Monthly Archives: July 2024

Abbaser

Posted on July 31, 2024 | Leave a comment

Abbaser [George] Puttenham’s English term for tapinosis. Also equivalent to meiosis: reference to something with a name disproportionately lesser than its nature (a kind of litotes: deliberate understatement, especially when expressing a thought by denying its opposite)

It looks like the world is doing great—doing its lovely turning! The pollution. The endless greed. The killing of innocent people in wars. The abused women. The racism. The injustice. The poverty. Business as usual.

Why, just yesterday I pushed down a hungry homeless man. Bam! Right on the sidewalk. He jumped right in front of me and asked for a dollar. Bullshit! I had just put a dollar in the collection basket at church. Who do these people think we are? My dollar will go to somebody who actually needs it, like somebody whose lawnmower broke, or somebody who has a groundhog living under their garage. Pastor Benediction needs money too. I saw him at the liquor store. He bought a pack of Marlboro 27’s and a liter of “Fireball Whiskey.” My heart went out to him. If he runs out of cigarettes and whiskey during the week, he’ll have to wait until the first Monday after Sunday to stock up again. It is a crying shame that Pastor Benediction has to live from paycheck to paycheck. Maybe I’ll give him two dollars this Sunday. It may be my ticket to heaven!

Most of the people who go to Church have emotional problems. For example, Mrs. Gormly wears her dress backward in memory of her husband. I could see carrying his photo, but the memorial aspect of the backward dress is beyond me, and apparently Mrs. Gormly too. I asked her once and she told me not to fret, “He was in hell with the dog catcher muzzling puppies.” I think that’s somewhat crazy. Or, there’s Mr. “Barefoot” Proost. He comes to church barefoot so he can “feel the face of God” as he walks to his pew. I would think hands were better than feet for feeling God’s face. But, it’s religion—the biggest opinion fest in the universe. Centuries ago, they used to burn people for veering off course. Now, the pastors just tell them they’ve veered off course and to be cautious in uncharted waters—established religion is like Google showing the best route to heaven—the fastest, the shortest, the most scenic, the wisest. You’ve got commandments and parables to direct you and vex you, in that order.

When I was home watching “Terminator,” I realized that the man who tried to beg a dollar from me was my high school gym teacher Mr. Whistle. He had become addicted to Dairy Queen chocolate dipped jumbo-cones. He gained 70 pounds and was unable to do sit-ups anymore, or any other coach things. To prove he was still fit enough to teach, he tried to climb the rope. He got 3” up the rope and fell to the floor, tearing his track suit and exposing himself to the Sophomore class and the Principal, Ms. Thighlow. She laughed, and that was it. Mr. Whistle was done for—unfit to teach gym. It was cruel that they didn’t reassign him to “fat man” courses like Home Economics or English. Mr Whistle sued and lost. And he was pushed out onto the street by an uncaring community, including me.

I know my job at “Mel’s Ant Farm” is secure. It’s the biggest ant farm in Michigan and people come from all over to see it. Donald Trump was here last month. He kept saying “I’ve got ants in my pants, Mel.” We didn’t know what to do, so Mel put some ants in his pants. Trump started dancing around and twitching and moving his hips back and forth. It looked like he was doing “The Twist.” His Secret Service detail started clapping their hands and doing Chubby Checker imitations. He was angry and said we were “All dead!” and there wold be a Congressional hearing. Mel sprayed Raid down Trump’s pants and he left in a white Chevy Suburban with his Secret Service detail still clapping its hands.

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

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Accismus

Posted on July 30, 2024 | Leave a comment

Accismus (ak-iz’-mus): A feigned refusal of that which is earnestly desired.

I don’t want this. I don’t need this. I’d tell you to keep it, but I know you don’t want it either. But, for you and all the people gathered here tonight, I’ll take the piece crap so I can give my speech and get the hell home—to my empty home—my home with no wife, no children. Empty. Quiet. No smell of cooking or ceramic tile cleaner, or dish detergent. All the things that make you know you’re a person at home— not just an address on a street, but home.

I’ve worked here at “Dorian’s Tarnish” for 20 years, making new things look old in the back corner of a warehouse. Mostly, as you know, we put a patina on things that make them look and smell like antiques. Our patina-maker is a liquid I’ve been putting on a rag, and rubbing on things and breathing fumes for the past twenty years.

My hands have a rash. My eyes drip tears down my face. I walk with a cane. I have hemorrhoids the size of golf balls that swing around in my pants. But I don’t blame “Dorian’s Tarnish.” I blame myself for being afraid to leave this chicken shit job. You know: “this is America, you’ve got to have a job.” I took that admonition seriously. I could have easily been a homeless man, but I listened to my wife and stayed. Even though she encouraged me to stay, she changed her mind. She left me after 10 years, with our two kids. She ran off with a cruise liner’s events coordinator. He specializes in shuffle board, and my daughter is a world champion. My other daughter deals blackjack in the ship’s casino. I don’t want to know what my wife does. Her husband is a jerk. He takes Adderall to stay “peppy” and “jovial” for the ship’s guests. But me—here I am sucking fumes in what may be the worst job anywhere in the world. I have a persistent cough. If I cough near a flame my mucus catches on fire. I keep a Dixie cup on the sink in my work station to put out the fire with cup of water fresh from the tap.

So, the plaque says “In recognition of 20 years service.” It is hard to believe. All those years I soaked in, and breathed toxic fumes. According to my doctor, I’ve got six months to enjoy my retirement. I’m going to spend that time in a hospital bed looking out the window and looking forward to dying.

Thank-you.

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

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Acervatio

Posted on July 29, 2024 | Leave a comment

Acervatio (ak-er-va’-ti-o): Latin term Quintilian employs for both asyndeton (acervatio dissoluta: a loose heap) and polysyndeton (acervatio iuncta:a conjoined heap).

I was mad and glad, and wild, and riding my battery-powered bicycle to the mall. It made a humming sound and the bumps were like they were clear puddles of water with worms floating in them—casualties of rain, when the puddle dries they’ll look like brown shoelaces. Jeez. There I went again. Staying focused had become nearly impossible for me since getting hit in the head by a croquet ball at my brother’s birthday party. Here I go again! Things just keep occurring to me while other things fall by the wayside. I was mad—I was mad because of the big sale at the mall which made me happy and wild: ready to load down my bike with cheap crap. What, mad? I was headed for the edge. But, it was on the way to the mall!

Suddenly. I couldn’t remember where the mall was. I sat and started crying, sitting on the curb. A man pulled up on a yellow and black electric bike. He was wearing a red suit with a flashing light on each shoulder, clearly “for safety.” I told him I got lost on the way to the mall. He told me to look behind me . It was the mall! We rode together. His name was Roger and sold canoes at Dick’s Sporting Goods. That day, they were 75% off. We parked our bikes and went our separate ways, but not before he asked me out for a drink. I told him “No.” I had to go to work at “Zippy Lube” where I worked the night shift. He made some kind of noise and stalked off. I took off for “Tippy Toys” to buy the giant stuffed bear I had had my eye on for nearly a year waiting for the sale. I picked it up and pretended to dance with it. I was dancing in my head to a song from “The King and I.” Then the salesgirl yelled “Put the bear down, slut!” I flipped out and threw a Chucky doll at her head and ran out of the store carrying the bear and running. When I got to my bike I realized I couldn’t fit it on my bike. I put him on my rear fender. He put his arms around me and said “Go baby!” I went! I peddled, peddled, peddled like a maniac. I swear, my tires were smoking all the way. When we got to my house, we ran inside and he became a normal stuffed bear—he just sat there with his arms outstretched.

Then, the front doorbell rang. It was the canoe salesmen with the police! He was disgruntled because I would not have a drink with him. What a creep. I turned to say goodbye to the and he had vanished. The cops searched the house and found nothing, and they admonished the canoe salesman as they went out the door. I closed the door and turned around and there was the panda sitting on the chair. I wished he could talk and almost instantly he said “You wish for too much” and that was it.

About six months later the canoe salesman called and asked me out again. He said we’d go down by Lake Hopta Beach and bring a blanket and a bottle of wine. I thought his plan was to get me drunk and confess to stealing the bear. I didn’t. I had not had sex for over a month! The last time I had done “it” was with my little brother’s friend. He was barely 18, but it did the job. Now, I was on the beach by the lakeshore with a total idiot. I knew where we were headed. We had taken off our clothes when the bear came running out of the woods. He said to me in his deep bear-voice “You don’t need this. Lt’s talk when we get home.”

He was there when I got there. He told me he can take on a human form. He stretched out his paws and clapped. There was a red spark and he turned into Rod Stewart c. 1966.

Life with Rod is a dream come and true. Unfortunately, when he ran away naked from the lakeshore, the canoe salesman jumped in front of a dump truck and was killed on the spot. He looked like a human pizza and, due his death, was never able to get anybody to believe his stolen bear story.

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

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Acoloutha

Posted on July 28, 2024 | Leave a comment

Acoloutha: The substitution of reciprocal words; that is, replacing one word with another whose meaning is close enough to the former that the former could, in its turn, be a substitute for the latter. This term is best understood in relationship to its opposite, anacolutha.

