Monthly Archives: August 2024

Protherapeia

Posted on August 31, 2024 | Leave a comment

Protherapeia (pro-ther-a-pei’-a): Preparing one’s audience for what one is about to say through conciliating words. If what is to come will be shocking, the figure is called prodiorthosis.

Dad: A little rain falls in everybody’s lives. I counted my chickens before they hatched. I am crying over spilled milk. The shit has hit the fan.

“Find Your Asshole Dad” has found me. The new technology has found me. You have 11 new brothers and sisters. Yes, 11. Thank God your mother’s dead! Her ashes are probably swirling in her urn right now.

Patty: Dad, you are beyond pig shit. All these years. You cheated on Mom at least 11 times. While we were happily growing up you were banging your way across Pennsylvania., or wherever.

Dad: Patty, your language is shocking. How many times have I told you to clean it up?

Ed: Look who’s talking! King Scumbag himself! We all knew mother hated you and now we know why. I always thought it was because you ignored everything she said except “time for dinner.”

Dad: Back off or you’ll get the stick! I’ve invited your new siblings over next Saturday for a family reunion. They’re all driving their own cars, so we don’t have to arrange for transportation. Two of them are classmates of yours! Susie Fletcher and Christine Jarvis.

Ed: Oh my God. I’m gonna puke! Of course you didn’t notice, but I’ve been going steady with Susie for a year. Now I know why she suddenly broke up with me! You monster!

Dad: I’m sorry son, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles. What am I, a genetic engineer? I don’t know how this stuff works. I just just played around, and bingo, babies—babies I’m just finding out about.

Patty and Ed helped their Dad plan the barbecue. As the guests arrived, Dad gave each one a big hug and introduced them to Patty and Ed. When all the guests had arrived, Ed stood up on a lawn chair and yelled “Now!” Susie and Patty ran at Dad who was sitting in an Adirondack chair. They each had a roll of duct tape and rapidly duct-taped Dad to the chair. He was yelling for help, so they stuck a paper towel in his mouth to shut him up. Then, as planned, the guests lined up. Each one took turns hitting each of his cheeks with a stainless steel spatula that Ed had purchased on Amazon for the event. After hitting Dad, as planned, each guest gave a brief speech about their feelings for him, which were universally negative.

Dad: How can you all be so cruel? All these years I didn’t even know you existed.

Patty: That’s the point.

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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Protrope

Posted on August 30, 2024 | Leave a comment

Protrope (pro-tro’-pe): A call to action, often by using threats or promises.

”Get the hell out of bed or I‘ll blow your lazy ass away!” It was my father standing in my bedroom door pointing a ,45 at me. He walked across the room and stuck the .45 into my back. I was on my side in a fetal position. Suddenly, I woke up! I was ‘only’ dreaming. My father was poking me in the back with a broom handle. “Goddamnit, Larry, get up! The bus will be here in 10 minutes and I’m not driving you if you miss it!” My father was pissed. It was Wednesday and I hadn’t been to school yet that week. I had a problem.

I told my father I’d get up when he left my room. He left and I threw off the covers and carefully got out of bed. I had a boil on my butt that was getting bigger every day. It started out as small as a mosquito bite and now it was as big as a strawberry and it was painful to sit on it.

I was too embarrassed to show it to my parents—especially my Mom. I couldn’t imagine pulling down my pants in front of my Mom and having her touch my boil—it gave me the willies just to think about it. Yech! And my father—God only knows what he would do—-probably get his electric drill and drill a drain hole in my butt. I just couldn’t do it.

Because of the boil, riding the school bus I had to stand so it wouldn’t make my butt hurt. Everybody would look at me and the teen-aged driver “Brakes” Bentley would yell at me to sit the “heck” down or he would pull over and throw me off the bus. He kept his promise, and I was late to school. I had to stand in school too. I told my teacher I was standing for leg cramps, raising money for “Crush the Cramps,” I told them .25 cents was donated in my name for every hour I stood in the back of the room. My teachers believed me! Then, my boil had a big growth spurt.

It had become the size of a half-grapefruit riding on my left butt cheek. I turned to the internet and Google to see if I could find a remedy: “How to sit painlessly on a boil.” I got several hits but the most promising was “Boil Bumpers.” They were cushions that “Naturally mold to your boil and cushion it like a down-filled nest.” The Bumper used your body’s heat to make the pillow fit to your boil’s own unique shape. I cleaned out my bank account and bought a boil bumper. It arrived 2 days later. The instructions were simple: shove it down the back of your underpants, or pull your underpants up around it and get dressed.

The Butt Bumper was wonderful. I was sitting again! I knew I could beat this thing by riding it out. But then, all hell broke loose! My boil blew up to the size of a half basketball. My pillow wouldn’t fit any more, not to mention my pants. I talked my sister into buying me a pair of pants three sizes too big at the Salvation Army Thrift Store. The pants fit over my boil, but I needed a belt. My father asked me what the hell was going on with my pants. I told him I was experimenting with using big pants as a backpack substitute. He was impressed.

Then, it happened: my boil blew. My sister thought it would be funny to put a thumbtack in my bed. She didn’t know about my boil and the possible consequences of what she was doing—she thought it was a harmless prank. I rolled onto the tack in my sleep. I was awakened by a hissing sound. It was air being expelled from my boil where the tack had penetrated it. It smelled like Kentucky Fried Chicken and took about twenty minutes to deflate.

I discovered later that I had had a “false boil.” It filled with air, rather than pus. I couldn’t understand the technicalities, but I was grateful that it ended the way it did. In a way, I have my sister to thank. Being punctured when it was, kept the boil from growing up my back, and eventually, turning me into a balloon.

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

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Proverb

Posted on August 29, 2024 | Leave a comment

Proverb: One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegm, gnome, maxim, paroemia, and sententia.

“Good things come to those who wait.” I thought it was true. I first ran across this proverb when I was fifteen. It seemed authoritative. It seemed true. It seemed like the easiest way possible to get what I wanted. I tried it with the school bus. All I had to do was wait and it would come. It was a good thing to get a ride to school. It confirmed for me that waiting had a sort of magical power, and the longer I waited, the bigger the prize. Before I had a chance to think of something worth waiting a really long time for, I had numerous lesser experience. For example, waiting for my mother to make me breakfast every day—scrambled eggs and toast show up at my place at the table shortly after I sat down—two scrambled eggs and two pieces of toast, topped by orange juice—4 good things! I was always glad I waited. Then, one time I was standing in line to get into a Kraftwerk concert. It was a huge line and I was around the middle. I had been waiting around two hours, when suddenly, the line surged forward and I was pushed from behind. I stumbled over crack in the sidewalk and grabbed the person in front of me to keep from falling on my face. She spun around and yelled “What the fu*k d you think you’re doing pervert!” I explained what happened and she understood. We sat together at the concert. In this case, I got two good things from waiting—a great concert and my future wife Melanie—Yes! My future wife! I was on a roll!

As I got older, waiting started to lose its reliability as a passage to good things. I first realized this when I started to get a receding hairline. I knew when the waiting was over, it wasn’t going to be such a good thing. In fact, I never went totally bald. Instead I have a pathway of naked flesh going down the middle of my head with a clump of hair on either side.—sort of like Bozo the Clown.

Then there’s my father. He had several heart attacks and I was waiting for him to die. He was very wealthy and I wanted to get a piece of his wealth when he died. I waited for that good thing for five years. I took him shopping, I cooked his meals, paid his bills, all the time waiting for him to die. Finally, he died. At the reading of the will I was referred to as a “smarmy con.” He left me his ride mower. He left my sister $4,00,000. I’m contesting the will, but my attorney says I don’t have a chance. At best, I may be able to get my sister to give me $1,000,000.

I’ve been waiting one year to hear from my sister, re. my proposal. I’m currently looking for a new proverb to guide my life. I’m tending toward “Fortune favors the bold.” I’m thinking of kidnapping my sister’s cat Ramses. He never goes outside, though. I’m thinking of visiting my sister and bringing a gym bag. I’ll coax Ramses up on my lap and when my sister goes to the kitchen, I’ll stuff Ramses in the bag, yell “goodbye,” and run out the front door, leaving the door open. My sister, seeing front door open, will think that Ramses escaped through the door, never suspecting me.

I did it the next day.

When I got home (I took a bus) after kidnapping the cat, my sister was waiting for me. She grabbed the gym bag and pulled out Ramses. she gave me $500 and told me to leave her alone or she would have me arrested. I yelled “Fortune favors the bold!” I jumped in her Mercedes and took off, leaving my home and family behind. I got as far as Delaware Water Gap and was nailed by the NJ State Police. The first thing they asked me was “Ok, Buddy, where’s the cat?” Now I knew I was screwed.

