Monthly Archives: September 2024

Optatio

Posted on September 30, 2024 | Leave a comment

Optatio (op-ta’-ti-o): Expressing a wish, often ardently.

“Please, please, please! God! Let me win the lotto,” Picky Jackson said as he put every penny he had on the counter at Cliff’s and told the clerk Margret to put it all on Mega Millions. A crowd gathered as Margret counted the cash. It took 20 minutes to count it all: $146,000. The crowd cheered when Margret laid down the final dollar and yelled “146,000!” People milled around for awhile, shaking hands with Picky and wishing him luck on his gamble. Picky put his ticket in his wallet, bought a Poland Springs bottled water and went home, as usual, all alone and eating chips and party dip for dinner. He loved the bacon/sour cream dip from Hannaford’s, that, and a couple of PBRs. Picky had gotten his nickname from having had 6 wives—he was “picky” when it came to marriage.

He worked at the town’s major employer—Built Well Box Cutters. He worked in quality control, wandering around the factory randomly checking procedures and products and citing employees that were screwing up in either or both areas. His fellow employees hated his guts. In the 14 years he worked there, two assassination attempts had been made. In one, a whole box cutter had been inserted in his tuna sandwich, on Italian herbs and spices bread, from Subway. The perpetuator was never caught. However, Picky’s fourth wife was suspected of conspiring with one of Picky’s numerous enemies. In the other attempt on his life, somebody filled Picky’s coffee mug with box cutter blades. Picky instantly saw what was going on and saved his own life when he dumped the blades into a trash can,

Picky’s most pronounced characteristic was being superstitious. He went to a fortune teller twice a week and did his best to abide by what he thought she was saying. Her name Madam Starbelt. She was responsible for Picky’s withdrawal of his life savings and their investment in a lotto ticket. She had told him: “Your fortune sleeps. The lotto weeps. Dry its tears with dollars.” Picky figured this one out in a flash. He asked Madam Starbelt if he was right—that he should wake up his fortune and comfort the lotto, and reap his reward. Madam Starbelt would not answer him. so he did what he did.

The next morning he woke up and found out he had won a half-billion dollars. it was like a miracle. Ten years down the road, people are still talking about it. Picky is on his 11th wife and lives in a castle in Scotland. When you think about it, there’s no accounting for his luck. Picky’s decision-making was more or less insane, yet he achieved his goal. Would he still have won if he had done things differently? A lot of wealthy people make up narratives that make their wealth seem to be the result of their brilliance and insight. Are they full of shit?

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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Orcos

Posted on September 29, 2024 | Leave a comment

Orcos (or’-kos): Swearing that a statement is true.

“I swear I didn’t eat your wedding dress.” Of course I didn’t eat her wedding dress! She didn’t even have a wedding dress. I was trying to make a joke. It could be considered funny if you were really charitable. I was trying to assuage her grief. The man she’d been “engaged” to for seven years had just dumped her. He said she was too old for him. I swear, he is a perfect idiot. I guess, after 7 years she has aged a bit, but they’re both the same age. His new fiancé is seven years younger than him. Perfect symmetry.

I have loved Angie since we were little kids and threw pieces of cat shit at each other in my sand box. Her mother would come and get her and carry her away. My mother didn’t care if I played with cat shit. She spent a lot of time sitting in the window seat drinking hard cider and smoking Luckies. She hated my father and punched him in the stomach every night when he came home from work. He didn’t deserve it. He was always helping his secretary “fix things” in her apartment. It seemed like every couple of days something went wrong and Dad would have to go over to her place after dinner to “fix” it. When Dad went out, Mom would go downstairs and watch Hector the maintenance mad play Sudoku, and sometimes, they would read the Bible together.

I would be left all alone and wrote love letters to Angie to pass the time. I swore that I loved her—that I was telling the truth—I loved her more than my hamster Ed. I loved her more than than Mr. Rogers. As I got older, I told her I loved her more than Jane Russell or “The Benny Hill Show.” I kept saying I loved her and making trite comparisons until I was around twenty-five. I decided to give her all the love letters I had written, and let the chips fall where they may. The “chips” fell into the incinerator in her back yard without even being red. I was about to embark on a new strategy when she got engaged to the Loser King, Reggie Twirly. The years passed and they did not get married—he was like Scrooge, always making excuses centered on his business dealings, like Scrooge did with Belle—putting her off year after year, until things got “better.” Then, Cat came along and knocked Angie out of the running. When Reggie abruptly broke off their engagement, Angie was prepared to kill Reggie. I talked her out of and we made a plan for me to woo Cat away from Reggie and break his heart.