My car was the automobile of the year. It had every possible option from leather seats to a triple tone pant job—black, gray and red. It had a chrome bowl of ice cream for a hood ornament and a mink dashboard. The doors had no handle. Instead, you whistled “Oh Susana” and they popped open. There was a bar in the back seat, and the seat vibrated when you pushed a button on the arm rest. The engine was 600HP—top speed 260MPH. The front seats folded into a queen-sized bed. There were concealed storage compartments under the floor. I kept them full of $100 bills. I used the money for gas, food, and motels when I was traveling around America and going to state fairs in the summer and ski resorts in the winter. By the way, my car had all-wheel drive. I could drive at a 90-degree angle with no trouble. I was famous for climbing Niagara Fall’s and driving down-river to Buffalo. Oh, I almost forgot! My car’s horn had tree settings: machine gun fire, Ricola Alphorn, and cheering football fans.

One day I was cruising down the wide open highway at 240 MPH. The landscape was a blur and I was listening to Ozzie’s “Crazy Train.” Suddenly, another car passed me like a bat out of hell—maybe it was going 300MPH. All I saw was it was red and had towering tail fins. I knew I would never catch him, so I kept cruising at 240. Then I saw the car pulled over on the road shoulder ahead. The driver was standing by it waving at me. The driver was wearing a bathrobe and combat boots and was holding a bottle of kefir, and, by the way, the driver was a woman. I said “Hi” and she splashed me in the face with kefir. It was peach flavored and quite tasty.

She asked me where I was headed. I told her I wasn’t sure—maybe Ft. Collins. She laughed and told me nothing much was going on there and that I should try Las Vegas. She apologized for splashing me with kefir. I told her it wasn’t a problem. She asked me if I wanted to drive in tandem with her to Vegas. I agreed and we jumped in our cars, started them up and took off. I led the way because my car was slower than hers. We had a great time in Vegas! We saw Wayne Newton 15 times and learned “Danke Schoen” by heart. We saw Cher also. She does not look a day over 70.

It came time to part ways. Her name was Buffy, and I was falling in love with her. I asked her if she wanted to take another tandem ride to New Orleans. She said “Sure honey, let’s go.” Off we went. I was hoping.

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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Adage

Posted on July 27, 2024 | Leave a comment

Adage (ad’-age): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings, or traditional expressions of conventional wisdom.

“If you can’t stand the heat, don’t move to Florid.,” This is one of my favorite sayings—layered with meaning and steeped in wisdom. My father was a weatherman on Channel 26–local cable access TV . He made up the saying after taking a trip to Florida and suffering heat stroke when he was on the beach with a college professor from New York who was studying sand with a grant from her college. She had a little tin bucket with pictures of sea horses on it. Dad told me she would fill it with sand, walk ten paces, and dump it out. Then she would measure the degree to which the sand retained the shape of the bucket and its fitness for utilization in the building of a sandcastle.

Dad had gotten heat stroke when he and the professor were exercising on an isolated stretch of beach. They were doing push-ups when dad’s symptoms overtook him and he started shaking all over, and then, collapsed face down. The Professor was able the fill her bucket with water and throw it in Dad’s face. The bucket of water may have saved him. The paramedics rolled Dad into the ocean and cooled him down. He was as good as new, except he had misplaced his bathing suit. The paramedics wrapped him in a wet towel and he was able to walk down the beach to his hotel. The Professor was waiting in his room, holding his bathing suit. She joined him in the shower to help him wash off the salty residue from the seawater.

As Dad’s story unfolded, it became clear that he was trying to gloss over an affair he had had. When confronted, he denied any wrong doing. Since Mom was involved with Nick, one of the black jack dealers at “Sunrise Sunset” casino, she didn’t push it.

As a kid, my parents’ cheating was a real benefit. Separately, I swore to both of my parents that I wouldn’t rat them out. I got trips to Florida and my own giant room at the casino. The Professor had a daughter named Margarita. She was a little older than me. She would accompany her mom on her Florida trips. She told me her father was Dean of Faculty and was on leave due to embezzling charges. We laughed and lit another joint. Then dad’s saying occurred to me: “if you can’t stand the heat, don’t move to Florida.” After coming to understand the sordid details of his life, I think I understand the saying’s metaphorical import, and how he was mocking Mom whenever he said it. Mom had her own saying: “We cannot change the cards we are dealt.” I think she was somehow talking about Nick—her dealer/lover.

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

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Adianoeta

Posted on July 26, 2024 | Leave a comment

Adianoeta: An expression that, in addition to an obvious meaning, carries a second, subtle meaning (often at variance with the ostensible meaning).

Sometimes taking a figure of speech literally can be a good thing—not a sign of your lack of sophistication or cultural naïveté. It can actually be an opening to do the right thing.

I was at my girlfriend’s apartment. She was in the bedroom. She said “I’m burning for you.” I thought, “woo-wee, here we go!” Then, I smelled smoke. I ran into the bedroom and my girlfriend was literally burning for me. She had on a tiny little nighty, so the fire didn’t burn much. Also, I slapped her with a wet towel and killed the flames. Her burns were minimal—not life-threatening. They took her to the hospital for observation and “observed” that she was “off her rocker.” This diagnosis vexed me. Did it mean she had fallen off a rocking chair? I quickly rejected that interpretation. She did not have a rocking chair in her bedroom or anywhere Les in the apartment. My rhetoric professor told me about “An Etymological Dictionary of Cliches.” It tracks the origins of cliches, much like the OED does with words. it is best employed for the composition of wedding and anniversary speeches as well as eulogies, and even closing arguments courtroom speeches; events where cliches are expected and appreciated..

“Off your rocker,” I found, dates to 17th century England where rocking horses had become tokens of social status among aristocrats. “Rocking” was a culturally valued pastime. Some Princes and Barons would rock all day long, and into the night. They would eat on their rocking horse and there were built-in chamber pots, Servants were assigned to whinny from behind the rocking horses. The rocking horses were called rockers. Due to their construction, the rockers rocked very slowly. If one “fell off” his rocker it was quickly determined there was something wrong with him. If one was “off his rocker” due to his fall he could become agitated and push his rocker over. Eventually the “tantrum” was made the locus of meaning for being off one’s rocker, and eventually, it was universally employed as a cliche to refer to mental difficulties.

Now I understood—my girlfriend was crazy, and it did not matter that she did not have a rocker! If only I had taken “burning for you” literally, I might’ve gotten into her bedroom more quickly. But, I confess, I was trying to unwrap a condom in preparation for my “burning” girlfriend’s activities with me. This is a problem with language. Irony is the biggest offender, when for example you say “great job” when to mean “You bumbling idiot,” it makes me think some times, what if the Bible’s ironic? Yikes! That would turn the world upside down. But, the world is not flat, so it cannot be turned upside down. Ha ha!

I think I’m off my rocker.

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

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Adnominatio

Posted on July 25, 2024 | Leave a comment

Adnominatio (ad-no-mi-na’-ti-o): 1. A synonym for paronomasia[punning]. 2. A synonym for polyptoton. 3. Assigning to a proper name its literal or homophonic meaning.

John. Just plain John. “Hey toilet, how’s it going?” “Have you had a flush lately?” “Don’t forget to close your lid.” “Can you make that whooshing sound!” I was ten years old and my friends had figured out to make puns and tease, and hurt my feelings. I tried “Carl the car” on my friend Carl and he just laughed and held his nose and laughed and said “You smell toilet boy!” I had to find somebody with a name I could effectively make fun of. I looked in the phone book.

I found a person named Gooey Binsky. They lived down the block. I made up a taunt: “Are you gooey? Are you sticking with it?” A woman wearing a bathrobe answered the door. She looked really tired and sad. I asked her”Are you gooey?” “Yes.” She replied. “Are you sticking with it?” She said, “I’m trying my best. This skin condition will be the death of me. I have a skin condition that makes my skin gooey. When I have an outbreak, I need to be wrapped in gauze bandages and sit by a warm oven. “Gooey” is me nickname. I hate it, but my dead father gave it to me. He thought it was funny. I’ve kept it to honor his memory. He died in prison for racketeering.”

I felt sick. This poor woman’s life was messed up, and I might have made it an even bigger mess. I ran off her front porch and ran home feeling guilty and remorseful. I went CVS and spent my life savings on gauze bandages. I left them on Gooey’s front porch, rang the doorbell, and ran away. I felt a lot better and did not care any more if people teased me about my name.

Then, the next week Gooey was on the front page of the local newspaper. The headline read: Local Woman Hangs Herself With Gauze Bandages.” She had a note pinned to her; “Thanks to the little boy who gave me these bandages and gave me a way out of my miserable life.”

I felt really bad. I didn’t know what to do. The CVS clerk had identified me and the police had questioned me. They told me I was a “suspect” and not to leave town. Eventually, it was determined that I hadn’t done anything wrong.

People still made fun of my name. I didn’t care any more. In honor of her memory, I had taken Gooey’s nickname and made it my own. There was a lot of teasing focused on it, but the reason behind the nickname was like armor protecting me from the insults.

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, examples, figures of speech, rhetoric, schemes, tropes

Adynaton

Posted on July 24, 2024 | Leave a comment

Adynaton (a-dyn’-a-ton): A declaration of impossibility, usually in terms of an exaggerated comparison. Sometimes, the expression of the impossibility of expression.

