Monthly Archives: April 2024

Epitheton

Posted on April 5, 2024 | Leave a comment

Epitheton (e-pith’-e-ton): Attributing to a person or thing a quality or description-sometimes by the simple addition of a descriptive adjective; sometimes through a descriptive or metaphorical apposition. (Note: If the description is given in place of the name, instead of in addition to it, it becomes antonomasia or periphrasis.)

“Hey! It’s Joey baloney!” People would say (or yell) when I came through the door. They nicknamed me “Joey Baloney” in middle school. My mother made me a baloney sandwhich for lunch every day. I asked her for peanut butter and jelly once and she ran at me holding up her mustard knife. I barely got out the front door. She stabbed the door behind me. Two days later, I asked her why I had to have baloney every day. She twitched all over and spun around with the mustard jar in one hand and the mustard knife in the other. “It’s the message” she said with fear n her eyes. “What message?” I asked politely.

“It was the ghost of Mickey Mantle, the greatest of all New York Yankees. He wanted me to save the world one baloney sandwich at a time. Right there, on the spot, I swore my allegiance to the “Baloney Brigade.” Since he was a great ballplayer and an angel too,. I believed him and complied. As “Joey Baloney” soon you will take your place in the Baloney Brigade making baloney sandwiches by my side—smearing on the mustard, slicing the bread into delightful triangles.”

My mother was clearly nuts, but only about baloney. Otherwise she’s normal. So, I decided to play along. We each made each other a baloney sandwich every day. Mom got me my own jar of mustard and we shared the knives from the silverware drawer.

Then, I got an idea. I got my sketchy friend “Sticky” to get me a signed Mickey Mantle baseball. Through his connections, he got me one for $50.00. It was nearly my life savings, but I wanted to cure mom. I wrote “Mission accomplished” over Mickey’s signature on the baseball. Then, when she was making lunch, I threw the baseball through the open kitchen window. It hit mom in the chest and landed in the sink. Mom started to cry and yelled “Praise God. Praise Mickey Mantle. We are saved.”

Something grabbed me by the shirt collar and pulled me into the lilac bushes behind the house. It was Mickey Mantle’s ghost and he was mad. He told me I had better get my mother to work on the baloney sandwiches again or the world would end. I wondered if it was possible for a ghost to be crazy. In Mickey’s case, I thought it was. He said, “You must think I am crazy, but I’m not. Once I explain to you the baloney-doomsday connection, you will be eager to get your mother back to work.”

I am unfamiliar with physics, so Mickey put the explanation in layman’s terms. What he said scared the hell out of me. I told mom of my “Mission Accomplished” ruse. She pinned my hand to the cutting board and said, her voice shaking, “you almost wiped us out.” I sad, “Get back to work. I’ll call 911 and get a ride to the emergency room.”

Joey Baloney is back. Together me and mom are saving the world with one baloney sandwich at a day. Every once in a while Mickey stops by for lunch. Since he’s transparent, you can see his sandwich inside him. He opens his robe and we all laugh. Angels don’t have privates, so he does not have to worry about embarrassing mom,

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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Epitrope

Posted on April 4, 2024 | Leave a comment

Epitrope (e-pi’-tro-pe): A figure in which one turns things over to one’s hearers, either pathetically, ironically, or in such a way as to suggest a proof of something without having to state it. Epitrope often takes the form of granting permission (hence its Latin name, permissio), submitting something for consideration, or simply referring to the abilities of the audience to supply the meaning that the speaker passes over (hence Puttenham’s term, figure of reference). Epitrope can be either biting in its irony, or flattering in its deference.

Tell me more about what’s the meaning of that grease on your hands? You don’t have to answer, I will. Clearly, you’ve been touchin’ grease with both hands—two hands, left and right hand—10 fingers, palms and everything. You disappoint me with your naïveté. Don’t tell me you’re a mechanic. You are half-naked and look depraved. That alone is enough to get you arrested here in Napville City.

Don’t try to get away, or I’ll shoot. “Sir, we’re pole dancers and we’re experimenting with using grease for a better spin on the pole. We just tried it out with that oil pan drainpipe and it doesn’t work very well. It is too slippery and you go flying off the pole. We’re about to try toothpaste. It is expensive, but if it works we’ll get more tips stuffed into our costume bottoms. The toothpaste’s abrasives improve pole spin without being too slippery.”

You’re lyin’. I’ll ask you: What’s that pickup truck doin up on that lift over there: No, I’ll answer: you’re you’re doin’ some thin’ to that truck. You’re stealing its grease. “No! This is my brother’s repair shop and that’s his truck. Ask him.” One of the women said. “Yes sir” her brother said, “That’s my truck. I told them they could have some grease. Anyways, they got the grease out of that drum over there.” That looks like a barrel to me Sonny. Why do you call it a drum? Confess! “We in the repair business call it a drum. If we were a brewery, we’d call it a barrel. Who the hell are you anyway?”