I had played with fire, now I was getting burned.

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

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Prozeugma

Posted on August 28, 2024 | Leave a comment

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.

Before I got ‘corrected’ I bought things impulsively that I didn’t need or couldn’t afford, or both. The internet was like a Satanic voice calling me to buy. Crazy disparate objects and intangibles. Big things, little things, cheap things, expensive things, and in between, in my shopping cart, in the mail.

FEDEX and UPS drivers could find their way to my house with their eyes closed. Some days there was a cue in the driveway. While the the drivers waited, they would get out of their trucks and smoke, and talk, and play frisbee on my lawn. I would tell them to “keep a box” as a tip. I bought so much stuff, I did not know what was in the boxes, and I didn’t care. Whenever I opened a box, it was like Christmas—the contents were always a surprise. One time I “got” a drone. I had trouble figuring out how to set it up and use it, but with patience and practice, I figured it out. I used it to spy on my neighbors. I would hover about 100 feet above their hot tub. They would just sit there with the water bubbling around them and then it looked like they were almost always arguing. Then, there was only the husband sitting there all alone. Then, my neighbor shot down my drone and that was that. Once I opened a box with holes poked in the sides, and there was a baby raccoon in it. I named him Norbert and put him outside with some table scraps in a bowl. The next morning I looked outside and saw Norbert curled up asleep on the porch next to the empty bowl. He woke up and I let him in for awhile. I got him a double dish—one side water, the other side food. I put him outside at night. Once I saw his picture on a wanted poster for rummaging in garbage cans. I don’t care what he does on his own time. When we’re together he is a perfect gentleman. There are thousands more box-opening stories, but these two should give you an idea of how whacked-out I am.

Eventually, I had so far exceeded my credit limits on my 15 charge cards, a collection agency was put on my tail. I got phone calls. I got letters. I got weird-looking men knocking on my door. They all threatened to destroy my credit rating if I didn’t pay up. I didn’t pay up, but I made a deal. I taken by the credit agency to Silicon Valley to a tech company called “Thwart.” There, I had a micro-chip implanted in the back of my right hand (I’m right-handed). If I say or write the words “borrow,” “loan,” “credit,” or any of their derivatives or synonyms, my hand twitches uncontrollably and I receive mild pulsing shocks for two minutes. I tried it out right after I got it. Let me tell you, my borrowing days are over. I tried to hire a surrogate, but it didn’t work. The hand-chip caught me.

Next week, I am going to go to Argentina to have the implant removed. My guess is “Thwart” will detect the removal and the chase will be on again. After Argentina, I’m headed for Switzerland where I’ll have a total body alteration done—my height, my weight—everything. There, I can have my US passport altered as well, including a change of name, guaranteed to be valid and pass through passport control no questions asked. All my expenses are being paid by “Credit Crashers,” an NGO located in North Korea.

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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Pysma

Posted on August 27, 2024 | Leave a comment

Pysma (pys’-ma): The asking of multiple questions successively (which would together require a complex reply). A rhetorical use of the question.

“Why is my hair brown? Why do boats float? Why do knives cut? Why is sugar sweet? Why do things explode? Where do trees come from?” These are just a few of the questions my daughter asked while we had breakfast. It happened every day. Non-stop questions. She was a girl. What the hell was she doing asking all those questions? It drove me so crazy, I even inquired with Dr. Formbee whether I could have her larynx removed so she couldn’t talk any more. He told me I WAS crazy and I better shut up with talk like that—that my daughter Scarlet was a bright, inquisitive girl that deserved my love and respect.

I wracked my brain. I had to find a way. I considered duct tape, but that didn’t show love and respect. I invented a “jaw jammer.” It was a bungee chord that went under the chin and clamped her mouth shut. But, that didn’t show love and respect. Last, I had heard people say “Put a sock in it” when they wanted a person to be quiet. But, like my remedies, it didn’t show love and respect.

Then, I got an idea that DID show love and respect. I bought Scarlet an Encyclopedia Brittanica. Now, when she asked me a question, almost before the words were out of her mouth, I would tell her “Look it up in your encyclopedia.” She would go look it up and then come back and recite the answer from memory. This wasn’t an improvement over what we had, but at least she got an answer. This all happened before desktop computers were invented, or I just would’ve told Scarlet to “Google ir.” But, I didn’t have that luxury.

Eventually, she came up with a question-answer game. It was a deck of cards with the cards having a question on one side and its answer on the other. It was a two-person n game. The “Dealer” would hold up a card with the question facing the “Player.” The Player had to answer the question correctly to continue playing. When the Player couldn’t answer, or answered wrong, the Dealer would pass the deck and become the Player. The game was called “Smarty Pants.” The game took off and the rights were purchased by Milton-Bradly for $500,000 plus royalties. Eventually, Smarty Pants became a popular Tv game show with the cards turned around—with answers showing and the questions were guessed.

Scarlet became too busy with the business to constantly ask questions. I, on the other hand, have written a book titled “Shinola!” It shows how to make money from things that would otherwise be a pain in the ass. Of course, Scarlet is my key success story that undergirds the book and makes it credible. There are a number of easy steps you can take to find a niche you can profit from with “your pain in the ass.” The book is self-published on Amazon. Sale are slow, but I’m sure I’ll sell a book sooner or later.

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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Ratiocinatio

Posted on August 26, 2024 | Leave a comment

Ratiocinatio (ra’-ti-o-cin-a’-ti-o): Reasoning (typically with oneself) by asking questions. Sometimes equivalent to anthypophora. More specifically, ratiocinatio can mean making statements, then asking the reason (ratio) for such an affirmation, then answering oneself. In this latter sense ratiocinatiois closely related to aetiologia. [As a questioning strategy, it is also related to erotima {the general term for a rhetorical question}.]

Why did I let him do it? Why did I stand by and let it happen? I guess it was because I loved him. I thought it was the right thing to do.

We grew up together. We went through school together. In our senior year we fell in love—deeply in love. We spent all our free time together and we missed each other when we had to be apart. We decided to go to college together. We went to UC Santa Barbara where he majored in electrical engineering and I majored in English Literature. These were divergent interests, but it didn’t matter. We knew he’d make a lot of money and I would do a great job of reading bed time stories to our children. We got married when we graduated and stayed on so he could complete a Master’s Degree. I worked in the library cataloguing books and he had a teaching assistantship. Between us we did ok.

The years passed quickly. He got a job designing electric implements—everything from lawnmowers to cars. I was a devoted housewife and had two babies—Rhonda and Yolonda. They’re in college now. But, when they were five and six, respectively, Cliff came home said he had a surprise—to come outside and see. There was a tattered black velvet recliner with different-sized full moons printed all over it. We had no room for it in the living room. So, with much effort we carried it down into the basement.

Cliff sat in the chair and leaned back. A little foot rest popped up. Cliff said it was incredibly comfortable and closed his eyes. As soon as he closed his eyes he started convulsing and his head flashed red and blue—almost like a strobe. I was terrified. I thought Cliff would die. I didn’t know what to do. Suddenly, Cliff opened his eyes and he was back to normal. “I just witnessed the Battle of Gettysburg! I was there. It was horrendous, but exciting. I’m lucky to be alive!” I believed him. He never lied. “What’s next?” I asked. him. “I don’t know,” he said. Well, Cliff figured it out and decided to keep riding the chair. Cliff’s chair riding went on for years. The chair wouldn’t work for me and we kept our kids away from it.

Unfortunately, the chair chose where Cliff would go, and it wasn’t nice. It was to battle fields throut history. Cliff seemed immortal when he travelled into harm’s way—from the Battle of Marathon to Waterloo. He witnessed hundreds. He developed a taste for war, started wearing camo and bought several firearms. He built a shooting range in the basement and joined the NRA. He bought a set of walkie-talkies and we used them to communicate between us, using military protocols. He called me “Baby 1” and I called him “Big Guy.”

Then, I called hm to dinner one night and he didn’t respond. I went down in the basement and found him laid out in the chair, dead.he had on weird looking boots covered with reddish orange mud. His camo fatigues were torn on one leg and covered with dirt too. His face was covered with camo cream paint.

The Coroner couldn’t determine his cause of death. Analysis of the mud on his boots found that it was likely from Vietnam. I went to the Vietnam war Memorial. I found his name in the directory dated 1968. We got married in1980. I couldn’t stop crying. How did this happen? Why did this happen? I will never know, and if it wasn’t for our two children, I might believe it never happened.

I burned the chair and will remain in mourning for Cliff for the rest of my life.

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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Repotia

Posted on August 25, 2024 | Leave a comment

Repotia (re-po’-ti-a): 1. The repetition of a phrase with slight differences in style, diction, tone, etc. 2. A discourse celebrating a wedding feast.