“Impossible! You actually made a friend! It’s like Jefferson Davis and Abraham Lincoln dancing together in the Capitol Building to “Born in the USA.” It was still impossible. I had paid a homeless man $5.00 to come home with me and and act like my friend.

I was 22 and still lived at home and had never had a friend. In fact, I’m not sure exactly what a friend is, but my mother told me I’d “be out on the street in one week” if I did not make a friend. Mom was obsessed with me having a friend because of the Carole King song that made having a friend very desirable. Also, Mom had number of “friends” who came over when Dad was out of town on business. They would watch TV with Mom in Mom and Dad’s bedroom. We were sworn to secrecy, or else. Mom would hold up Dad’s hatchet when she said “Or else,” and follow up with “don’t stick your necks out my little chickens.” We were terrorized. My sister Belle wanted to run away from home. I convinced her that Mom would come after her and chop off her head. So, she stayed.

My “friend” told me his name was Bill Gates. He said he made “electrical” things until Jimi Hendrix sucked all juice out of his wires and made him homeless. He said the last electrical thing he made before he was made powerless, was a magic wand that could produce fresh vegetables, and also, be used a a weapon to fight for the “American Way.” I asked him what the “American Way” is and he told me it may be “Way up north to Alaska” or maybe the “way to San Jose.” I never should’ve brought hm home.

Mom asked me what made me and Bill friends. I told her we were men, manly men, men to men, men doing men things together. We picked blueberries, we ran over squirrels, we kicked smaller people, and chased women all over town. Bill raised his hand and said “It’s a lie. We’re not really friends. Your son paid me $5.00 to be his friend. Mom said, “Wait a minute” and abruptly left the room. I could hear her rummaging in the kitchen drawer. She came out holding Dad’s hatchet. She said, “Bill, take a shower and meet me in that room over there. Son, take your fat little sister and get the hell out of here. Come back when you have a friend—preferably male and 6’2”.

It was inevitable. I don’t want or need friends—it’s impossible for me. I guess Belle is sort of a friend, and she had friends too. We lost touch with Mom and Dad. Hen, I saw Mom on “America’s Most Wanted”. She goes by the name of “The Hatcher Waver.” She randomly shows up at bus stations waving a hatchet and yelling “Come home you little bastards, Mommy wants to chop off your heads.” This terrorized the bus patrons. I was thinking about how insane mother had become, when I heard somebody chopping a hole in the front door. It was Mom. She stuck her head through the hole and yelled “Come home!” I ran into the kitchen and grabbed a cast iron skillet. I ran back to the front door and bashed Mom in the forehead. It was over. Sirens screamed as they took her away. That same night they found Dad’s headless torso. They found his head on his car’s dashboard wired into the built-in satellite navigator. I suspect Bill Gates had a hand in that.

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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Aetiologia

Posted on July 23, 2024 | Leave a comment

Aetiologia (ae-ti-o-log’-i-a): A figure of reasoning by which one attributes a cause for a statement or claim made, often as a simple relative clause of explanation.

Mr. Rammer: I’ll tell you why I said that! It’s true! That’s what it is: true, true, true! Why would I lie about stealing a box of Pop Tarts? Where is it? In my pocket? Stuffed in my pants? Look in my shopping cart! I went through check-out and paid for all that stuff with my credit card. How dare you follow me to the parking lot with your baseless accusation? I don’t even know what Pop Tarts are. I’ve never even seen a Pop Tart! Get out of my way.

Hannaford Security Guard: Sir, you are lying. I saw you stuff a box of Pop Tarts in your ecologically correct shopping bag. When you saw me following you out of Hannaford’s, you dropped it in the horticulture display over there. You can see the box sticking up from behind the blueberry bushes. If you pay for the Pop Tarts, all will be forgiven. Stolen Pop Tarts cost $20.00, paid in cash to me, or to Rose the geriatric check-out lady. Also, if you prefer, you can pay in scratch-off lotto tickets.

Mr. Rammer: What? Are you crazy? This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of! You big bastard. You want to know why I called you a big bastard? Because you are a big bastard, you big bastard!

Hannaford Security Guard: I tried to solve our problem—well actually—your problem. You’ve committed a crime. You have stolen food from the only nexus of sustenance for miles around. We will donate the stolen Pop Tarts to the food bank, which will help compensate for your crime. Don’t make any false moves. The police are on their way. You are going to jail for “tart-lifting.” Ha ha!

POSTSCRIPT

I was arrested, booked, put in jail, and let out on $400,000 bail. I said it was too much and the judge laughed and reduced it by $1.00. That was a bad sign. I was convicted of shoplifting with a weapon—I had my Swiss Army knife in my pocket. I was also convicted of evading capture by dumping the Pop Tarts. When I had mentioned the $20.00 bribery attempt, I was charged with contempt of court and fined $20.00. I was convicted and sentenced to five years of community service. I wash the jurors’ cars once a week, baby sit for the Prosecutor, trim vegetables at the Hannaford produce stand, and date the Mayor’s disgusting daughter. She is so ugly that dogs whine and put their tails between their legs when she walks by. I am working with a public defender to get my sentence commuted. He calls himself a “public offender.” He thinks I can get off if I go back and pay the $20.00 bribe. It would take us back to “square one” and all will be forgotten. I’ve decided marrying the Mayor’s daughter will fix everything. I asked her. She laughed with her chipmunk sound and told me if I brought her a Pop Tart, she would say yes. She knew that one of the terms of my “lenient” sentence, was that I was prohibited from handling Pop Tarts. 25 years would be added to my already ridiculous sentence. I thought about it and came up with a plan. I went n the dark web and ordered a “fake” Pop Tart. Technically, it would not be a Pop Tart, because fake! It cost $100 and arrived in two days.

I gave it to Rotteta. She said “Mmmm.” as she bit into it. “Yes, yes I’ll marry you” she said. The police burst in: “We’ll take that Pop Tart for analysis.” It was analyzed and found to be counterfeit. I was charged with dealing in counterfeit goods. Those charges were dropped when it was determined that the Pop Tart was a gift to Rotteta.

Once I married Rotteta, all of the charges were erased and my conviction was commuted. Rotteta does the grocery shopping and I run a used car lot in the parking lot of a defunct hair salon. I have kept the salon’s name “Big Rollers.” It suits a car lot, and sales are very good. With my special 2-day bumper to bumper warranty I rarely get stuck.

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, examples, figures of speech, rhetoric, schemes, trope

Affirmatio

Posted on July 22, 2024 | Leave a comment

Affirmatio (af’-fir-ma’-ti-o): A general figure of emphasis that describes when one states something as though it had been in dispute or in answer to a question, though it has not been.

Me: What do you mean “The Earth is round?” Why even bother to say it? What’re you a letter-day Columbus? Are we going to go sailing “around” the world?

You: I said it to call out your recalcitrant stupidity. There are so many ideas you insist on holding that are bogus, and that you use to guide your life into disaster. For example, when you told Barbara that it is a proven fact that men are better than women, you got what you deserved. The metal mixing bowl probably put a dent in your head, but it did not change your mind. Barbara’s gone, and she’ll never come back.

How do things become scientifically proven facts that are totally bogus—at best they’re urban legends, at worst, tokens of your insanity. I’m at the edge of unfriending you.

Me: Who’s the know-it-all? If you could hear yourself you’d be embarrassed. I state things as scientifically proven facts to help them struggle with their uncertainty, maybe achieving closure on something that has been vexing them all of their life. After she assaulted me, Barbara regretted what she had done and realized something important. I don’t know what it was, but it warranted her hitting me on the head. Let me just say, it was in the nineteenth century that men’s superiority to women was scientifically proven. So there! Know it all. There are a lot of facts people stopped believing, like the vapors and hysteria. It was political pressure from rich do-gooders that tipped over the apple cart and sent the apples flying. You don’t have to talk to me about the earth being round! I am a proponent of common sense just like you. You know you shouldn’t swim after eating. This will save your life, and probably has saved your life.

You: The eating/swimming thing has been proven wrong.

Me: By who? Burger King? When your body’s cramped up and you’re going down for the third time, you’ll regret your naïveté as you suck in water and die. Meanwhile, I’ll be waiting the required 30 minutes, and then, enjoying my swim.

You: How did you live this long with a head full of misinformation?

Me: It is a scientifically proven fact I read in “Believe it All Magazine” that eventually everything is disproven—that’s how science progresses. So, the earth isn’t really round. It has been proven to be pear-shaped. After that, what’s next? If I get a fever, put a leech in my armpit. You can get them on the internet and they are approved for human use. They’ve available on Robert Kennedy Jr’s website. His children raise them.

You: Ok, that does it. Bye.

Me: Ok, if you want to talk about being descendants of Chimpanzees, just give me call. We can share a banana.

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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Aganactesis

Posted on July 21, 2024 | Leave a comment

Aganactesis (ag’-an-ak-tee’-sis): An exclamation proceeding from deep indignation

Where the hell is my damn Bible? I left it right here on the floor. Tonight, I have to lead our group in the opening prayer. Holding a Bible over my heart adds oomph to my message and makes it a hell of a lot more effective. So, where the hell is it? If you kids are playin’ a prank on me, I’ll beat your butts until they are flashing bright red!

You know, our group was founded 2O years ago as “Rams and Lambs” so we could shepherd young people onto the path of righteousness.