I tried everything, but I failed. Every time I tried to kiss her she would cry, “A thousand times no, I am spoken for by another.” She made feel like Snidely Whiplash, the 19th century cad. So, basically, I gave up on the whole thing. To hell with Cat. To hell with Angie. To hell with everything. I moved to California and started a business as a surrogate love letter writer. I had so much experience, I could whip off a love letter in five minutes. The business was called “Love’s Thunder.” I took the pen name “Cupid’s Arrow.” Business was good. I met a wonderful woman, we got married and we have a baby on the way.

Then, I got an order from Angie. It was for a love letter to me. Somehow, she had my email address from back in the day. It was still functioning! I ignored Angie’s request, gave her a refund, closed the email account and went on with my life, happily married, baby on the way.

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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Oxymoron

Posted on September 28, 2024 | Leave a comment

Oxymoron (ox-y-mo’-ron): Placing two ordinarily opposing terms adjacent to one another. A compressed paradox.

It was the Hot Cooler! It would keep your beer icy cold for a week! It was originally invented by a guy from Maine to chill his kipper snacks while he was out hauling his lobster traps. Not many people care if their kippers are chilled. In fact, it was an idiosyncrasy borne by this particular lobster fisherman. The long and short of it is, he liked his kippers chilled.

I was working in the summer as a writer for the Boothbay Register in Boothbay Harbor, Maine. I finally got a chance to interview him for a story on the genesis of the Hot Cooler as an extension for the kipper cooler. It was part of a series on progress. My first question was “Do you really like chilled kippers?” He said “A-yuh,” and jumped in his lobster boat and pulled away from the dock full throttle. What was I going to do for my story? Ah ha! I could interview the guy who took the kipper chiller to the next level—the inventor of the Hot Cooler himself. His name was Randal Damon and he started lobstering when he was nine.

He was living out his final years at the Old Lobstermen’s Home in South Bristol, Maine. He’d hauled his first trap when was nine, and a dory was used for transportation, to get around to check the traps. They got their lobster bait from the Co-op, and would paint their traps’ buoys with stripes or polka dots, making sure they didn’t duplicate anybody else’s buoys. Randal’s were a little different. He just dipped his buoys in a bucket of pant. One year, he used the paint he had just painted his house with. The other lobstermen called him lazy. He didn’t care.

His fifth wife Tina was his stern man and worked her ass off every day—Sunday included. She had biceps like a prizefighter. Randal would pick up their bait bucket at the dock pretty much the same time every morning. Randall didn’t give a damn about the tide. He’d come roaring into the dock full throttle and slam the engine into reverse, bringing the boat to a full stop inches from the dock, and then, he would burp “Bow, wow, wow” and take a puff off his Swisher Sweet cigar. Usually, at least one person would jump off the dock for fear Randall was going to ram it and break it to pieces. Randall never hit the dock. He had been a Commander in the Navy. He knew what he was doing, but he had a drinking problem. His career ended when his ship, the USS Thomas Jefferson, found its way to Rte. 95 near Kittery, Maine. It was listed over on its side and Randall, wearing a grass skirt and an aloha shirt, was directing traffic around it with a beer in his hand. Randall was courtmartialed and sentenced to 5 years hard labor, working in the forests of Northern Maine as a member of the Beaver Control Corps, tearing up beaver dams.

But what about the Hot Cooler?

After he got out of prison, Randall returned to lobstering, and drinking at least six beers per day. Randall bought a lobster boat from the inventor of the kipper chiller, who had just purchased a new boat. Randall named his boat “Bow, Wow, Wow.”

