thought he needed another pair of shoes. He had 659 pairs of shoes. He kept them in a pile in the middle of the living room. They reached the ceiling and they smelled. Oh, there were boots mixed in the pile too. I asked him why he had so many shoes. He said, “Son, they are my legacy to you and your sister, although they’re all men’s shoes. Each pair is held together with a clothespin, and their demographic information is recorded on their soles. When I’m gone, your life’s work will be curating the collection. I have provided you with a healthy stipend to manage the shoe collection—to care for the shoes and secure a site for a shoe museum, where you’ll feature a different shoe style each month, starting with the Flip-Flop, which pushes the envelope on what a shoe is. You’ll also sell Shoe-verniers: t-shirts, key rings and socks emblazoned with the museum’s name: ‘Sole’s Inspiration’ named after the Righteous Brothers famous song.”

I was only 12. It was a lot to take in. But, I found the whole thing fascinating and wanted to help fulfill my father’s dream. Time flew. I did my PhD in industrial studies. I wrote my dissertation on the displacement of cobblers by machine-made shoes. My studies mad me angry and also, I felt saddened by the cobblers’ downfall. As a part of my studies I had an internship at a 1960s-style hippie leather shop. I made belts, purses and briefcases. I had a colleague named Selwin who made the most beautiful and comfortable shoes. He was short and had pointy ears. We would joke that he was an elf. Then the whole thing crashed. All my designs had been stolen and reproduced by machines. Selwin disappeared.

My father died, so, when I graduated from UCSB I went to work setting up “Sole’s Inspiration.” Instead of putting out the Flip-Flop as the first monthly shoe, I put out a pair of Selwin’s beautiful handmade shoes. We had our grand opening, and who should walk through the door but Selwin. He was a mess. There had to be a place for him at “Sole’s Inspiration.” I set him up with a shoe concession in the back of the museum that would draw people in. We built him a replica of a cobbler’s shop with a workbench, a stitching pony and all the accoutrements of a real cobbler’s shop. He was overjoyed.

To my great surprise, the museum is a great success. One night I had to go beck to the museum—I had left my cell phone. I looked in the back and there was Selwin and some friends who had the same elfin look. They were smoking clay pipes and playing cards at Selwin’s workbench. I gave Selwin a wave and headed home.

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

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Inter se pugnantia

Posted on March 9, 2024 | Leave a comment

Inter se pugnantia (in’-ter-say-pug-nan’-ti-a): Using direct address to reprove someone before an audience, pointing out the contradictions in that person’s character, often between what a person does and says.

“Rep. Mantanny, you say you’re a church-goin’ man. But the only place you worship is Fox News. You kneel down to lies and repeat them like they’re true. Yesterday you told us Bill Clinton had his left leg amputated after being in a train wreck in Ohio. Then, 12 hours later you told us you were mistaken, that he had gotten a tattoo of Monica Lewinsky on his leg, and then, 12 hours later, that you were wrong. Why? Because FOX News was wrong. Last week you told us that the Democrat Congress of California had voted to make it legal to suffocate puppies in the trunks of cars. Then, you waited 12 hours and blamed FOX News for the bogus news story.

You tell us you watch FOX News because you’re a Republican, not because they’re a reliable source, which they clearly are not. You Republicans are like a herd of cows. You spend your time stampeding. It does not matter where or why—you just stampede—oh yes, I guess it does matter—you stampede to the right like a single lump of mooing flesh.”

I’d had my say at the Town Hall meeting. Now I was going home to have a beer and watch TV. But it wasn’t meant to be. Rep, Mantanny was following me, followed by a half-dozen staunch supporters. I stopped, turned, and asked “What do you want Rep. Ignorant Ass?” Two of his boys grabbed me and he started slapping me on the face. “Prove I slapped you baby face. Tell the world. You’ll get nowhere!” I asked, “Why are you doing this?”“You were a bad boy in there, plus I am mentally unstable. I have ‘Face Slapper’s Syndrome.’ When I am angry I get a tic in my wrist that induces a slapping motion directed at the faces of others. I slap until my anger subsides, as it is now.” Rep. Mantanny dropped his hand and rubbed his wrist.

I was going to report him to the police and told him so. It would be the end of his political career—slapping constituents in the face was a ticket out of politics. I turned to go, but his hand was twitching again and two of his thugs grabbed me while Mantanny slapped me up again. My cheeks were burning, but it wasn’t that bad. Mantany’s anger subsided and he stopped slapping me. “How’d you like to make 200 grand a year with a 501K pension plan?” “Who wouldn’t.” I replied. “How’d you like to be my slapping bag? When I get angry for any reason, I slap you—not my constituents or random people. You will keep me out of trouble” Mantanny said.

So I’m a slapping bag now. I am a permanent part of Mantanny’s entourage, always ready to be slapped. I call myself “The Man of a Thousand Hits.” The only complaint I have is that sometimes he’ll have a nightmare that makes him angry in the middle of the night. The slap buzzer goes off in my room and I’ve got to go sit on his bed and be slapped until his anger subsides.

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

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Intimation

Posted on March 8, 2024 | Leave a comment

Intimation: Hinting at a meaning but not stating it explicitly.

Things are a little “different,” You know? I’m fading out. But I’m not fading away. I’m going down that wide-open highway. Got it?

My model airplane club “American Flyboys,” is going to a “Flyathon” outside Summit, New Jersey in the Watchung Hills. There are three landing strips left over from the defunct Air Force base that was located there during the Cold War. What an inspiration to fly—possible world-destroying war! Atom bombs! Too good to be true. I’m bringing my “Inola Guy,” my version of the WWII bomber that dropped the big one on Japan, ending WWII and saving the world from Japanese Imperialism and putting an end to its Emperor’s rule. I’ve made a miniature A-Bomb I’m going to drop on Summit or Chatham. Oh, you think I’m crazy? I don’t blame you. Maybe I am.