We have a small gambling casino. We show our lambs the full range of casino games. From craps to the wheel of fortune, they become enamored with chance—the motive to making choices solely on the basis of luck, winning or losing with no foundation but desire. They win. They lose. Some have luck. Some have no luck at all.

The casino prepares them for Christ ringing their hearts’ doorbells and asking to be let in. Jesus Chris is not a gamble. When the doorbell rings, you are assured of salvation if you let Jesus in. If you’d rather gamble and lock the door, Satan is waiting down in your guts’ basement to make you his.

But, you already know this wife and children. And yes, I have found my Bible! It was in the refrigerator’s vegetable bin. Hallelujah! It smells like onions, but that’s ok. But how the hell did it end up in the refrigerator? We’ll talk about this later.

Suddenly a bolt of lightning struck Mr. Flocker, right there in the living room! As he lay smoking on the carpet, a deep voice said: “You are full of it Flocker.” Sill smoking, Mr. Flocker sat up. “Look, if you want me to work for you, you’ve got to cut me a little slack.” Mr. Flocker yelled. The deep voice said “Cut slack?” and Mr. Flocker’s head fell off and landed on his Bible.

Mrs. Flocker and her two kids ran out the door. Mrs. Flocker called a Uber. They were driven to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada where Mrs. Flocker’s brother lived. The cab fare was $1,406.00. It maxed out her credit card, but it beat taking a bus. Mrs. Flocker got a job picking Saskatoon berries. The owner of the berry field had a raging crush on Mrs. Flocker. To woo her, he paid her $1.00 for every Berry she picked. “Berry-Berry” was going broke but he didn’t care! When she hit 200,000 berries, he proposed to her. See said “No.”

She saw that a cold and brutal winter was on the way, so the Flocker’s were flying to Miami that afternoon to escape the hellish winter. The owner of the berry farm was heartbroken and tried to drown himself in a vat of berry juice. He survived and was dyed permanently purple by the berry juice. He became a celebrity and forgot about Mrs. Flocker in 5-6 days. He was on Canadian national news and inundated with fan mail, a lot of contained marriage proposals. He settled with a young woman from Kansas named Dorothy. Meanwhile, Mrs. Flocker was flourishing in Miami’s South Beach. She was selling condos, mostly to Russians. She won a raffle for a one-week stay in St. Kitts-Nevis. As she and her two kids jumped on the little plane, she felt optimistic about the trip. She felt like something good was going to happen! And it did!

She met a Dutch man named Arno. He travelled the Caribbean selling paint. White was the only color he sold, but he did a good business nevertheless. They got married. Mrs, Flocker stayed home with the kids while Arno sailed around selling paint. She she never left St. Kitts-Nevis. Arno was a model husband and they lived happily ever after. As they grew older, the kids made a good income looting hotel rooms and mugging tourists walking on the beach at night. Arno found about their criminal activities and takes 10% to keep his mouth shut.all is well.

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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Allegory

Posted on July 20, 2024 | Leave a comment

Allegory (al’-le-go-ry): A sustained metaphor continued through whole sentences or even through a whole discourse.

I am toothpaste. I live in a tube on Oak Street. My cap is tight. Squeeze me and you’ll be rewarded with white minty goo. Roll me up at the bottom as I get old and my goo is all squeezed out. Throw me in the trash with used tissues and dental floss.

Now, you will serve to reincarnate me. My soul is already at CVS waiting among the brands—“Icy White,” “Mint-A-Dent,” “Gummer,” and “Mental Dental.” That’s me: “Mental Dental.” You can’t just buy me over the counter. You need a prescription. Dr. Leary (yes, great grandson of Timothy) prescribed it to you after your mother brought you in for a consultation. You were eating newsprint and refused to brush your teeth. It was easy to get you to quit eating newsprint. We soaked it in Habanero sauce. One bight of one shred was all it took. Remember? Your mother tied you to a lawn chair and rinsed your mouth with a garden hose for a week. That was the end of that. You haven’t bitten into a front page for months. But, the teeth were something else.

I needed to be called in as a remedy. Dr. Leary and your mother tied you to the seat of your Troy-built ride-mower. As a distraction, they started it up. You looked down at the choke and Dr.Leary smeared a dollop of “Mental Dental across you lips and teeth. You struggled, but your struggle turned into a smile with you pupils dilated, staring intently at your hand. You quoted James Brown: “I feel good.” You freed your hands and backed the mower out of the garage. You pulled it into zero turn and spun in a tight circle singing “You spin me right round like a merry-go-round, right round.” You kept going until the mower ran out of gas—almost a half-hour. Then, you got off the mower, took off all of your clothes and ran into the woods. You came back later covered with Deer Fly bites and told use about the six-armed goddess you had met when you let her out of a beautifully painted jar you had found on the ground in the woods.

It was clear that I had done job. “Mental Dental’s” ingredients had done the trick. You’ve probably guessed, psilocybin is my main ingredient, followed by morphine. Psilocybin induces hallucinations while the morphines does something else that I’m not sure of.

Anyway, the flood of drugs projects the truth of fiction through the plasma screen of your mind, it does not matter if it’s a lie about toothpaste or God. Its vivacity leaves you awestruck and invites you to read, and act out, the saga of your mind.

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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Alleotheta

Posted on July 19, 2024 | Leave a comment

Alleotheta (al-le-o-the’-ta): Substitution of one case, gender, mood, number, tense, or person for another. Synonymous with enallage. [Some rhetoricians claim that alleotheta is a] general category that includes antiptosis [(a type of enallage in which one grammatical case is substituted for another)] and all forms of enallage [(the substitution of grammatically different but semantically equivalent constructions)].

She opened up to his prodding. It was their wedding night and the time was right for doing so. If the truth was not made available on this night, it would be too late. She had told him many lies as she seduced him. Now it was time to share her spleen with him.

Now, a little tired out, Timmy lay there with a silly little smile on his face, partially from the MD-40 and partially from what they were about to do. She said “Wait! There is much I must tell you before we seal the deal.” He said, “Go on my dear. What could possibly go wrong? We are in love!”

I thought to myself “Everything could go wrong!” as I prepared to tell all. I told Timmy “I am not related to George Washington. The wooden teeth were not my ancestor’s idea. Martha came up with the idea when she was chopping parsley. I am just from a regular family residing in Maine who digs clams and sells lobster rolls by the side of the road. It’s called “Good Time Rolls.” They make a modest income during the summer months, and nothing at all during the winter. My sister Sally helps out by walking around the harbor making friends. Father is addicted to Indian Pudding. To stem his urge, he drinks molasses from a hot water bottle he keeps disguised under their bed. It is pitiful to see him in the morning with his lips stained brown and nearly stuck together. Sometimes I take a swig of molasses so he does not feel alone. When it touches my lip I know I could be cursed with the same addiction, inherited from my father. Oh Timmy, is this too horrible to bear?” “Far from it my dear! I find it intriguing and look forward to meeting your family, especially your sister Sally!”

Now it was time for the big one, “Timmy, I made love to 860 men before I met you. I never took any money, just baubles. I have a chest full of wedding rings, signet rings and pocket watches. They are my dowry—yours to do with what you will. I’ve only cheated on you 5 or 6 times. It was probably a mistake, but I couldn’t help myself. The gold watch and rings overpowered my trepidations.”

Timmy looked at the floor and then up at Nell with a beaming smile. “My mother was a whore! My father was addicted to Camembert cheese! We are one and the same, more or less. We will revel together eating Camembert, lettuce, bacon, and tomato sandwiches with Indian Pudding for desert. Think of it Nell!”

Nell thought of it. She needed a shot of molasses. but, she needed to still her longing for the sweet gooey liquid. Already, Timmy was on the phone setting up a “meeting” with her sister. She didn’t count on this, but it was no worse than anything she had ever done.

After he got off his phone, Timmy proposed they move to Maine. She agreed. After their wedding night, they packed their van and headed north. They pulled in at a rest stop in Massachusetts and Nell marched into the men’s room, sat down on a toilet and yelled “Next!” Meanwhile, Timmy was “taking a ride” in the van in the parking lot with a Swedish college student who was touring the US.

When they were through with the rest stop, and got in the van and merged onto the Mass Pike, they both burst out laughing.

POSTSCRIPT

Good marriages are built on firm foundations. Timmy’s and Nell’s was built on their shared inability to control their impulses. This is not a firm foundation. They agreed to have their marriage annulled but live together and share their exploits on a blog called “Fornication Nation” where they enjoy themselves in rest stops and parking lots across America. Clearly, this is a despicable way to live. At some point all of Nell’s baubles will be sold and the “fun” will be over. Timmy told me he’ll get a job in a parking garage. Nell wants to work at a rest stop in California. But, the worst is yet to be known,

Timmy and Nell contracted the same venereal disease, most likely from each other. The disease is extremely virulent and there is no cure. It is fatal.

POST-POSTSCRPT

Tmmy is lying in bed covered with pustules the size of croquet balls. His eyebrows have fallen out. His lips are dripping pus and his urinary tract feels like it is paved with shards of glass. His feet have fallen off, one of his eyes has exploded., and he has grown sizable breasts. Nell is marginally better. She is covered with small pustules that won’t stop itching. Her fingernails have fallen off and her legs won’t stop twitching. Her hair has fallen out and it has been replaced by a giant purple boil that looks like a watch cap pulled onto her head. Her teeth have fallen out and there is a nearly constant flood of foul-smelling ear wax pouring from her ears and running down her chest.