My name is Nosey Camboroni and I been sticking my nose into other people’s business ever since I got a Colombo detective set when I was 14. I’m 28 now and still making a pest of myself, finding something to “pin” on everybody I meet, getting arrested for harassment, paying the fine, and then, going looking for my next perpetrator to question with skill and insight into the human mind. Just the other day I was behind a woman in the line at the grocery store. She started paying with food stamps. I asked to see her US passport, if she knew who Johnny Cash was, and if she could recite “The Pledge of Allegience.” She kicked me in my privates and yelled “You Goddamn creep, leave me alone.” Her anger was a sign that my interrogation had hit home. The police disagreed, apologized for my “crazy” behavior, arrested me, and sent her on her way.

So, what does this example tell you! I’ll tell you: things are falling apart. Criminals are everywhere, but I’m the one in jail for good detective work that is disrespectfully called “harassment.”

Maybe if I had a “Colombo-Mobile” I would have more credibility. A never-washed Ford Fairlane would do, filled with candy wrappers, crumpled tissues,, empty soda cans, and empty coffee containers. The radio would be stuck on NPR and the defroster would be broken. I would patrol the streets of Napville City. Maybe I could have a show on Tiktok: “Detective Nosey.”

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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Epizeugma

Posted on April 3, 2024 | Leave a comment

Epizeugma (ep-i-zoog’-ma): Placing the verb that holds together the entire sentence (made up of multiple parts that depend upon that verb) either at the very beginning or the very ending of that sentence.

White, yellow and a few other colors were slowly painted. Accuracy was paramount. Time was not a consideration. I had read the bestseller by Dr. Bob Reggi titled “There is No Time For Now.” He argues that time is like a fried egg—flat with a bump in the middle—either hard, medium, or gooey. It was called the time-yoke, holding the circling complexities of the moment together with the “eggcentric” flow of bemusement taking what was once and violently subduing it into what is no more.

I had used Reggi’s humble and unconfused writings as a foundation, motivating my painting. I had painted 645 fried eggs—sunny side up, to over easy, to over well. It was difficult capturing the shades and nuances of the yolks—all seemingly yellow, but in reality more complex than that. In order to have a ready supply of fried eggs as models for my paintings, I built a chicken coop and filled it with chickens—Rhode Island Reds. The egg business was modestly successful.

I also opened a galley to sell my fried egg paintings. I sold none until one day a fleet of Chevy Suburban’s pulled up in front of my gallery. Dr. Bob Reggi stepped out of one of the Suburban’s. He said, “I’ll have a look around.” I was stunned. I ran inside to get his book and a pen so he could autograph it for me.

After a couple of hours he came out of the gallery. He said “Remarkable. I’ll take them all. How much?” I said, “I reckon $650,000.00, plus your autograph.” He wrote a check and autographed his book. They loaded the paintings into a Ryder truck and took off.

A few days later I read that Dr. Reggi had fallen into a vat of uncooked scrambled eggs and drowned. I was devastated and hoped that my paintings hadn’t played a role in his demise. I went to his estate sale and saw that all of my paintings had been slashed and piled in a heap in the driveway. I asked Dr. Reggi’s estate sale manager about my paintings. He told me that after purchasing my paintings he could no longer believe his fried theorem. The repetitive inept depictions of the eggs had repulsed him and rendered him despondent. In his fevered sorrow, he turned to uncooked scrambled eggs. The night he died, he was going to go swimming in a huge vat of cracked and whisked eggs. When he dove in, his head hit the side of the vat and cracked like an egg. The irony wasn’t lost on the estate sale manager—he laughed.

I don’t know what Dr. Reggi was looking for in the vat of eggs. He was a scientist, so his motives were sincere. Clearly, his death was an accident, so I’m off the hook. Although, he may have committed suicide by intentionally diving into the side of the vat.

I have started painting pictures of uncooked scrambled eggs. It is a compulsion I can’t control. Maybe I’m searching for the truth. In the meantime, I am having a giant vat constructed. I am going to replicate Dr. Reggi’s’ “egg dive” experiment. Don’t worry: I will wear a helmet.

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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Epizeuxis

Posted on April 2, 2024 | Leave a comment

Epizeuxis: Repetition of the same word, with none between, for vehemence. Synonym for palilogia.

Crap, crap, crap, crap! My lego Tower of Babel was going to fall down. It was going down—in slow-motion and there was nothing I could do. I had been building it since I was 17. Now, I’m 19. It was 40 feet tall. It was built in my back yard. I was working on it when it went down.