Ed, here, is in the Guinness Book of World Record for greatest number of marriages in the shortest period of time. He takes pride in the fact he’s called the “Annulment King” and that there’s a country Western song about him titled “Time to Get Married.” The song’s chorus is “I’ve had 22, now it’s time for you. Don’t take a second look, we’re headed for the record book.”

And here he is today, with Joyce, headed for the record book. More than likely, they won’t be married more than a week, won’t consummate the marriage, and will head directly to Billy’s lawyer for the usual turn of events. I asked Joyce why she was doing this and she told me Billy paid her $500 in cash; she was behind on her student loan payments and really needed the cash. She had met Billy in the bus station when she was leaving town for a fresh start. Billy laid out the $500 deal and she took it. They went straight to town hall, bought a license, and made the arrangements for the wedding. And what arrangements they made!

The coolers of beer up and down the aisles, the artificial flowers from the Dollar Store, and Joyce’s wedding dress—the last one in her size on the rack at the Salvation Army Thrift Store. The dress has a story to tell—turn around Joyce. Can you see the small hole with an almost purple stain around it? That’s why they gave the dress to Joyce for free. The previous owner was shot in the back on her wedding day by the guy she had jilted 2 days before. It was a mess, but she survived. Her jilted lover had used a pellet gun and the projectile had barely broken the skin. Take a bow Joyce!

And Billy, you’re about to take another spin in the revolving door of your marriages. I asked Billy; “Why? Why do you do this? It makes you look crazy.” He told me he is ab addict. That he can’t help himself. That he is addicted to weddings. The gravity of the promises made pull him back every time, and the prospect of making them again, pushes him to divorce.” I can understand that Billy—but why don’t you try to stick with Joyce for a week and a half.” That would be a record for you. Ha! Ha!

Well, you two are married now. Let’s toast these two and then grab a hot dog off the grill before they burn. Here’s to you Billy and Joyce—May the hours you spend as Mr. And Mrs. Pracket go by quickly, and may you go your separate ways in peace.

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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Restrictio

Posted on August 24, 2024 | Leave a comment

Restrictio (re-strik’-ti-o): Making an exception to a previously made statement. Restricting or limiting what has already been said.

I was swimming across the Atlantic Ocean. I was surrounded by foam. I was on my back. Well actually, I was taking a bath. Almost everything in my life got translated into something else. I don’t know why or how it happens. Even before I could speak it would happen. My car seat was one of the half-million dandelions decorating our yard. I did not know what rhey were, but I was riding in a giant one to the grocery store—I didn’t know that’s what is was at the time. All I knew was that it was filled with smells—different smells as we moved through it.

When I got older and went to school, my desk became an operating table. I would get my fellow students to lay on it and I would “cut” them open. I would use my blunt-tipped scissors, and I thought I would never got n trouble: I would do my surgeries after class let out, so there was no disruption. I had a problem on bring your pet to class day, though. I fatally injured Janice Well’s parakeet. The blunt scissors were too much for it, a delicate bird. My father bought Janice a new bird and all was forgotten. I was suspended from school for three days.

One day, right after I’d gotten my driver’s license, I was driving down Main Street in the family car. Suddenly, it became an Army tank with a steering wheel. There was a brick wall around the playground that we had to climb over if we wanted to use it after hours to play softball. I would knock it down with my tank! I would be a hero. I made a sharp left and floored it. When I hit the wall my head hit the windshield, steam came billowing out from under the hood, which was all crumpled up. The tank had turned back into a car. What bad luck! My father showed up and ripped the antenna off the car and started whacking my butt with it. He was cautioned by the police who had showed up. He stopped whipping me and we got into a cab and rode home.

He took me to a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist said I had an occidental psyche that required medication to “round” it out. I was prescribed little yellow pills called “Reformitol” that were supposed to round out my psyche—to balance me out. The medication made me want to perform tricks. I learned how to balance a beach ball on my nose, clap my hands, and say “Oowak, Oowak.” I would wear feathers and peck out my name with my nose on an alphabet panel while saying “Buk, Buk.” I would sleep on a chair all day, but wake up when my mother shook a bag of treats—potato chips.

This was all well and good, but I felt like I was losing touch with my true self. So, I started dropping my Reformitol in the toilet instead of my mouth. In a few days, things were transforming again. The cardboard wardrobe in the basement became a shower stall. I would take off my clothes, get in, and sing the only bathing song I knew: “Rub-a-Dub-Dub-Dub Three Men in a Tub.” One time, in English class, I thought my pants were on fire. I jumped out of my seat and yelled at Miss Montgomery “I’m burnin’ for you baby!” She said “I’m flattered, but I’m going to have to call campus security.”

Well, that was it. I was institutionalized. Hell Brook Manor was good for me. My therapist, Mr. Corny, taught Mr how to become a recluse to avoid having episodes in public, In fact, he convinced me that I should never leave my home. If I volunteered to be a guinea pig for a major drug manufacturer, I would be paid a hefty stipend and could fulfill my duties on Zoom.

I haven’t been outside my home for three blissful years. Not only that, I’ve been alone! I have returned to my original self. First they are, then they’re not. My days and nights are filled with transformations. I believe what I see is really there. Who’s to say? It depends on what you mean by “really” and “there.”

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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Sarcasmus

Posted on August 23, 2024 | Leave a comment

Sarcasmus (sar’kaz’-mus): Use of mockery, verbal taunts, or bitter irony.

Your brain isn’t the size of a pea, because you don’t have a bran. Where’d you get those shorts? A dumpster or off a crack den floor? Your mother looks dead. Is that a nose or a mountain? Who taught you how to write? A blender? What’s that smell? Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you standing there. Your dog looks like a rag with legs. Your hair is abandoning your head. What’s it scared of? Are those your shoes or x-country skis? If you get any fatter you’ll turn into a hippo.

I have no friends. I live alone. Nobody has ever loved me, not even my mother—she just gave me the basics: food, shelter, and clothing. I’ve never loved anybody either. I came close with a deaf girl until she learned to read lips. I can’t stop insulting people. My first word as a child was “asshole.” I said it to my Sunday School teacher. She screamed and I was driven home with a strip of masking tape over my mouth. I tore it off as soon as I got out of the car, and calmly said “asshole.” The driver said: “Have fun dancing in Hell with Satan you little imp!” I said “asshole” again over my shoulder as I walked up the sidewalk to my front door. My mother was waiting. She dragged me in the door by my ear. I was wearing short pants and she went into the kitchen, grabbed a meat tenderizing hammer and whacked my naked legs. It hurt, but all I could think of was developing a longer list of insults. I was nine years old.

By the time I was a teenager I had 100s of insults. I dreamt in insults. I learned how to target my insults toward people who were literally weak and wouldn’t fight back: 98-pound weaklings, elderly people, chronically ill people, fat tubs of lard, amputees, and people wearing casts. It was an insult playground. A non-stop source of delight and causing undeserved pain. I said to a guy in a cast:” It looks like you’ve been cast as bumbling idiot”; to a guy with asthma: “Why don’t you take a breather numb nuts?”

Then, one day I realized I was sick—mentally sick.. It happened when I told a little girl wearing leg braces that she looked like she had robot legs. Her mother angrily asked: “What the hell is wrong with you?” I sad: “People like you, you bleach blond bozo.” Meanwhile, the little girl was sobbing so she could hardly breathe. I ran away.

I hid out in my house for two days, resolving to do something about my insult fixation. I saw Don Rickles on TV. He made mountains of money insulting people. So, I toned down my insults and started appearing in pubs and in small clubs. I insulted my audience members—all in “good fun.” My manager got me a permanent gig in Las Vegas, and I’ve been there ever since. Now I’m wealthy enough to let my hair down and insult the hell out of a cadre of “absorbers”; a group of people who I insult and pay quite well for “taking it.” Sometimes, I put on a disguise and hit the streets for a day of insulting people. Last week I insulted Cher and she tasered me. I had said to her “What, are those boobs or tennis balls in a bag?”

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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Scesis Onomaton

Posted on August 22, 2024 | Leave a comment

Scesis Onomaton (ske’-sis-o-no’-ma-ton): 1. A sentence constructed only of nouns and adjectives (typically in a regular pattern). 2. A series of successive, synonymous expressions.

Green camo, brown cam, grey camo, yellow camo. Blah, blah, blah. What is everybody hiding from? I see people posing as bushes, in bushes and under bushes. Great way to spend a Saturday afternoon—underneath a bush wearing clothes printed with photos of bushes. I can see these people because they don’t know what they’re doing and have never really needed camouflage except for turkey hunting, and maybe, deer hunting with a bow and arrow. Beyond that, it might as well be a fashion trend enabled by people who like to “blend in,” but that’s hard to do when you’re leaning against your truck or in the produce section of the grocery store. Standing by a bin of avocados, or in the bakery, you still don’t blend in. It is so funny to see a person squatting by a picnic table trying to blend in. But it’s not funny.