There is a lesson here somewhere. It isn’t “trust your lust.” I am Timmy and Nell’s son. They died disgusting deaths. They were disgusting people. I don’t love them. If you pity them, you are mentally ill.

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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Alliteration

Posted on July 18, 2024 | Leave a comment

Alliteration (al-lit’-er-a’-tion): Repetition of the same letter or sound within nearby words. Most often, repeated initial consonants. Taken to an extreme alliteration becomes the stylistic vice of paroemion where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant.

It was a dancing duck! It tap-danced to 1950’s crooner music. It was just unbelievable! This was the best sidewalk show I had ever seen. Spectators showered the duck’s owner with cash, and rightfully so! I had tried for two years to come up with some kind of money-making act. I had had a big fat ground hog. I made him a table top burrow. He would sit in burrow and make groundhog noises—grunting sounds that sounded like a cross between a burp and a cough. I called him “Samson the Singing Groundhog.” People might listen for 3 seconds, and then, keep walking without making a donation. I tried dressing him in a Liberace suit covered in sequins. When I put it on him he went berserk. He tore it to shreds with his groundhog claws. Our relationship was over. I took hm out to the Long Island Expressway, pulled over on the shoulder and threw hm out the car window. I was hoping he would be squished by a truck, but he wasn’t. Two weeks ago I saw him sitting in a burrow withe 3 other groundhogs surrounding him. They must be his mate and two kids. He was better off than me. After Samson, I tried a white rabbit. I taught the rabbit to jump over a wooden skewer I held in my hand. I called him “Jack Acrobat: Airborne Rabbit.” We practiced for months. Jack would jump the stick, and I would give him a rabbit treat. We were finally ready! It was a beautiful warm spring day.

I put Jack in his carrier and we took off for Times Square. We got there and I started my pitch: “Some rabbits hop, but this one jumps.” The crowd applauded. I picked up Jack and put him down on the pavement. He took off like a bat out of hell and I never saw him again. He’s probably living out on the LI-Expressway with the damn Samson and his family.

I will not give up.

Currently, I’m working with a beaver from Canada. I named him “Loggy” after his favorite treat. I have purchased a small bathtub and have had wheels installed on its bottom, so I can pull it by a rope. Loggy gets in the tub, and I toss him a log, and he bites into it making the chips fly. I play “Ride of the Valkyries” on my I-Phone while he demolishes the log. The act is called “Chainsaw Beaver.” Truly exciting!

So, we headed out for Times Square! I’m pulling the tub and Loggy is sloshing around in it. I’m anticipating our success. A cop comes up to me and asks “What in the hell” I think I’m doing. He says: “You can’t drag a beaver in a bathtub around New York. The beaver alone will net you a $200 fine and the beaver will be confiscated and turned loose upstate, or put in a zoo. I’ve called Mindy Pinscher from the Bronx Zoo and she’s going to take your beaver. I’m not going to cite you. Just take your bathtub and go home.” I thanked him and started thinking about my next act. Maybe I could be a statue-man. Or maybe I could do something with a chicken.

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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Allusion

Posted on July 17, 2024 | Leave a comment

Allusion (ə-ˈlü-zhən):[1] A reference/representation of/to a well-known person, place, event, literary work, or work of art . . . “a brief reference, explicit or indirect, to a person, place or event, or to another literary work or passage”. It is left to the reader or hearer to make the connection . . . ; an overt allusion is a misnomer for what is simply a reference.[2]

I think it was Rod Stewart who said “Every picture tells a story.” That may be true, but the meaning of a picture isn’t in the picture. Where is it then? It may be in what motivated the “subjects” of a given picture, or also, the picture-maker’s motive for taking or making the picture. What about Jackson Pollock? I always ask, “Where’s the picture?” At best it’s a jumbled exclamation point. At worst he spilled a bunch paint he didn’t bother to clean it up. Most abstract art is like that. Drug induced doodles, or con jobs, like a dot in the middle of a canvas titled “floater” after the little black flecks you get in your eyes when you hit old age. Not so “Abstract” after all!

One famous painting, “Winter Sunset” by Corny Hasbot turned out to be a cow’s ass. It didn’t matter. It sold for $2,000,000 at auction last week. The auction’s attendees chanted “Cow’s ass! Cow’s ass!” when it hit the auction block. Some even Mooed! The attendees were clearly delighted and the bidding was fast and furious. There is power in titling. It orients people and induces meanings. Euphemism is a great example. Calling a sawed off arm a “boo boo” renders it easier to cope with. Most medical terminology is euphemistic. Like, “You’re unwell from tomocretchinosis.” “Oh” you say as you breathe your last, floating on a cloud of morphine induced incomprehensibility.

Then, there was Leonardo Di Vinci. He knew the power of naming. I have been researching for half my life the “meaning” of Mona Lisa. Recently, I got an “Uber Grant” to go to Italy. I was provided a free ride to the airport and cheese and crackers for the flight. I was more excited than I can say! There was no money and I had to pay my own airfare, which was fine with me. I was using my mother’s credit card. I had borrowed it from the bag she carries around. I was headed to Florence where DiVinci’s studio was when he painted “Mona Lisa.”

I landed in Rome. I made a sign that said “Florence” and started hitch hiking north. People laughed at me as they sped by. Somebody threw a sign out their car window that said “Firenze..” I held it up and got a ride almost immediately. The guy who picked me up said “I have a package for you to deliver, we detour to Bologna.” I dropped the package off at a police station and received a round of applause as the police fought over the package. It tore open and a ZipLoc bag full of gold chains fell out. I ran back to the car.

I arrived in Florence late that night. I slept on a bench outside the Hotel Vespa. The next morning I had a boar meat sandwich and a cup of coffee. Then, I headed out to DiVinci’s studio. The lady selling tickets told me that for 80 euro I could get access to DiVinci’s secret storage unit in the basement. I didn’t have 80 euro, so I offered her my wristwatch that my mother had given me for High School graduation. She took it! She gave me a giant key and pointed down the stairs. There wasn’t much there. However I noticed a canvass bag that said “Fagioli” on it. I looked in my Italian/English dictionary—it meant “Beans.” There was also a bowl and a wooden spoon! Then I knew! DiVinci fed beans to Mona Lisa, making her fart. The look on her face is a post-fart expression of satisfaction. I had cracked it—it wasn’t a smile at all!

I headed back to the US expecting to become famous. but the bag of beans was discovered in my canvas tote at the Rome Airport. The beans were dumped out and the bag was destroyed. I am not permitted to leave Italy because there is an investigation. Now, I have no evidence, but my story is true. I have secured the support of the “Kensington Free Farter Society.” They will not shy away from the truth, no matter how much it smells or refutes the standard “smile” narrative.

I am currently stranded in Rome working as a guide at the Colosseum! My “character” is a Christian martyr. The investigation concluded I did no wrong. My mother’s credit card is expired. In about a year, I’ll have enough money for a plane ticket home. In the meantime, I’ve had a flyer printed with my last few euro in Italian: “Scoreggia e Verita” (The Farting Truth).

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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Amphibologia

Posted on July 16, 2024 | Leave a comment

Amphibologia (am’-fi-bo-lo’-gi-a): Ambiguity of grammatical structure, often occasioned by mispunctuation. [A vice of ambiguity.]

My cat was on the front page of the newspaper again. He sat there like he belonged there, like he saved somebody’s life, or drove a car, or something special. The newspaper was the “Daily Glockenspiel,” founded in the late 19th century, catering to German immigrants.

The “Glockenspiel” staff weathered torture, fires, shootings and worse during WW1 and WW2 due to their unwavering support of Germany. They were lucky. They survived both wars by shedding their Germanic mage after the wars. For example, their tagline was changed from “Gott mit uns” to “We are the apple pie newspaper.” They stopped reporting on events taking place in Germany and focused on human interest stories from the so-called “Heartland.” For example: “Cow adopts family of wolves,” or “Bear rides bicycle across Kansas,” or “Family of five dances in back of dump truck.” As you can see, they documented some pretty weird stuff.

In the past five years with the resurgence in conservatism in US politics, “The Daily Glockenspiel” has inched away from human interest toward its old commitments. The worst example was a story about “Madhoff Hiltner” living in North Carolina writing a book titled “My Camp” about his summer place on the Nag’s Head beach. It talked about his benevolence and opposition to teaching history. He was generous and paid for everything with shavings from gold bars. His wife Eva spends her time bad-mouthing Democrats, doing acrobatics wearing jack boots, feeding her famous diuretic strudel to homeless families, and selling t-shirts with a silk-screened image of Elon Musk titled “Ubermensch.” She is loved by her conservative neighbors, but there are many others who see her as a crypto-Nazi.

As a consequence of significant controversy over its mission, the “Daily Glockenspiel” will be reverting to human interest stories after the November elections. I have been given a glimpse of what’s to come: “Democrat survives severe beating after being rolled into the gutter unconscious.” I asked the Editor how he could know this before it happened. He told me “It is in the stars.”

If things go the wrong way after November, I am moving to the UK. I will live in London, the new capital of the free world. My cat will come with me. After a brief quarantine, we will be reunited.

