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)
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