“Blending” is the result of a spineless desire to go with flow and conform, and especially, not stand out. As the Blending movement has grown, it has taken root in social reality as the norm—if you don’t blend in, you run the risk of being ostracized and put in the “Federal Camp for Hippies, Poets, and Anarchists.” Outside the camp, things go smoothly, everybody gets along, but there’s no creativity—nothing new, bold, or revolutionary. When I was a kid, something new and revolutionary came to market almost every week.

How did this happen? It was the 3-D movie “Camouflaged!” it was about these three kids who were skinny dipping and had their clothes stolen by the class bully. To get home without getting in trouble, they had to camouflage their private parts with sticks, and vines, and mud, and grass, and moss, and leaves. Naked and camouflaged, nobody noticed. The kids just walked down the street barefoot. Then Dexter, the smart one, noticed something: “You are all naked and camouflaged, acting differently from what you feel, using euphemisms, even lying, to hide yourselves.” Instead of seeing that as a bad thing, the people saw it was a good thing: no risk, no blame, a tranquil trajectory to the grave.

So, “blending in” has become the highest aspiration. If you can’t or won’t, bye bye. As the movement has gained momentum, the scope of camouflage has been been expanded, and the sphere of blending in has widened—you can be the real quarter panel of a pickup truck, a light pole, a door, a shopping cart, a refrigerator, and a million other things. Life has become complicated. For example, yesterday I sat on the couch and injured my sister’s wrist. She was so well-blended I mistook her for the couch! This quality of blending in is admirable, but, you have watch out what you blend into. Two weeks ago an 80-year-old man camouflaged as a white pine tree was sawed in half by a logger. The logger was wearing mandatory ear protection, so he didn’t hear the man’s screams.

Someday, this madness will come to an end. Until then, I have adopted a clever ruse: I am camouflaged as a person who isn’t camouflaged. I am camouflaged as myself.

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

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Sententia

Posted on August 21, 2024 | Leave a comment

Sententia (sen-ten’-ti-a): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegem, gnome, maxim, paroemia, and proverb.

“Don’t count your eggs,” Wisdom of Chickens 2:96

There are countless complications in life. Just when you think you know what’s going on you crash your car into a light pole, or the zipper on your pants pops open during a job interview for school crossing guard, or you slip on a patch of ice and hit your head and loose your memory for a week. I’m sure one or more of these things have happened to you.

Not counting your eggs is a helpful remedy. You just know you have eggs, but you resist counting them.This act of resistance will liberate you from knowing how many you have. It eliminates the shamefulness of desire. If you don’t know how many eggs you have, you can’t plot out a week of egg consumption, for example: boiled on Monday, fried on Tuesday, scrambled on Wednesday, poached on Thursday, soft-boiled on Friday, eggs Benedict on Saturday, Shirred eggs on Sunday. Clear. To the point. In line, 1, 2, 3. No fuss. No muss. Seven eggs. Seven days. Expectations set and fulfilled. But then, your brother Nick shows up for breakfast. You try to push dry cereal on him, but he refuses it, asking for an egg instead. You start to shake. You almost can’t hold the spatula as you make him a fried egg to order: sunny-side up.

As I pushed the spatula under the egg and let it slide off onto my brother’s dish, for a brief flicker, I was going to kill him. A slam on the head with my skillet would’ve sent him off to the coroner while I was sent off to jail. A voice in my head said “No.” I listened to it and put the skillet down, back on the stove. But in my rage, at any rate, I had already retaliated: I had put a tiny shell fragment in my brother’s egg. When I saw him bite down on it, make face, and spit it out, I felt vindicated, but also, sad. My 7-egg fixation had blinded me to the potential for chance events in each and every moment. If we “count” our eggs we will fall victim to painful random intercessions, some inducing rage and desire to murder a fellow human being. Not all of us have “little” voices in our heads that divert us from evil. My little voices help me all the time. My little voices follow on my sayings—they sort of wake them up my and give them something to say, usually “yes” or “no.” But lately, the little voices don’t need a saying to reflect on and they just blurt out observations and commands. Today when I was taking my daily shower a voice said: “Your.mother wants to see you naked.” It was crystal clear and spoken with resolve. I thought for a minute how the voice knew this. After all, he was in my head! So, in this case I failed to comply with the voice. I felt guilty, but I’ve forged on with a more robust sense of agency, but I’m not going to count my eggs. I will not be confused or frustrated by life’s randomness. Unattached, I will just eat one egg at a time. But I will not desire it until it’s in the frying pan. Is that possible?

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

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Simile

Posted on August 20, 2024 | Leave a comment

Simile (si’-mi-lee): An explicit comparison, often (but not necessarily) employing “like” or “as.”

It was a lie like the one my mother told me about who my father was. She told me my father was Richard Nixon. They had met at a bar in a Washington, DC hotel when she was there at a meeting of “Mothers in Favor of War.” He seduced her by saying “I’m not a crook” over and over again, dinking gin. My mother was drinking beer and got drunk. They went to her room where I was conceived without her husband’s (aka my dad’s) consent or knowledge. 1 was sworn to secrecy on my patrimony by my mother. If anybody found out I was Richard Nixon’s son, it would mean the end of his career, and possibly, my life.

Then, I found out some things about the story of my conception were only more or less true. She had gotten drunk at the bar, but the rest of the story is a lie. There was no Richard Nixon, there was no sex with Richard Nixon. There was just her wandering through the lobby looking for the ladies’ room and stumbling into the men’s room by mistake. There was a man mopping the floor and he “sweet talked” her. They went into one of the toilet stalls and had a “nice time” together, and then, he went back to mopping the floor and she went to her room and watched TV until she passed out. The last thing she remembers from that night was Johnny Carson wearing a turban.

I was totally weirded out and vowed to find my mop-swinging father. My mother didn’t want me to find him and wouldn’t help me. So, I hired a private detective. His name was Magnuts DI. I paid him the flat missing persons rate: $2,000. Two days later I got a call. He had found my father. He was in prison, sentenced to 200 years for running the most successful Ponzi Scheme in history. He he had defrauded the equivalent of the population of Pennsylvania. He went from mopster to mobster. I did not want to know how. I was through with him. He called me and told me he would double my money if I visited him. I was tempted, but said “No.”

So, here we are. You make my mother’s lies look like passages from the Bible. You make them look like self-evident truths. Your lies are like a ball of poisonous snakes, showing their fangs and loudly hissing. Your lies are like 1,000 farts blown in a car with the windows up. I could go on and on, but the point is, you told me you are a princess and showed me a fake certificate of authenticity on our second date. I found out the certificate was faked when we went to get our marriage license. It was like I was shot in the heart by a large caliber handgun. You lied to me. You deceived me. You won my love by false pretenses. You’re not a princess and you never will be! You’re a window girl at Mac Donald’s. I should’ve known from the smell of cooking oil rising from your skin, like some fast food mist, like you were an x-large order of fries.

Good bye demon woman. If I ever see you again, I will call you names and point at you. You are like a pretty package with a bomb inside. Good bye. Good riddance.

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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Skotison

Posted on August 19, 2024 | Leave a comment

Skotison (sko’-ti-son): Purposeful obscurity.

The stuff is on the way. I can’t believe you asked me “What stuff?” You know damn well what it is. Oh, you’re joking, That’s good, I should’ve known you’d never say what it is. It’s the kind of stuff that we don’t say. You know we’ve been hauling this stuff for years—through cities, and small towns and over country roads. We’ve delivered enough of this stuff to fill two football fields plus a huge train station..

Here we are! Cliff’s regional warehouse. I’ll get the watchman to open it up. Then, we can get a couple forklifts fired up. Ok! We’re in. Let’s get moving. We’d been doing this for about five years, when Cliff’s signed on for deliveries. We deliver a truckload of stuff here every month, and they use it all before we deliver the next load.

To tell you the truth, me and Ed don’t know for sure what the stuff is., “stuff” is just about all you can call it. I have developed an obsession to know what the stuff is. I asked my boss once and he told me me: “Keep askin’ and you’re fired.” I thought told Ed I was going to steal a packet on our next run, open it, and find out what the hell the stuff is. He freaked out and told me the last guy that tried that disappeared and never came back. The rumor was he had been murdered and burned.