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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Ampliatio

Posted on July 15, 2024 | Leave a comment

Ampliatio (am’-pli-a’-ti-o): Using the name of something or someone before it has obtained that name or after the reason for that name has ceased. A form of epitheton.

They called him “Pot Head Pete” in the 60s. Pot was illegal everywhere, but he didn’t care. He bought his pot from a guy named Carlos who was Colombian and had connections that went all the way to the top. Pot Head would buy his dope by the pond and share it with his friends. Pot Head was from a very wealthy family. His weekly allowance was what the rest of us got in a year. In summer, we would go to his beach house at the shore and run wild on pot on the boardwalk at Seaside Heights. The “Wild Mouse” was the best ride. It ran on a course like a roller coaster. It was set up so it came to curves in the track really fast like you were going to fly off the track, but at the last second it would whip through the curve, due to clamps holding the “Mouse” on the tracks. It was scary as hell—on pot, it was even scarier. We loved it, and we loved Pot Head for his generosity. Once, he took us all to Miami Beach. We flew down and spent Christmas vacation eating like pigs, hanging out on the beach, and chasing girls, which we often caught. We illegally chartered a boat to Cuba. It was all-black and had machine guns scattered around. The Captain even let us fire one. I shot into the water and killed a porpoise by mistake. Everybody laughed. Havana was was even crazier than Miami. We were walking down the street smoking Cohibas when a guy wearing a beret came up to me and asked for a light. He said he was headed for Bolivian, and I would hear about it soon. Later, I learned he was Che. My affection for Mohitos developed on that trip. Rum and pot—a religious experience.

Now, it is 2024. Pot Head Pete is still a “head,” but not a pot head. He is head of one of the largest AI development companies in the world. The “Pot” is gone, but the “Head” remains. The first time I went to see him at work, I asked for “Pot Head Pete.” I thought he was far enough down the straight road to claim the name. He has a beautiful wife and seven children. He gives generously to charity and goes the church every Sunday. Also, pot is legal in New York. But he got edgy, and told me never to do that again.

Pot Head’s not so much fun any more. I can understand why. With all his responsibilities he has to tone it down. I, on the other hand, at the age of 78, was still running wild. I still go to Seaside Heights every year and ride the Wild Mouse, and I go to Miami too, where I have an oceanfront condo in South Beach. I am an artist. I’ve made millions and million painting portraits of rich and famous people. My last commission was Elon Musk. I was tempted to paint him with a wire up his ass, plugged into a wall socket. But instead, I painted his goofy smile.

My current commission is Pot Head!

I painted him in a dirty Greatful Dead T-shirt, with beard, ponytail, and earring. I showed to him and he pulled out a switchblade and slashed it to bits and had it burned. He handed me a picture of him in a custom tailored suit and said “Paint this shithead!” I was hurt. I squirted a tube of cyan in his face—it was acrylic so it wan’t dangerous. He punched me in the stomach and face. I stabbed him with a palette knife and that was it.

All those years. All those memorable experiences erased by my out-of-control temper. I went straight to the airport and took off for Costa Rica—no extradition. I have a beach house, a girlfriend and a machine gun. I think about Pot Head every once-in-awhile. I can’t believe he turned out to be such an asshole,

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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Anacoenosis

Posted on July 14, 2024 | Leave a comment

Anacoenosis (an’-a-ko-en-os’-is): Asking the opinion or judgment of the judges or audience, usually implying their common interest with the speaker in the matter [and illustrating their communally-held ideals of truth, justice, goodness and beauty, for better and for worse].

How many of you have ever gone barefoot in a fresh-mown field? That’s what I thought, only one of you and you’re in a wheelchair. Come on up here! Come on up here and meet the Lord. Ah yes, here you are. What’s your name. Mary? Oh that’s nice. Have you ever met Joseph? Ha ha. Just kidding.

So, how did you end up in the wheelchair, Mary? “I ran barefoot in a fresh-mown field. When I took off my shoes I sinned. I could feel Satan tickling the bottoms of my feet, and it felt good. So good, that I stripped off all my clothes and ran around with five or six other people crying out and reveling in the pleasures of the flesh. I closed my eyes and rolled down a hill and onto the Interstate. I opened my eyes and Satan’s red station wagon ran over me. I could hear him laughing as he drove away and I saw his station wagon was filled with naked women laughing and crawling all over him like human snakes. Before he was out of earshot he yelled: ‘See you in hell baby.’ An ambulance came and picked me up. I was examined and they told me I would never walk again. I threw my bedpan at the doctor and called him a dirty, stinking liar. He laughed and said ‘See you in hell. This one’s for you baby!’ He farted. It made a horrible squeaking sound and went on for at least ten seconds. When he finished, he ran out the door. I crawled after him, but I couldn’t catch him. Now, my room smelled like sulphur, and I cried and cried.”

Wow! That’s an amazing story. You know my specialty is healing. I’ve got ten buckets that we’re going pass around and fill with cash.. What do you think audience? Sound good?

Once we’ve collected $100,000 I’m going to go to work on your legs Mary. I’ve cured thousands of people: alcoholics, people with bad hearts, blasphemers, belchers, athlete’s foot, basketball-sized testicles, biters, bad breath, attorneys, and so much more. Just last week I cured a man who thought he was an oven mitt. Oh look: the tote board says $100,000. Praise the Almighty. Mary, roll over here.

He got down on his knees and stuck his head between Mary’s lifeless legs. She started squirming, and writhing, making eerie moaning sounds, and speaking in tongues. He pulled his head away and she stood up shaking and yelled “Oh my God!” She was healed! The crowd started dancing and yelling hallelujah.

POSTSCRIPT

The Rev. Healer and Mary were able to pull off the wheelchair scam a couple of times before they were accused of fraud. They were caught when they were witnessed performing the wheelchair scam more than once, almost verbatim. If they had expanded their repertoire to arthritis, and possibly, obesity, they would’ve lasted longer and still might be scamming today.

However, it is rumored that Healer has changed his name to Steroid and is back on the road again. It is also rumored that Mary has changed her name to Delilah and the team is specializing in hair loss restoration scams. The “restoration” takes one month, so the two of them are long gone when their victim realizes the remedy is fake. Beware! Their product is called “Hair Born.” It is a blue cream and comes in a yellow jar with a black lid. Their mascot is “Phil and Felicia Follicle,” two hairs with beaming smiles.

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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Anacoloutha

Posted on July 13, 2024 | Leave a comment

Anacoloutha (an-a-co’-lu-tha): Substituting one word with another whose meaning is very close to the original, but in a non-reciprocal fashion; that is, one could not use the first, original word as a substitute for the second. This is the opposite of acoloutha.

I made my bed, I smoothed my mattress. I was getting up, unready for another day. My head felt like a rusted pitchfork was poking it over and over. Yet, I had to go to work. If I didn’t, I would lose the roof over my head, I wouldn’t eat, my sartorial splendor would whither and die, and my love would become a raging tigress and scratch out my eyes. We were set to be married “pretty soon” and I needed to maintain my solvency. As a cruel and misguided bastard, my plan was to put her to work as a streetwalker and go on permanent vacation. If she sad no, I was prepared to become a rent boy, although I had just turned 33. If I wore makeup, I was pretty sure I could pass for 20. Maybe we could team up!

Anyway, my job was odious. I worked in a laundromat named Bright Linens.” We washed “linens” that had obtained skid marks due to illness, overindulgence, merrymaking, or fear. Our clientele consisted of upper-class sons of royalty: n’er do wells—sons Lords, Dukes and Barons, and scion’s of business.

I was a linen scraper—my job was to scrape the skid mark to prepare the sullied underpants for laundering. My scraper tool looked like a teaspoon. I would brush the scrapings into a barrel alongside my workbench. Once full, the barrel would be taken to a French bakery where it was ground into powdered and made up the principal ingredient of “Merde Buns,” an almost impossible to obtain delicacy, selling for outrageous prices to French emigres and Francofiles.

I resolved to steal a bag of Merde Buns and sell them on the black market. I would be wealthy and I could escape the city with my new wife-to-be. To hell with scraping! The buns were made and ready by 6.00am every day. I went into the bakery disguised as a Kure vicar and grabbed a bag—the Merde Buns Were still warm. I ran out the door and headed to the Black Market. It was a place where stolen and illicit goods were sold. Some of what was sold was the result of robbery and murder. I stood by a guy selling stolen wigs—stolen off the heads of titled women. They had tags like “Princess, hardly used.” I told him I had Merde Buns and he edged away from me shaking his head.

Suddenly, Viscount Flamboo jumped out of the crowd. He had a satchel filled with cash. He had been banned from buying or eating Merde Buns. He had fed one to his neighbor’s auk after it had delivered a ransom note announcing the kidnapping of his hamster Reginald. The auk died almost ss immediately. Over the years, Flamboo had become addicted to Merde Buns. He would die for one. “Give me the buns, and I’ll give you the cash!” He shouted. I handed over the buns, he handed over the cash.

That was it. Now that I was rich by (peasant standards). I got married. As I had hoped, my wife became a streetwalker, but she kept walking one night and I never saw her again. She left behind our little Ned, who works as a street waif, dancing jigs and collecting money in a wooden bowl.