It was Wrestler, our dog, that did it. He hadn’t been allowed in the back yard for two years while I worked on the tower. My little brother had let Wrestler out because he was mad at me for stepping on his Etch-A-Sketch. I had planned on buying him a new Etch-A-Sketch tomorrow. He just couldn’t wait. All my work down the tubes.

I had learned about the Tower of Babel in Sunday school—it made God mad and He made everybody speak different languages. I think God got mad because people were rivaling him with the tallness of their tower. My plan was to build a reverse Tower of Babel that would restore our common language. I had been working on the common language. It consisted of a blend of American, Australian, Canadian, British, and Belizian, blending together words like cricky, bloke, awesome, grim sleeper, and Eh?

I was going to mount a CB radio on top. I was going to ask for one for Christmas as the tower neared completion. I still needed to figure out how to mount the radio on the top of the tower. I had been using a ladder to build the tower, but at this point I had reached the limit of the ladder. I was thinking about a helium-filled balloon to lift me up. But, I was starting to think my project was doomed to failure.

Just then, the rower smashed into the ground. It cracked like an egg. Little men and women in robes and sandals came streaming out. One of them said, “Hi! My name is Saul and I’m from Babylon. Notice, we speak the language you invented! Even though things are a little rough there, we’re flying back to Babylon tomorrow. Thanks for everything.” I said, “You’re welcome.”

I was going crazy. I ran inside and asked my mother what she saw in the back yard. “oh” she said, “Your Legos thing has fallen over. It’s too bad—I thought you’d build it higher than five feet, but you tried. That counts.” I started screaming like a police siren and in between, screaming “no, no, no, no” and “cricky, cricky, cricky.”

POSTSCRIPT

It seems so long ago that my backyard project turned on me and lashed out with hallucinations that extended for two years. I am so medicated that I can’t tie my bathrobe or feed myself. I am fed with a spoon, almost always oatmeal. Talking about oatmeal, on the day it all came tumbling down, my brother put psilocybin in my oatmeal. The doctors say it had no effect since I had been suffering from delusions for years.

Life is complicated. Don’t trust your senses.

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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Erotema

Posted on April 1, 2024 | Leave a comment

Erotema (e-ro-tem’-a): The rhetorical question. To affirm or deny a point strongly by asking it as a question. Generally, as Melanchthon has noted, the rhetorical question includes an emotional dimension, expressing wonder, indignation, sarcasm, etc.

“Why would we ever want to fly?” That was a question asked by my great, great, great grand father countless times. He used the argument every religious crank used at the time. “If God wanted us to . . . .” It went all the way back to the wheel: “If God wanted you to roll around on wheels, you would’ve been born with them.” Battles are fought over innovations: take the war of knitting needles, for example. The Knitting Needle was invented in 601 by Joseph Millgrain, humble peasant potato digger from York, England. He had a hobby of collecting clumps of wool from the roadside that had fallen off of sheep being driven to shearing. He sold the clumps to a spinner who made it into yarn, where in turn, he sold it to people who wove it —even to the King. into placemats and coasters for royalty.

As he collected wool from roadsides, Joseph stuck the balls of wool on two sticks to carry them—he had one pocket, but no carrying sack. On his way home, he stuck the wool sticks into his pocket. But first, he rubbed the wool between his hands, making a wool strand the he could wind around the sticks.

He was a peasant who was so poor he took one bath per year and ate weeds for every meal. He got “home” one evening after a hard day of digging potatoes. His wife harvested some fresh weeds for dinner—from the tiny weed patch they had growing behind their hovel—a small home made of mud and sticks with a roof made of stolen thatch that will result in hanging if Joseph is caught.

Joseph went to pull the wool out of his pocket. The sticks got stuck. He took one stick in each hand and moved them back and forth as he gently pulled on them. Finally, they came lose. He held them up and looked at them. The wool had been “knitted” together by the sticks’ agitation. He made points on the end of the sticks so they would more easily slide around the wool. He called them “knitting needles” for their pointed ends.

Instead of selling his wool, Joseph had it made into yarn. After months of study, he mastered knitting—with knitting needles. Joseph knitted vests for he and his wife. Eventually, he figured out how to affix sleeves. He sold knitting needles, yarn and sweaters at the York Farmers Market where he became rich (by peasant standards). One day at the market, a maniac who believed that knitting needles were the work of Satan, and who declared war on them, stabbed Joseph in the eye. He yelled “The war has begun.” Joseph lopped off his head with the saber he kept under his counter. York was filled with maniacs at the time and most merchants had a saber standing by. There were an average of three decapitations per week. Joseph’s saber episode led to Joseph’s notoriety. He was identified as the thatch thief and hanged in the market square as an example.

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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