The next day I put a packet under the truck when we unloaded—I duct taped it behind the rear bumper. On the way back to the factory, I told Ed I had to take a leak. I got out of the rruck, untaped the packet, and hid it by the side of the road. Then, we continued on our way. When we got back to the factory (Big Stuff Inc.), I punched out, hopped in my car and took off.. I picked up the packet and took to my daughter’s high school chemistry teacher for analysis. Two days later he called me. He told me the substance is “Corbomaxalotoninate” or “Corbo.” It is used as a vitamin supplement for pet fish, hamsters, rabbits, guinea pigs, rats, mice and other small pets. It is harmless to humans.

I went to the boss and told him I knew what “Stuff” is and asked why he does not just put “pet vitamins” on it. He told me Stuff’s customers package it themselves, like “Cliff’s Pet vitamin Supplements.” We want to help Cliff’s maintain the fiction that they manufacture Stuff. The same is true of CVS, Hannaford, and everybody else we sell our product to.” He told me it’s just business and I better keep mu mouth shut or I would be killed, that Ed was eager to do it, if he’d get a pay raise.

I immediately drove to my local Cliff’s and poked around the shelves. Sure enough! There it was: “Cliff’s Pet Vitamin Supplement.” It was true.

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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Syllepsis

Posted on August 18, 2024 | Leave a comment

Syllepsis (sil-lep’-sis): When a single word that governs or modifies two or more others must be understood differently with respect to each of those words. A combination of grammatical parallelism and semantic incongruity, often with a witty or comical effect. Not to be confused with zeugma: [a general term describing when one part of speech {most often the main verb, but sometimes a noun} governs two or more other parts of a sentence {often in a series}].

I took a shot at winning. I took a shot of whisky. I took a shot at the target. I missed by a wide margin. My pants fell down. I needed help getting off the field. Taking a shot of whisky was part of the ritual of the annual bow and arrow competition behind the city’s firehouse, I have never been able to hold my liquor. But taking a shot before stepping up to the line is mandatory. I hope every year that the whisky won’t affect me, but it does. At least I didn’t kill anything this year with my stray arrow. Last year, I hit a Robin’s nest in a nearby tree. You can imagine what a mess that was!

The annual bow shoot goes back to colonial times. The colonists had run out of gunpowder, and had been without it for months. The Native Americans had been supplying game. One day, one of their leaders said “We are sick of supplying you with turkeys and dragging dead deer over hell and back to feed you. We will teach you how to make bows and arrows and shoot them at animals, big and small.” Our forebears welcomed the opportunity and became expert bowmen. They killed and ate squirrels and rabbits for hundreds of miles around. Because our forebears were killing everything in sight. The Native Americans confiscated their bows and arrows and went back to supplying our forebears with food.

Our forebears were angry. They plied the Native Americans with whisky and got their bows and arrows back when the Native Americans were sleeping. When they awoke, the Native Americans packed and went to Ohio where there were few settlers. Our forebears rented a cargo wagon and went to New York where they purchased enough gunpowder to blow down all the herds of deer within 100 miles.

This is when our revered ancestor intervened. Paradise Bellfort was our preacher. He gave a tear-jerking sermon advocating restraint and instituting an annual bow and arrow competition reminding us of “kinder times.” The sermon took. It took people back to kinder times. They hung their muskets over their fireplaces and started buying meat at the general store that had come to town the preceding year. To get cash to spend, our forebears turned to farming and raising sheep, goats, and cows.

So, here I am a prisoner of the annual bow shoot. This year, I’m going to spit out the whisky when nobody’s looking and go sober to the bow shoot.

POSTSCRIPT

Spitting out the whisky didn’t work. My sister saw me and ratted me out. I was blindfolded and tied to a target.

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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Symploce

Posted on August 17, 2024 | Leave a comment

Symploce (sim’-plo-see or sim’-plo-kee): The combination of anaphora and epistrophe: beginning a series of lines, clauses, or sentences with the same word or phrase while simultaneously repeating a different word or phrase at the end of each element in this series.

I was nobody until I found the book in the attic, I was looking for my winter coat in the attic. I climbed the squeaky 80 year old ladder, got to the top, took a step and tripped over one of the cardboard boxes my great grandfather had put there in the late 1950s. The first thing I saw was a photo album. It had pictures of my great grandfather modeling 1940s-styled clothes. In one picture, he had his baggy pants pulled up nearly to his armpits, a bow tie, and a fedora—no jacket, just a white shirt. There was a woman with one hand in his pocket and the other stroking his cheek. There was another picture of him in his underpants standing alongside a horse. It was an ad for Jockey underwear. I slammed the album shut and started digging through the magazines. They were mostly for a magazine called “Argosy” that was ostensively about photography, but was packed with pictures of women posing suggestively. I kept digging. I came to crossword puzzle magazines. There were about 10 of them, but only one had been used, with only two words entered—“ort” and “whammy.” I was thinking that rummaging through the great grand father box was a total waste of time.

Then, I saw the book. It was red and singed like it had been retrieved from a fire. It was titled “Everybody Has a Nose.” It was written by Chance Bellini. I looked inside. It was published in 2028. I gasped. We hadn’t gotten there yet! Great grandfather probably had the book in the mid-1950s. The date must be a misprint or a hoax. or something weirder! The table of contents was cryptic: 1. Baloney, Baloney, Wherefore Art Thou?, 2. Make me!, 3. Cool Cats Wear Hats, 4. Where’s the Big Tickle?, 5. Shove it Crayon Breath, 6. Know The Classy Chassis, 7. Get Cranked Baby, 8, Off the Mutton Shunters, and 9. Blazes!

As soon as I saw the table of contents, I had to start reading. Each chapter ended with a saying that summarized the wisdom of the chapter’s contents. It was a perfect book! You didn’t have to read it! First though, I read the Preface. An excerpt: “We all have noses. But, our noses are all different. We all pick them and sniff air and other things through them and smell things too. We all have them. This unites us all at a fundamental level. You can’t see another nose . . .” My heart was beating fast. Maybe my nose would lead me away from my chronic sense of loneliness—from this feeling I had borne since birth when my mother had laid me on the basement floor and disappeared forever. I was raised by my father—a sick man who made me say “I am lonely” every day until I cried. No wonder I had trouble in school. Anyway, after I read the Preface, I turned to the saying at the end of Chapter 1 “Baloney, Baloney, Wherefore Art Thou?” The saying was “Life is a deli, hold the mustard.” When I read it, I stood up and my shirt tore across the chest like Clark Kent changing into Superman. It was the beginning of my new life. I ran downstairs, grabbed the mustard jar from the refrigerator and emptied its contents in the trash, rinsed the empty jar, and tossed it in recycling. I realized everything I was attached to was a condiment adulterating life’s flavor and causing me to miss the plain beauty of plain truth hidden beneath it. First, I tried to stop using adjectives and adverbs and metaphors. I wasn’t prepared. I couldn’t stop. Someday I will climb that mountain and be free of modification and metaphorical hooks to hang my thoughts on to strain the interpretive capacities of my readers and listeners—maybe making them snap and descend into infinite semiosis.

But I’m overturning all these hurdles and “We All Have Noses” is my legs. If you haven’t gotten it yet, there’s something wrong with you. I went from a tear-soaked shirt to one torn at the chest. I’m becoming free of the mustard. I’m going to start spreading the text Wednesday at the entrance to mall. The mall is named “The Ultimate Destination.” It’s in big gold letters over the main entrance—a fitting backdrop for a Proper Man and his redeeming message. I will be disappointed if fewer than 1000 people show up to receive my message.

POSTSCRIPT

Nobody showed up. The Proper Man was not deterred. He spoke to the stray dog that sat patiently hoping for a bite of the Proper Man’s plain baloney sandwich.

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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Synaloepha

Posted on August 16, 2024 | Leave a comment

Synaloepha (sin-a-lif’-a): Omitting one of two vowels which occur together at the end of one word and the beginning of another. A contraction of neighboring syllables. A kind of metaplasm.

It was a paw ‘bout as big as a Maple leaf. It was the track of a fairly big cat. Definitely not a house cat. Too small to be a Bobcat and no way a cougar—no way. No way. I had been wandering these woods since I was a little boy. Now, I was an old man. Now, before I wandered, I had to eat a handful of Advil to calm down my joints. This animal whose tracks I had seen was missing a toe—a definite consequence of a run-in with a steel trap. Then, I saw it up ahead. It was black with white paws and it was batting abound a chipmunk. It’s paws were huge relative to the rest of the of its body—the size of peanut butter jar lids, and he was wearing a rhinestone collar that glittered in the sun. This told me that he was lost—that somebody had put the collar on him at some point. So, he wasn’t totally feral. He saw me and made a little mewing sound and hopped across the snow to where I was standing. I was amazed. I had never liked cats that much, thinking they were stand offish and self-absorbed. This cat wasn’t! So, I picked hm up. He rubbed his face against mine and purred. I couldn’t carry him all the way home, so I put him back down to see if he would follow me. He did!