One feature of the chiller was its tray for holding kipper tins. Randal simply replaced the kipper tin cooling trays with trays with beer-can shaped indentations—like a muffin tray for beer cans. With the lid open, the cooler would keep cooling either because it was plugged in or packed with dry ice. Randall could set the Hot Cooler on the flat spot behind the boat’s wheel, and have enough cold beers for hauling all his traps. He could get drunk without risking falling overboard, bending over for a beer off the boat’s deck. He made Hot Cooler trays in his garage in his spare time and sold them to beer drinkers with kipper coolers, and eventually, the kipper cooler evolved solely into the Hot Cooler, and the kipper cooler went extinct.

Randall made a lot of money. He gave most of it to Dunton’s Dog House in Boothbay Harbor, Maine on the condition Dunton kept everything the same and used the gifted money for winter vacations in warm places. Dunton’s Dog House remains unchanged—a little hut and a couple of picnic tables with damn good food.

Randal died of COVID last year. He was 96.

Randal’s legacy is commemorated at the Lobstermen’s Co-op by a statue of a Piels beer can with a Swisher Sweet cigar resting atop it. It has a plaque that says “Bow, Wow, Wow.” People say that sometimes, on a warm summer night, when the harbor’s calm, if you walk to end of the public dock, the lapping water sounds like “bow, wow, wow.”

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

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

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Tagged elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric

Paenismus

Posted on September 27, 2024 | Leave a comment

Paenismus (pai-nis’-mus): Expressing joy for blessings obtained or an evil avoided.

I couldn’t believe how lucky I was! I had won $5.00 on a “Take Five” scratch-off lotto ticket that I had purchased at Cliff’s for $1.00. “That’s a pretty good profit”, I thought, as I literally jumped for joy. I had heard about jumping for joy all my life, but I had never had a good enough reason to try. Now was the time. I was jumping up and down in Cliff’s parking lot. A police car pulled in and drove up in front me, flashed its roof lights and blew a short toot at me. The police officer got out of the car slowly and closed the door. I stopped jumping for joy.

He said, “Put your hands where I can see them. Ok, now, what are you doing?” I told him I was jumping for joy because I won $5.00 on a scratch-off lotto ticket. He asked “Jumping for joy? What the hell is that?” He put his hand on his gun and told me to empty my pockets on the ground and turn them inside out. He told me to put my wallet on the ground and kick it to him. He looked inside it and held up a photo that he found in it: “Who is this?” I told him it was my girlfriend Sharon. He said, “She looks pretty damned young to be your girlfriend.” I said, “She’s over 18.” He said, “Don’t be a wise guy, punk. It’s snotty-ass kids like you that piss me off.” I said, “I’m no kid. I’m 22.” “Ok loser, That does it. Put your hands behind your back.” He handcuffed me and pushed me into the patrol car. “Ok. So tell me now, what kind of drugs are you taking Mr. Jumping For Joy?” I told him I wasn’t taking any drugs. I asked him what was going on and he told me “You’ll see.”

When we entered the police station, all hell broke loose. Cops dove under their desks. Other cops ran out of the station’s rear exit. “Let him go!” Yelled a cop wearing a formal uniform with gold braids and ribbons. It looked like he was the Chief. The cop holding me said “I’ll let him go when you stop calling me ‘Patrolman Nutso’, you return my fur-lined handcuffs, and let me drink on the job. I’ve been riding around in that damned patrol car for a week—I smell, I’m hungry, I miss my cat.” “Ok. You have deal,” said the Chief.

He let me go. I felt like jumping for joy, but I didn’t want any more trouble. When I got to the other side of the room, everybody pulled guns. Patrolman Nutso pulled his gun, yelled, “You promised!” And took a shot at the chief, nicking him in the ear. All hell broke lose and Patrolman Nutso was filled with lead. The coroner determined he was shot 122 times. Nutso’s family sued the police for using excessive force. They won the lawsuit and a $6,000,000 judgment. When the verdict came in Nutso’s wife jumped for joy for about 10 seconds and then affected a serious demeanor in keeping with the proceedings.

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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Palilogia

Posted on September 26, 2024 | Leave a comment

Palilogia: Repetition of the same word, with none between, for vehemence. Synonym for epizeuxis.