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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Anacoluthon

Posted on July 12, 2024 | Leave a comment

Anacoluthon (an-a-co-lu’-thon): A grammatical interruption or lack of implied sequence within a sentence. That is, beginning a sentence in a way that implies a certain logical resolution, but concluding it differently than the grammar leads one to expect. Anacoluthon can be either a grammatical fault or a stylistic virtue, depending on its use. In either case, it is an interruption or a verbal lack of symmetry. Anacoluthon is characteristic of spoken language or interior thought, and thus suggests those domains when it occurs in writing.

I was leaning—oh, I admit it. It was leaning on me. I was holding up the Empire State Building. If I moved too much it would tumble, killing thousands of people and making a big mess—in addition to bodies (tourists and workers alike), lots of smoking stone rubble, and fallen, mangled office equipment.

I had learned that I had the power to keep skyscrapers from falling when I was on my small liberal arts college’s New York City Semester. We would follow our professor around the city streets. Every once-in-awhile Prof. Mazewell would point and yell “Look!” Often it was the sky or the sidewalk he was pointing at, but sometimes he would point at a tree or a drug station store.

One morning he made us all breakfast. There were four of us. We had Cheerios with bananas sprinkled with what he called “Go Powder.” Trent and Melody had complained of being constipated, so I just assumed the “Go Powder” was for them, but Prof. Mazewell decided to give it to all of us—as a treatment and a prophylactic. Who wants to be constipated? Not me!

We started on our daily trek, so far we hadn’t learned much—“If you step n a crack, you’ll break you mother’s back,” was a frightening lesson, so we tried hard to avoid doing so on New York’s sidewalks. It was a real lesson in love. Although my mother was I Chicago, I still cared enough to try as hard as I could to avoid the cracks. Suddenly, Prof. Mazewell disappeared! Trent and Melody were holding each other, laughing and shimmering like water. I kept on walking. Then Bob, the other one of us, took off his shoes and threw them at a passing cab. He yelled “I’d rather walk!” Then, he took off all of his clothes. He was covered in beautiful purple scales—like some kind of exotic snake. He hissed at me and flicked his tongue. The other pedestrians acted like nothing was happening. I kept on walking, hoping to find Prof. Mazewell. It was hard—the sidewalk had turned goo that was hard to walk through, but I kept walking. I came to the Empire State Building. It was crying—sobbing in total distress. A little mouth appeared next to the front entrance. The mouth said: “I am old. I need your help. I think I am beginning to tip over.” “Wow.” I said. I looked at my hand and my fingers were writhing around like little snakes, I didn’t care—I thought I was about to find my life’s mission. The mouth said, “You must go around the corner and lean on me. Hurry!”

Around the corner there was a small bucket saying “Donations” across the front, and an easel with a sign on it saying “I’m Holding up the Empire State Building. Donations accepted.” I have been holding up the Empire State Building for four years. At night I sit on the pavement, leaning and sleeping. Nobody bothers me because they know I am doing a great service: where would New York be without the Empire State Building? As a tourist attraction, it’s right up there with the Statue of Liberty, which, in fact, is in New Jersey.

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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Anadiplosis

Posted on July 11, 2024 | Leave a comment

Anadiplosis (an’-a-di-plo’-sis): The repetition of the last word (or phrase) from the previous line, clause, or sentence at the beginning of the next. Often combined with climax.

My heart was broken. Broken into pieces. Pieces of love were scattered on the floor, as if my hopes had exploded, fragmented, and rained down in a torrent of loss, a deluge of disappointment, and painful precipitation.

My pet spider Ed had died. He was a banana spider from Hawaii. He had landed on my head when I was unloading papayas at SeaTac Airport. I had left him on the back porch over night. It went below 40 and he had frozen to death in his terrarium. I found him on his back with his legs curled up. His last meal of crickets had escaped death and were hopping around on his corpse. I picked them up one by one and pinched them to death for desecrating Ed.

Next, of course, I would bury him with the respect due to a close friend and confidant. When he was alive, I would sit up late with Ed and spill my fears and share my hopes. I was afraid that the IRS would catch up with me, especially after I got a letter informing me that I was being audited. I had lied about having $1,000,000 in medical bills for my loose brain—a condition where your brain is too small for your skull and it sloshes around, giving you thoughts you don’t understand. Scientifically, it is known as “Pea Brain.”

In a way, as a pea brain, you’re in an ideal position to be a philosopher, and if you get a PhD, you may succeed at being one and being a professor. The only known instance of becoming a pea brain philosopher was Dr. Huh? who taught symbolic logic and a course titled “Knowing Pink Floyd.” But anyway, the IRS determined that “Pea Brain” had been made up by Dr. Huh? in a grant proposal. Auditors charged him with fraud. Dr. Huh? argued that he did not understand and was let off with a slap on the wrist, in a way proving that “Pea Brain” was real.

My major hope was for world peace and free beer. Together, they would induce Utopia and we would live happily ever after—we would have ice cream, chocolate, scented candles and all the good things we are intended to have as human beings.

But now, it’s time to plant Ed. I dug a burrow hole six feet deep in the middle of the back yard. I stuffed him into a Romeo and Julietta cigar tube. I used a stick like a plunger. One of his legs came off, but it didn’t matter. I put the cap on and dropped him down the hole. I filled in the hole. I pushed a tongue depressor into the ground as a grave marker. It says “Here lies Ed, he is dead.” Everything was fine for two days, and then a squirrel dug up Ed’s marker and buried it somewhere.

I went back to work at the car wash yesterday. I am a rag man. I am still very sad about Ed, and feel guilt over my negligence that killed him. But there’s a saying I’ve seized on that is helping me cope: “Fu*ck it.” It’s what my mother said when my father went missing. She still says it once or twice a day. I am following her lead.

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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Anamnesis

Posted on July 10, 2024 | Leave a comment

Anamnesis (an’-am-nee’-sis): Calling to memory past matters. More specifically, citing a past author [apparently] from memory. Anamnesis helps to establish ethos [credibility], since it conveys the idea that the speaker is knowledgeable of the received wisdom from the past.

“Back in the good old days.” What made them good? Like Plato said in his dialogue on interest free loans: “Daracmagoras,” “if it’s old it isn’t true.” He argues that truth is unchanging and timeless and can only exist in your head. Ironically, it makes you believe that it exists “out there.” It’s a lie, and so is our talk about it, which is more of an illusion than a lie. We are persuaded that things are true and we disagree about what is true—it’s all a dream, but it works.

The used car salesman told me: “It has a little rust on the body, but under the hood it’s like a new born baby.” It smelled like it needed its diaper change. I looked under the hood—it looked like it had been used as a kitty litter box. The salesman said he would knock $500 off the price and get it cleaned up, and also, it came with a five-day warranty covering the tires and trunk lock. That reminded me: I looked in the trunk. There was a homeless man eating a peanut butter sandwich and pan handling. I gave him a dollar and told him to go somewhere else. He shook his head and climbed out of the trunk. He thanked me. He had been stuck in the trunk for two days. He said “men with guns” had pushed him into the trunk when he skipped two car payments. The car salesman raised his hands and shook his head, “No, no, no, that’s not true! If it is true, they pushed him into the trunk of the wrong car. I’ll knock another $200 of the price, for all your trouble.” I heard a voice in paint saying “I’ll pay! I’ll pay” from behind the showroom, along with a rhythmic whacking sound.

So far, I had a $700 discount and a warranty on the table. I told the salesman he needed to knock another $200 off the price. He said he couldn’t do that, but he’d could clean the windshield with a special formula and make sure the horn worked properly at no extra cost. I told him it sounded like some kind of scam. He backed off and gave me another $100 discount and a lace-on steering wheel cover, and a toy black cat that went in the back window, and whose eyes were directional signals. That sealed the deal!

The car broke down as I drove it home. The blinking cat had short circuited and started a fire in the trunk. We didn’t have cell phones, but the fire department showed. By that time, the trunk was a blackened smoking mess. They sawed it off. As the sparks were flying from the saw blade, I thought, “It was the damn cat, not the car that caused all this mayhem.” That helped. AAA arrived and towed my car away to “Nutty Putty Collision Repair.” I was close enough to home to walk. As I walked along, I saw a black kitten sitting on the sidewalk. It meowed as I walked past. It looked like the blinker cat who had burned to a crisp in my car’s back window. It followed me home. I let it in and kept it. I named it “Smokey.” He changed my life. I believed I loved him—everywhere, all the time, the same.

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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Anaphora

Posted on July 9, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

I am so embarrassed by my name. It relates back to 5th century Germany, when people were named by their occupations. There were Butchers, Farmers, Fishers and more. My family were the “Schrittwaschmaschines.” When they emigrated to the America, they had it translated to English: Crotchwasher. They were proud of the service they had provided to Prince Messerschmidt. The court Physician had discovered that washing the Prince’s crotch once every two weeks would make full-body bathing was necessary only once per year. My ancestor—my great 5X grandfather-–was employed by the Prince as court jester. The Prince thought it would be entertaining to have the jester wash his crotch. He was designated Royal Crotchwasher and was replaced as jester by the Prince’s brother who as a certified oaf was naturally funny just being himself. This enraged my ancestor—but the Prince was the Price. He became “Dieter Crotchwasher, Hygiene Promulgator to the Prince.” He got to travel with the Prince and wash his crotch all over the known world—He washed it in Rome. He washed it in Vienna. He washed it in London. He formulated and manufacture his own crotch soap he named “Bubble Crotch.” But more importantly, he developed a crotch balm that he named “Crotch Soother,” it helped eliminate cod-piece itch. Cod piece itch was unavoidable if one wanted to follow fashion. His “Crotch Soother” was incredibly popular and made him piles of gold. When the King confessed he used it, sales went through the roof. The admitted it help his codpiece itch, and also that it masked his crotch’s unpleasant smell—most predominantly the the foul odor generated by the sweating of his scrotum in the crevice where it met his legs. Sales went even farther through the roof! Dieter became a millionaire. Yet, he remained faithful to the Prince. He married the Prince’s duster, Freda, and had 7 children.