We moved into my little cabin. We spent our days napping—he in front of the fireplace, me in my big puffy easy chair. I named him Puss after “Puss in Boots..” I caught him fish through the ice and he would show up with a dead chipmonk every once-in-awhile. I ate freeze dried dinners, like I did in the Army. I sort of liked them—I wasn’t much for cooking so they served me well.

One day, Puss showed up at the door with a $100 bill! I asked him where he got it, and he started through the woods with me following. We came to a big uprooted pine tree. There was a brown garbage bag under its trunk. I pulled it way from the tree and looked inside—it was filled with hundred-dollar bills. I was elated and terrified at the same time. I was certain it was stolen money, or proceeds from drug sales. I knew it belonged to bad people, but that couldn’t stop me from taking it. We trudged back to the cabin, leaving our tracks in the snow. That night it rained and washed away the snow. My anxieties melted, and I started thinking about how to spend our windfall. We hid it under the floor boards under the couch.

About two weeks later, when the trees’ leaves were starting to bud, there was a knock at the door. I opened the door and he looked a saw Puss curled up on the couch. He yelled “Sydney” and “Sydney” hissed, “That’s my cat! I lost him up here around a year ago when I was bird watching. He got out the rolled down car window and took off. He ran past me where I was watching a bird and took off.” I sad, “Wow. That’s some story, but he’s mine now.” He said he’d be right back, grabbed Puss, and took off out the door. Puss was snarling. There was a gunshot. I looked outside, expecting to see puss dead on the ground. But, there was the man, dead on the ground. Somehow, Puss had shot him. I have a thousand theories about how he did it, but I still can’t figure it out, but I know he did it. It was a lot of work, but I buried the man deep in the ground by the tree where we found the money. We drove his car into an old mine shaft where nobody would ever find it. I got all of Puss’s vaccine certificates in order, we packed our $5,000,000 in a statue of the Virgin Mary, took a bus to Mexico City and flew to San Jose, Costa Rica where I had purchased a 6,000 square foot villa overlooking the ocean and a cook, a butler, and 2 servants. Me and Puss still spend our days napping with a clear conscience and a huge bank account.

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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Synathroesmus

Posted on August 15, 2024 | Leave a comment

Synathroesmus (sin-ath-res’-mus): 1. The conglomeration of many words and expressions either with similar meaning (= synonymia) or not (= congeries). 2. A gathering together of things scattered throughout a speech (= accumulatio [:Bringing together various points made throughout a speech and presenting them again in a forceful, climactic way. A blend of summary and climax.]).

My head is spinning like a roulette wheel. First there was the bucket. Then there was the crayon. Then, the bullwhip. Next, the acorn. If I didn’t know I was thinking about surrealistic art, my head would’ve come off, or twisted like a rubber band. Tomatoes. Tornadoes. Trains and berry tarts. So much comes together that does not “belong” together—cows on roller skates, bongos with wings, flaming peach pits, mentos scattered on a bedspread out in a field during a hurricane.

I had inherited a collection of surrealistic paintings from my father—he died of a heart attack while he was chasing his dreams. They were all so quirky and out of reach that they killed him. We lived in California and he wore jogging clothes all the time. He’d get up in the morning and tell us he’d be chasing his dreams. The beach was one of his favorite places to chase dreams. He said it was the smell of the sand that prodded him. One morning he went chasing his dreams at the town park, and boom, he was gone. The doctor had warned him that running around beaches and parks at 83 years old was a little dangerous. Dad didn’t listen. I thought he was like Don Quixote, “dreaming impossible dreams.” But actually, he was more like Little Orphan Annie on a “tomorrow” treadmill. But, he lived to be 83.

The paintings he left me were pretty much worthless. I kept them hanging on the wall out of respect. Being surrounded by surreal painting had started to affect my sanity. Being surrounded by depictions of dreams and random collisions among unrelated objects had made begin to doubt the reality of reality. If it can so easily be manipulated with colored oil and acrylic, and pastel, it could be that everything that seems to go together does not—in the fullness of time we have forgotten its absurdity, and the randomness of what seems to go with what in natural order, and the conventional connections of social order. Think about it! To me, a duck sitting on a couch is normal. A tree growing out of the ground is a cruel joke or a hallucination.

The glue has come undone. The world is coming apart. My feet have turned to rubber. Is that possible? I guess it is. It is happening to me. It has put a spring in my step. Boing. Thank God I don’t have to leave my house. I can just wander around, reveling in my walls. Oh, there’s a cat hovering like a helicopter over a swimming pool filled with lollipops—red, green, and yellow.

My nephew Ned delvers my groceries. He tries to take care of me in every way possible. This morning, he gave me a little red supplement pill to “enhance” my thought processes. I took it right after he left.

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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Synecdoche

Posted on August 14, 2024 | Leave a comment

Synecdoche (si-nek’-do-kee): A whole is represented by naming one of its parts (or genus named for species), or vice versa (or species named for genus).

As usual, I turned in my paper late. My ballpoint rolled slow. My wheels turned to a different tune. I had the due date in front of me on the syllabus for the whole semester, yet I failed to meet it. Professor Nolo was not happy. He almost didn’t take my paper at all. Instead, he would deduct 70 of the 100 points that was worth. I missed flunking Moganomics by one point. It was a course about the interactional dynamics of the “Three Stooges.” I had written my paper on Moe’s double face slap and its failure as a corrective measure for Curly and Larry. I argued that the double slap was not focused enough and that a single punch, separately administered to Curly and Larry, would’ve been a much more effective deterrent. I presented my paper at the annual “Stooge Convention.” It was titled “slapping vs. Punching: Correcting a Stooge.” My paper won the convention’s award for “Groundbreaking Scholarship in Stoogology.”

Professor Nolo attended the conference. I told the audience how he had flunked my paper because I turned it in late. He was booed by the nearly 300 people in attendance. He stood up and yelled “I’ll get you!” He stomped out with his fist over his head.

The next semester I wanted to take “Truth in Cartoons.” Professor Nolo was teaching it. Although he had vowed to get me, I signed up for the class anyway. Our final assignment was to draw a single cartoon panel conveying a truth. I drew a picture of Professor Nolo with his pants down being spanked by Marge Simpson while Archie watched. I drew the picture before I knew what its truth was. It took me awhile. I was two days late turning it in. I titled it “Authority and Innocence.” Archie was learning about learning, Professor Nolo was paying the price for disobedience and Marge was practicing her tennis swing. The layers of meaning collided constructing a metaphor conveying the complex connection between truth and timing.

Professor Nolo took one look at my drawing, crumpled it up, and threw it away making a growling sound, like an angry dog. I tried to retrieve it and he hit me over the head with his stapler, right in front of the entire class. The class started chanting “Hit him again,” and he did., about five times. Then the class started chanting “Nolo lunatic.”

I called 911 and Professor Nolo was arrested for assaulting me. Maybe I provoked him. He was a lunatic.

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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Synonymia

Posted on August 13, 2024 | Leave a comment

Synonymia (si-no-ni’-mi-a): In general, the use of several synonyms together to amplify or explain a given subject or term. A kind of repetition that adds emotional force or intellectual clarity. Synonymia often occurs in parallel fashion. The Latin synonym, interpretatio, suggests the expository and rational nature of this figure, while another Greek synonym, congeries, suggests the emotive possibilities of this figure

Wheels. Rides. Machines. Heaps. Automobiles. I had it every way. I was obsessed with cars. Ever since I drove the family car through the garage door and caused a fire, the word “car” and all its synonyms bounce around in my head like little pinkie balls against a cinder lock wall. I got the urge—the unstoppable feeling, the unwarranted desire to buy cars. Maybe it’s to atone for smashing the garage door. I didn’t care if my purchase was old or new, or if it ran—it just had to be a car, not a truck. And it had to be still standing on all four tires. I kept a really low profile so I wouldn’t have a steady stream of hucksters trying to sell me their cars. I had connections on car lots across the US and charitable organizations that collect “dead” cars that are supposed to be given away as charitable donations.

I’ve tried to be cured of my car fetish. Once, I had the air let out of tires directly in my nostrils. After 8 tires my nose started bleeding and I quit, to no positive effect. Another time, I spent a day looking under car seats. I found a lot of weird stuff, but all I got was a brutal stiff neck. I had to get a massage to unlock my neck. The worst was getting run over by a car. My therapist pushed me into traffic. I could’ve been killed but luckily I survived with a concussion, a broken leg, crushed ribs and a torn off ear. Getting hit was supposed to induce a car-phobia. It didn’t. It just led to a lawsuit. I settled for $1,000,000. The fetish goes on.