My wife didn’t believe me, and how could she? But I had the bomb. I found plans for building an A-bomb on the internet. I miniaturized every thing in accord with 21-st century technology. Plutonium 239 was hard to obtain. I had to take a trip into a government facility posing as Max Planck’s great grandson. I showed them a fake cancelled check for his Nobel Prize. I asked for a crumb of P-239 as a souvenir of my visit. They took my picture and ran it through the machinery. There was one match, but it was not me. I closely resemble Bluto, Popeye’s nemesis. But Bluto is a cartoon character, so it was rejected. Then, there was DNA and fingerprints. The DNA was “suggestive” but not definitive. I found I was a distant relative of Yogi Berra. No wonder I liked to squat! There were also, faint traces of Max Planck lineage. I had tricked the DNA test with DNA I collected from Max Plank’s toothbrush that I stole from the back room of the max Plank museum. I brushed it around in my mouth before they did the DNA swab. The fingerprints were inconclusive. I matched nobody in the known universe. They gave me the crumb and I put it in an envelope that I had marked “A-bomb.”

When I got home, I put it all together, loaded in a plastic Easter Egg—I thought the irony was hilarious. I glued the two halves of the egg together, and glued on some tiny stabilizing fins too. I set the bomb in Inola Guy’s bombay. The bombay doors would be opened by remote control and the bomb’s detonator would be remotely switched on. At the last minute, I changed my target to the Short Hills Mall.

There was a vigorous knocking at my door. I opened the door and half a dozen military police stormed in. Then, a Colonel came through the door and said, “Mr. Ubermensch, we did further analysis on your DNA and found you are a direct descendent of Alexander the Great. Your war-like lineage disqualifies you from ownership of P-239. Please return the crumb.

“The hell I will” I yelled and ran out the door with Inola Guy. I launched Inola and steered her toward the Short Hills Mall. One of the MPs grabbed the plane’s controls and crashed Inola into a tree. There was no explosion. I ran to the tree and there WAS an explosion. It sounded like a cap pistol.

Two people in haz-mat suits “escorted” me to a military police ambulance. They took me to an “undisclosed location,” poking and prodding, looking for evidence of radiation poisoning. I was “cleared” and remanded to a prison cell, prior to shipping me to Guantanamo, where I’ll probably spend the rest of my life. I’ve met this really old guy named John Kennedy who has a luxury cell. He assures me we’re “outta here in two weeks max.”

POSTCRIPT

This document was turned over to the State Department. No action was taken. In fact, State Department employees claim the document is a forgery authored by “little fairies.”

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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Isocolon

Posted on March 7, 2024 | Leave a comment

Isocolon (i-so-co’-lon): A series of similarly structured elements having the same length. A kind of parallelism.

My life was on the line. My happy future was in question. The odds were going against me. My life was a ditch and I was stuck in it.

How did I go from care-free Jerry to horror Harry? It was Lego.

My mother had given me a set of “Classic Building Bricks” for my 9th birthday. I didn’t even know what they were until she told me. When I picked up my first block I became giddy and almost fell down. My mother turned into a talking seal, clapping her flippers like she’d just seen a great performance of Chinese dish spinners.

We’re Selkies, dear. The Lego brings you close to your heritage, when you hold that particular Lego you can see me for what I am. Put the Lego in your pocket. Hold it in your hand when you want to meet me as a seal. We can go swimming and making lots of noise barking down by the docks. When you are 12, you can be a seal .

I went crazy, rolling around on the floor and screaming. My mother turned back into my mother, sat me on her lap and told me “this is your heritage, you must live with it—you must accept that you are part seal.” So, I embraced it. My seal life was exciting. I could swim like a bolt of lightening, catch fish and hang out by the dock, barking.

Then, Sanford Ram’s tour boat chopped my mother in half when it was coming into the dock. It did not have the required propeller guard. I was horrified, sad, and more than anything, angry.

As a human, I got a job on Ram’s boat selling soft drinks. My plan was to become such a fixture, that I could board the boat at will—nobody would suspect anything. Finally, the time came. I had my battery-powered drill and drilled a bunch of holes in the boat’s hull. It started to sink. I ran up on deck and jumped onto the dock. Sanford was running down the dock yelling. He stopped and stripped off his clothes and became a seal and slid off the dock.

He jumped back onto the dock, put on his clothes and became human again. He couldn’t save the boat. He said, “I don’t blame you son. I killed your mother. It was stupid negligence. A long time ago your mother was my wife. You are our son.”

“Where were you all these years when I needed a father? Floating around on your stupid tourist boat, and eventually killing my mother!” He said he was sorry, but that didn’t calm my rage. I pulled out my fillet knife, pinched his cheek, and cut a piece off it. It made a profusely bleeding circle.

Somebody called an ambulance. The cut healed into a round scar. He never told anybody that it was me who scuttled his boat. I still hate him with a fury. Some days I want to harpoon him and push him off the dock. But I know that’s the highway to prison.

Now, I live with my aunt. I keep my “special” Lego on the bookshelf over my bed. I met a Selkie girl two weeks ago. We get along really well in both of our guises. Yesterday we played “High Seas Tag” and had a great time. Tomorrow we’re swimming out to the edge of the harbor to go shark taunting.

Maybe things are better than I thought they were, but eventually, I’m afraid I’m going to have to kill my father.

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

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