Years and years passed and the young Crotchwasher emigrated to America. He was wealthy, inheriting a good portion of his father’s considerable wealth. Still, it was America and people relentlessly made fun of his name, as they do mine. I have learned how to let it pass—ridicule happens only in government or credit card transactions, or contact payments, like a mortgage. I can’t legally change my name, or I will lose my inheritance. So, I have unofficially renamed myself Mr. Mustard after the “Clue” character.

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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Anapodoton

Posted on July 8, 2024 | Leave a comment

Anapodoton (an’-a-po’-do-ton): A figure in which a main clause is suggested by the introduction of a subordinate clause, but that main clause never occurs.

Anapodoton is a kind of anacoluthon, since grammatical expectations are interrupted. If the expression trails off, leaving the subordinate clause incomplete, this is sometimes more specifically called anantapodoton. Anapodoton has also named what occurs when a main clause is omitted because the speaker interrupts himself/herself to revise the thought, leaving the initial clause grammatically unresolved but making use of it nonetheless by recasting its content into a new, grammatically complete sentence.

She yelled, “if you think I’m going to stand here and take your bullshit!” Because she had big feet, the feet were the first thing people noticed. And they made fun of her. She had developed a come back for nearly every foot or shoe joke. Somebody would say “Nice gunboats—they look like battleships.” She would say, “Yeah, they’re gun boats and they’re aimed at your balls, so shut up!”

It was hard to find a decent cobbler, so her shoes were frequently misshapen. She was stuck for six months one time with giant clown shoes that had originally been made for Ronald McDonald, but gave him blisters on his heels because they were too small. At 20 inches long, that’s hard to believe, but Ronald wore a size 22. She, Rosetta, wore a size 20. In winter, she wore specially crafted shoes that looked like snowshoes. It was a real relief not to be teased, until she went indoors and clomped around in her “snowshoes.” The rest of the year was tough. She had special boots made of alligator skin that curled up at the toes—they looked like Mexican pointy boots. She spent her summers in Juarez where she was one of many pointy boot wearers. In addition to alligator she had anteater, plain calfskin, and shark skin pairs made. She picked up the nickname “Botas” (Boots) and felt more respected than she had ever felt in her entire life. Everything was going great, until on night, somebody stole all of her boots out from under her bed. She was panic stricken. If she had new boots made in Juarez, word would get out that she was using them to conceal her giant feet. She was ready to dive out her window, when she thought of cosmetic surgery. She was told when she was young that her feet could not be safely reconfigured with a scalpel.

She looked out her window and saw a boy walking down the street wearing her alligator boots. She yelled out the window, “Hey kid, will you sell me your boots?” The kids asked “What’ll you give me?” “She yelled back “$200, and that’s final. Leave them with the desk clerk, and that’s where the money will be.” The exchange worked perfectly. She wore pillow cases over her feet when she went down to the lobby to pick up the boots. It was like her life had been restored—like she had come back from the grave. She got a padlock for her door and a .357 derringer. “Never again!” she yelled at her mirror and went out to celebrate her good luck.

She got drunk and woke up with an ugly old man trying to pull one of her boots off. She pulled her .357 out of her backpack and aimed it at the old man. He pulled off her boot and was shocked by the size of her foot. She was compromised! In a split second, she decided not to shoot him. Instead, she packed her bags and went back to Wisconsin where her feet were still a secret. As usual, she had to fly first class because her feet wouldn’t fit under economy class seats—even with extra legroom.

When she got home, her friends were waiting for her, with a cake shaped like a pointy boot, candles and balloons. “We know about your feet!” they yelled and presented her with a new pair of pointy boots. It was the high point of her life—accepted, feet and all. Jack Placker stepped out from the crowd, embraced her and asked her to dance. They put on “Dancing With Myself.” Rosetta and Jack went wild. He tripped over her pointy boots, hit his head on the radiator, and was knocked unconscious. An ambulance took him to the hospital, and the next thing she knew, Rosetta was being sued for “wearing dangerous footwear, and thereby, causing bodily harm.” She was shocked. Everything was going so well. She decided to have foot reduction surgery. It was a dangerous procedure. One out of five people died of post surgery complications. Post-surgery, Rosetta developed fatal “complications.” She was found hanging in her garage wearing only one pointy boot. Her death is being investigated as a murder. The missing pointy boot was from what was left of her left foot. There was a note pinned to the remaining boot. It said “Walk a mile in my pointy boot.”

There was a memorial service. The guests all cried, out of grief and shame, and wore pointy boots to show their love for Rosetta. Then, there was a miracle! Rosetta showed up on crutches. The guests were stunned. The police explained that the ruse had worked and Jack Placker had been arrested.

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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Anastrophe

Posted on July 7, 2024 | Leave a comment

Anastrophe (an-as’-tro-phee): Departure from normal word order for the sake of emphasis. Anastrophe is most often a synonym for hyperbaton, but is occasionally referred to as a more specific instance of hyperbaton: the changing of the position of only a single word.

Wise was I—smart as Aristotle. Could related we be? You may wonder why I’m disordering my words. Disorder is the beginning of order! When I was growing up, my mother Zinophrasis, would yell this at our chickens and they would obediently line up for the tossing of the corn, then, the first five in the line would peel off and follow mother to the barn for their beheading and gutting in preparation for the evening’s supper. In addition to laying eggs, this is what they lived for. Mother would feed the chicken’s heads and guts to our neighbor’s dog Philostasis—named for his tendency to lay around and think all day. Like my dad, Protogarastor. Dad was a bust inspector. The subject of the bust would stand alongside it and Dad would judge its accuracy as a likeness. If it failed to measure up, it would be smashed on the spot. This didn’t happen very often, but when it did all hell would break loose. Dad traveled with four armed guards who were prepared to kill if necessary. We lived in a secret place so we were safe from the enraged bearers of dad’s negative judgments. It was called the Acropolis Hotel. It was an elaborate apartment carved in stone and concealed by the base of Athena’s statue. There was a keypad lock that blended into Athena’s dress. We could only enter and exit under cover of darkness. So, I would get to school really early. I won the “Early Boy Award” in recognition of my reverse tardiness. In fact, I won the award every year. I won a full scholarship to the University of The Titans. I had done well making shields in wood-shop. In fact, I had invented a shield. It was 8 pous (feet) wide. 6 soldiers could shield themselves behind it. But it was too heavy—they had to put it down every 10 pous (feet) for a rest, and sometimes it would fall forward and the soldiers would tumble forward, vulnerable on the ground. Needless to say my shield was a failure and it was determined that I could not go on to advanced shield-making studies. However, given my golden hair, blue eyes, and “perfect” build, I was granted a scholarship in cosmetology. After finishing my training, I went to work at “Hair Today” in the center of Athens. My first customer was a man named Samson, an Israelite who had traveled far to compete in the World Wrestling Competition. His girlfriend Delilah usually cut his hair, but she didn’t have time before he left for Athens. He had a foot-long pony tail emanating from a man bun. He told me to take off about a daktylos (a finger’s length). I sharpened my scissors and was ready to go, when an earthquake struck. My scissors slipped and I cut off the whole ponytail. Samson screamed and became a wrinkled, drooling, bleary-eyed, toothless, old man. After the dust cleared, I told him “no charge.” His toga had fallen to the floor. He pulled it up and turned leave and stumbled over it and fell. He finally got up and left. Meanwhile, I brewed tea from some of his hair. When I drank it, thick black hair replaced my golden hair with his locks. I grew taller and stronger. When I walked down Crete Street, women would follow me, and some were bold enough to squeeze my butt.

I received a letter from Delilah saying she was going to get me. She said she had a pair of scissors with my name on them. Evidently, she had been paid by a rival wrestler to cut off Samson’s hair. I had gotten to him first and now the wrestler was demanding his money back. I did not know what to do, so I ignored her. Three weeks later, I ran into a woman in the market square holding a pair of scissors and yelling “For Samson!” She scuffled with my bodyguard, fell on her scissors, and was slightly wounded. I don’t know why, but I felt compassion for her, maybe it was her beauty. I said, “Don’t try to kill me any more and we can be friends. I am the most powerful hairstylist in Athens.” She started crying and sad “I never wanted to be a prostitute, but my parents were killed in an ox cart accident on the road to Damascus. I found out later that they were driven off the road by a Bible salesman named Saul. I have been unable to find hm because he has changed his name.” She walked up to me sobbing and put her arms around my neck. She was wearing jasmine oil. I felt dizzy. Then, we kissed and all was forgiven. We fell in love. We married. We have two children. They are named Nicholas and Sophia.

Life is strange. Hate can become love in a flash. By the way, Samson asked for reparations for what I did to him. Delilah pushed him down a flight of stairs and solved the problem.

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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