I have 600 acres of land in a secret location, somewhere in North America. There are hundreds of cars parked in neat rows. When I fill the field, I will buy another one. For some reason, most of the cars are Fords. Most of them have come my way through the enforcement of lemon laws. Their paint jobs are funky, peeling off the hoods, roofs, and trunks. Often, obscenities are keyed on their doors, like “Piece of Shit” or “Scum on Wheels.”

I have security people who circle the lighted perimeter at night. There are certain spare parts that the cars have that are quite valuable. For example, rims for a ‘69 Chevy or a sunroof crank handle for a ‘58 Volkswagen. I won’t sell my cars’ parts. For me, it is like butchering them for profit. My cars are my family. They sit quietly, rain or shine. I talk to them. I sing to them. I love The Cars “Drive.” Even though they’re unlocked, I never open their doors. I respect their privacy. There’s one car I revere the most: a 1957 Ford nine-passenger station wagon. It was our family car when i was a kid. Riding to Maine, my father made up a game: whenever we saw a woodie station wagon, we yelled “Beaver” and my mother would yell at my father to stop the “dirty” game. Then, there were our Beagle’s farts that took ten minutes to clear with all the windows down going sixty. Also, there was the time our luggage blew off the car’s roof. My father risked his life picking up our clothes from the Maine Turnpike. There are more memories, but that’s enough for now.

The sun is setting on my cars. Soon the security truck will start circling and I’ll head for my garage for dinner. Yes, I live in a garage-like structure. The front door is a small garage door. My garage home is 6,000 square feet and three stories high. It has cement floors and always smells faintly of gasoline.

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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Synthesis

Posted on August 12, 2024 | Leave a comment

Synthesis (sin’-the-sis): An apt arrangement of a composition, especially regarding the sounds of adjoining syllables and words.

Rough roads killed my truck. Traveling the outback of West Virginia collecting taxes from tax resisters who are members of the “Death Before Taxes” movement. They raise their middle finger and give a hearty “fuc*k you” to the federal government. They reside in hills and hollows in a corner of West Virginia. They partake of no Federal amenities. They live in waterproofed, fireproofed, insulated, and windowless refrigerator boxes strung together like trains. Supposedly, they are modeled on the homes of their 18th-century Scottish ancestors who settled in the hills and hollows of West Virginia when they were given the boot by the Scottish lairds. Since they’ve been living in close proximity to each other for hundreds of years and intermarrying, they all look alike, almost exactly alike. Half of them have the same first name, so it’s a nightmare tracking them down. They all have a common birthmark: a mole shaped like a turtle on their left cheek, right below the eye. Over time, they have all taken the last name “Turtle” naming themselves after their common birthmark.

Since they need only food, clothing, kerosene, and sundries for their crafts, all the Turtle men work for money. None of them have a car, so they walk everywhere they go. One of the Turtles works as a lawyer after passing the bar exam, by sitting to the law and acting as an apprentice to a notoriously crazy judge. Another Turtle man makes walking sticks for personal defense. They are studded and “accented” by spikes at the end—made to defend. Other Turtles work at the applesauce factory, dumping apples into the cookers and seasoning and stirring them. The applesauce is named “Eve’s Treat” and is popular throughout the Southeast. A small number of Turtle women work in local car washes, drying off the cars. They wear no bras and let their t-shirts get wet. This strategy pulls in huge tips and makes the women among the wealthiest Turtles.

I have to go door-to-door because the Turtles have no electricity and no addresses. Every April I risk my life trying to collect a few dollars from the Turtles. I fail every year because they go and hide in the woods. They yell “Watch out tax man or you will die of lead poisoning.” This year one of the women stayed behind. I recognized her immediately as the girl who had dried off my car two weeks ago when I was plotting out this year’s trip. She had injured her foot helping her uncle k-Mart Turtle making walking sticks. I told her I would take her to the doctor and she pushed me into the ravine running through her front yard. I sprained my ankle, crawled out of the ravine and limped my way back to my broken truck. I batted zero on collections again this year. I called Turtle’s Towing on my cellphone. They refused to help me because I’m a “tax man.” Nobody would help me. So, a US Army tow truck was dispatched to bring my government vehicle to Wheeling for repairs—the muffler had been ripped out along with the brake line.

All I could think of on the ride to Wheeling, was the car wash girl who had pushed me into the ravine. Right before she pushed me, I think I had caught a glimmer of affection in her eyes. I was going back next week to have my car washed again, and confirm the spark of love.

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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Syntheton

Posted on August 11, 2024 | Leave a comment

Syntheton (sin’-the-ton): When by convention two words are joined by a conjunction for emphasis.

Love and marriage. Ideally, they go together, but often, there is marriage without love. There are motives that provide a choice, not for better and for worse, but only for better—only until the shit hits the fan. I’ve been married 4 times (so far). My moral compass points in every direction but the ‘right’ direction.

I got married the first time because it was the thing to do. All my friends were getting married right out of high school, not thinking beyond their burger-flipping lives. There was a girl named Lindsey that I sort of liked. She had one crossed eye and excessive ear wax in both ears, and a tic in her left hand. She had beautiful hair and a body shape from a fashion magazine. I figured if I married her, given her maladies she would give me a free hand out of fear that I would leave her. Also, I would never have to worry about her cheating on me—who would want her?

She cried when I asked her to marry me. Her gratitude was nearly heartbreaking. I felt pretty cagey. So, we got married. About six months after we were married, she had surgery, using my medical insurance from Burger King. She was beautiful. She was perfect. I could tell that she was starting to feel too good for me. She started going out at night and coming home at dawn. I wanted to kill her. Then, she told me she was working the night shift at Cliff’s to earn money to help me go to college. So, I started going to the community college, working at night at Burger King. No matter what, my feelings for Lindsey ran shallow. I still did not love her and that made it easy to “experiment” with other women.

The community college was like a delicatessen. I was hauling in more tukas than I ever dreamed possible. I spent nearly as much time in the back seat of my car as I did in the classroom. There was this one girl name Angie who blew all my fuses. When we went at it, my car rocked so much you could hear the gas sloshing in the gas tank. I was in love. So, without any trepidations whatsoever, I dumped Lindsey. We got a no-fault divorce. She begged me not to do it and became clinically depressed and tried suicide. I cared a little, but not enough. I was going to marry Angie, my tue love. I asked Angie to marry me. She told me she was already married and her husband was a dick. Then, I tried to get back together with Lindsey, but too much time had passed and she didn’t want me back anyway. She was pregnant and living with a man who “loved” her. She was happy.

I’m not going to bother to recount all my failed marriages. Marriage #1 was a complete catastrophe centered around my belief that marriage without love would shield me from the ongoing woe that is marriage. There were scales over my eyes when I looked at Lindsey. She loved me, but I didn’t appreciate it. I was an idiot, and I still am. Since Lindsey, I have made roadkill out of every relationship I’ve had, especially my marriages. Coming off of 4 marriages that didn’t work, I think I am a sadist who takes leisure in inflicting pain on my hapless wives. I’m undergoing psychological counseling t figure it all out, and maybe correct myself, and maybe, find love.

POSTSCRIPT

I’ve realized that I can’t be counseled. I have started a torrid affair with my therapist. I think it’s illegal. I am going to ask her to marry me.

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

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

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Synzeugma

Posted on August 10, 2024 | Leave a comment

Synzeugma (sin-zoog’-ma): That kind of zeugma in which a verb joins (and governs) two phrases by coming between them. A synonym for mesozeugma.

The temperature was climbing and so was I. I was in Peru, it was jungle-hot and I was inching my way up a sheer cliff. It was at least 600 feet to the top and I was only 200 feet up of what was called by its grid coordinates: 13.1632° S, 72.5453° W. I was starting to think I wouldn’t make to the top. Downclimbing was out of the question. I had to make it to the top or my sponsor would withdraw its support and I would be left in Peru with nothing. I was half-way out of water and was hearing music—a sure sign I’d gone around the bend. It was coming from above me. I kept climbing.

I came to a vine-covered entrance to a cave. The music was coming out of the cave—it was one of those Peruvian flutes. It playing Creedence Clearwater’s “Proud Mary.” I thought I was surely going insane. Then, a man stepped out of the shadows and greeted me: “Welcome to the Machu Picchu Flute Academy. we work to prepare Peruvians to play the flute on street corners, plazas and bus stops around the world—from Iceland to New Zealand, from Poland to Portugal we play haunting music. Let me show you around.”

In addition to flutes they made ceramic guinea pigs clutching bricks of money. These were sold to tourists in Lima, along with lower quality flutes. The mountain’s stone interior had been hewn into classrooms and dormitories, a library, and a restaurant named Hard Rock Diner. The students came from all over Peru. There were two North Korean exchange students who were there to “improve the aesthetics of the Motherland’s cultural regime.” I thought this was pretty cool. Maybe North Korea isn’t so bad after all.

There was a well in the center of the school with delicious water, and a flight of stairs carved out of that exited at the top of the cliff I was clinging. So, I had an order of ceviche at the restaurant and said “Goodbye” to my host. My plan was to climb the stairs and use my satellite phone to call in a chopper to pick me up. My hose said, “Wait. Before you leave you must swear on this master flute to never disclose this place’s location or mission upon penalty of death. All the students do likewise as the price to pay for learning how to make and play the Peruvian flute. I thought nothing of it and readily agreed—mainly because I thought it was a load of BS.

POSTSCRIPT

After I wrote this account of my experience in Peru and published it on my blog, things haven’t gone well. I cut off my finger peeling a peach. I got severe food poisoning from ceviche I are at a local Peruvian restaurant: The Hard Rock Diner. I should’ve known better. Now, my pet Guinea pigs, Moe, Larry, and Curly have gone feral and are eating my feet as I type. I don’t know what will befall me next, but I fear it will be the end.

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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Systrophe

Posted on August 9, 2024 | Leave a comment

Systrophe (si’-stro-fee): The listing of many qualities or descriptions of someone or something, without providing an explicit definition.

So many qualities. So many characteristics. So much to see and marvel at. Plump. Stiff. Pointing toward the sky. It’ll always be one of my favorite things. I harvested it and put it in vinegar in a jar. I have it on my mantle, backlit by a candle, sitting on a saucer my little sister made in her pottery class at the community college. I love how the jar and the saucer provide an aesthetic temper to the floating vice. I can’t help but see it that way—as a vice—given the sensual distraction it provides from my otherwise useless life.

I work at the airport picking up trash in the grand concourse. I have a scoop with a handle and wheels and a trashcan with wheels. I make my way through the concourse over and ver in a checkerboard patter so I don’t miss any floor. Somebody else empties the trash by the seats. My job is “random litter” decorating the concourse floor. The weirdest thing I ever found was an artificial leg. It was leaning up against the wall outside the men’s room. I looked inside the restroom before I harvested the fake leg. There were no one-legged people inside the men’s room, so I took it. I noticed it had a tag glued to it. It said: “If found, call Tim Small at 409-222-3434.” So, I called the number and Tim asked if I’d bring the leg to him. I said I would and he gave me the address. It was in the ritzy part of town. When I got there, I was impressed by his mansion. There was a fountain and statues on the lawn. There was a Tesla parked out front as well as a golf cart.

I rang the doorbell. It played the chorus from Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper” with excellent sound quality. The door opened and Tim introduced himself. He had two legs! I sad “What the f*ck is going on here?” He said he should’ve told me and profusely apologized to me. He handed me an attache case filled with twenty-dollar bills. Then, he tour me his story: The leg had belonged to his father who had lost his leg in the Korean War. They were a team, begging on the streets for NYC. His father would roll up his pant leg, and he would hug the leg and cry and say “My daddy sacrificed his leg for you.” They made tons of money. He invested their earnings in hula hoops and bobby socks and made millions. He believes his father’s leg is a lucky charm, and also, it comforts him to hug it, like he did as a child.

I was completely amazed and the attaché case filled with 20s helped me believe his story. This experience was the brightest spot in my whole life. It kept me from diving out my apartment window. Now I have my “light in the forest” shimmering on my mantle. It brings me joy. It’s just one of those things.

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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Tapinosis

Posted on August 8, 2024 | Leave a comment

Tapinosis (ta-pi-no’-sis): Giving a name to something which diminishes it in importance.

They are a piece of crap, a waste of space, a symbol of oppression. the Crown Jewels of England. Worn by beheaders, adulterers, bad tennis players and overweight slobs. When I see the Queen wearing the crown, I want to run up and push her down. But what good would that do? I would be packed off to the loony bin and disappear into meds and electric shocks. So, that’s why I’ve gotten a job in the Tower of London where the Crown Jewels are displayed. The crown is taken out of its showcase once-a-month for dusting. That’s when I will strike. I will work my way up to crown duster. Then, instead of dusting it, I will run away with it.

After three years I was promoted to Duster. As planned, I absconded with the crown. I ran out a side door with it under my arm like an American football. Strangely, nobody chased me or even yelled. I checked into the first hotel I came to. I sat on the bed and looked at the crown, imagining ways I could destroy it. I thought fire was my best bet, but throwing it out a window or running it over with a steam roller were pretty good options too.

Then I noticed it said “Barbie” on the inside rim. The crown on display was from one of those life-size Barbie Dolls! I had to find the genuine crown so I could lay it to waste once and for all. Then I remembered: Nick Knack. I had served with hm as an altar boy back in the day. We pilfered communion wafers and sold them to the Satanic cults flourishing in London at the time. We got mixed up with some pretty crazy people, one of whom taught Nick how to turn into a house plant and spy on people. He was willing pose as a philodendron in The Tower of London to see if he could get the lowdown on the crown’s whereabouts. His friend posed as a florist and dropped him off. It didn’t take long.

Nick heard them talking and heard them say the crown was disguised as cake topper in Harrod’s pastry hall. It was sitting atop a “permanent” wedding cake. I jumped in a cab and headed to Harrod’s as fast as I could. I climbed up on the showcase where the cake was displayed. I reached for the crown, and a nicely manicured hand with a handcuff attached to the wrist shout out of the cake and shackled me. She stood up and was wearing a maid’s costume. It was like the girl popping out of the cake at a bachelor party. But, it was no party for me. No lap dance. The oppressor had won again.

I am in prison. I am writing a book: “Try to Have a Plan.” It is based on my experience.

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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Tasis

Posted on August 7, 2024 | Leave a comment

Tasis (ta’-sis): Sustaining the pronunciation of a word or phrase because of its pleasant sound. A figure apparent in delivery.

Woooow! I was swimming in a tub of warm maple syrup with four other naked IRS Agents. It was the bribe of the century, eclipsing the famous Stairway to Heaven by a million miles. After our bath, We were going to be dipped in pancake batter and eat each other. Just then, i woke up at the wheel of my US government Ford as I scraped a bridge abutment and made sparks fly.

It was all a dream. What a good dream, even though it ended with us eating each other! I had been on the road for three weeks chasing this high school dropout kid who wasn’t paying sales tax on the collection of bottle caps he was individually selling as earrings on Etsy. We suspected they were stolen. The famous “Karma Cap Collection” had been stolen. It contained over 1,000,000 pieces that could not be tracked down—finders keepers, losers weepers. We knew the earrings were from a collection like the Karma Cap Collection and its breadth of coverage. For example there were earrings made from Abe Lincoln Lindenberry Lush, Ben Franklin’s Frothy Flip, Jeff Davis Fizzy Rum-Rebel Soda, Paul Revere’s Midnight Rye, Ike’s Spiked Lemonade.

These brands represent a unique set of brands from hundreds of years ago. Unfortunately we discovered that micro breweries and distilleries have co-opted these antique brand names. Just the other day I saw a six pack of Susan B. Anthony Ale at Cliff’s. So really, there’s no way to sort out the bottle cap mess, but we can still nail this guy for not paying sales tax. We can tell by checking Etsy’s records that this guy has sold $65.00 worth of earrings. Since the sales money was wired to the seller, it would be easy to track him down, impounded his worldly goods and ruin his life.

As I pulled up to his house with my Tax Collection Hit Team, the car in the driveway looked familiar. It looked like the car my son was driving when he stopped by to tell me he was disowning me. It was nearly fatally embarrassing for him when people found out I work for the IRS. He couldn’t make friends and people called him “bastard” all the time.

The door opened. It was my sone holding a baby. My colleagues “went in.”

One of my colleagues came out fairly quickly carrying a pillowcase full of bottle caps. I thought, “This is kind of awkward.” I said to my colleagues, “This guy looks kind hearted—look at that baby. We’re going to leave him a bill and give him one-year to pay. The bill is $9.00.” My son said “Thanks Dad,” and there was a noticeable gasp from my colleagues. They started coming toward me chanting the IRS chant: Everybody Pays, No Exceptions.” I jumped in my IRS Ford and took off like a bat out of hell. I pulled into a mall parking lot, found a Cadillac with the keys in it, and took off again. I crossed into Mexico and drove to Mexico City. Then, I caught a bus to Quito, Ecuador. No extradition. I met my son and his wife and baby there. We started a deep sea fishing business. We now have a fleet of 5 boats and business is flourishing. We don’t pay any taxes because the. government believes we attract a lot of business to Ecuador.

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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