Boom, boom, bloom, boom! 4th of July was fantastic. The exploding colors in the sky perfectly celebrated the smashing of the Brits and the opening of American Independence. We were free! We are free! How much longer will we be free? I hope forever, but the fragility of the struts quo is evident everywhere. The Kings and Queens of the Supreme Court are free, free to lay down dictates formed from their majority vote.

The dictates wash over the rest of us like cleansing rivers of truth or as stinking lines of oppression borne on flumes of scarred and purchased judgments. Oh well, that’s just the way it is. If you agree with the judgment you cheer in the streets. If you don’t agree, you may protest in the streets and cry in the shadows over the protests’ futility and your fear for the future.

Where there are winners, there are losers. That’s the hell of Democracy and games in general. But voting isn’t the medium of decision in any games that I know of, except maybe swimming and gymnastics and figure skating where the judges hold up their judgments as numbers on cards.

But nobody “knows” what’s good for the country, although candidates act like they do. What’s “best” for the USA is a matter of opinion, resting on a bundle of factors that come from, and go to, everywhere-all-at-once. A cacophonous hodgepodge of conflicting and synonymous ideas—or more accurately—beliefs, are sorted by rhetoric and aimed toward the future in packages of probability and songs of contingency.

But the future does not exist. Certainly, it will exist, but we do not know what it will be: we believe, we have hope, we have faith, but we do not know. We have to make decisions. Politicians strew vivid narratives as highways to hoped-for futures. But these highways criss-cross in a jumble of roadways leading to promises of love, peace and happiness. Different ways, different destinations bearing adjectives that glow and motivate people to take the trip to heaven-town which may be somebody else’s hell-town, laced with different particulars that are judged true, good, and beautiful, and false, evil, and ugly at the same rime. “Judged” is the key term. In politics, judgments constitute decisions aimed at the future, and curiously, decisions can constitute futures that are the opposite of what was hoped-for.

Sadly, or not, that’s why democracy rolls on majority views, with tiny islands preserved for minority views. Among an ensemble of humans as big as the USA total consensus is impossible. Majority rule is the best we can do. But there’s no guarantee that the majority is “right.” There was a time when the “majority” believed the earth was flat.

Beware of attempts to overturn elections, they are the beginning of the end of our democracy, and freedom too. Citizens must be willing to bear the weight of decision regardless of their alignment with their hopes or fears. This can take the shape of voicing opposition or affirming the status quo. “Sitting it out” is the worst thing a citizen can do, along with insurrection and assassination.

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, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, schemes, trope, tropes

Parabola

Posted on September 25, 2024 | Leave a comment

Parabola (par-ab’-o-la): The explicit drawing of a parallel between two essentially dissimilar things, especially with a moral or didactic purpose. A parable.

“You don’t know the difference between shit and Shinola” my cousin Larry said. I was trying to shine my shoes with a dried piece of dog shit I found on the sidewalk. “Same consistency, as shoe polish, same color as my shoes. It smells different, but that can be fixed” I said. This was before the days of shit bagging, so there was free dog shit all over the place. I said, “Now, I’m going to smear it on my shoe and see how it works.” It didn’t work. It didn’t shine my shoes and my shoes smelled like shit—I could fix the smell, but the failure to shine made the whole thing a failure. My cousin just stood there with his mouth hanging open. He said “You really don’t know the difference between shit and Shinola. What the hell is wrong with you?”

I responded: “The Ancient Greek philosopher Protagoras said ’Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,’ He made his arch rival Plato crazy when he said this. Plato believed beauty, and everything else, was an idea floating around in Heaven and peoples’s heads—they were like keyholes that people peeped through to see reality. If one person’s hope about something was another person’s fear about the same thing, how could this be? We have the “same thing” with conflicted perceptions of it that induce real and different responses, that often, must be negotiated. It’s messy yet empowering. The “keyhole “ of human understanding reduces humans to seekers and squabbles—where difference is a sign of error and not the diversity of approaches to life and learning that may be the foundations of what it means to be human. Not knowing the difference between shit and Shinola may be an error, but that error, like all error, is a sign of my humanity, which I value more than being correct. I am fallible, and that is my most cherished attribute.

My cousin said, “I think I see your wig spinning into orbit. How can you bother thinking about this crap when you have a life to live? Your Shinola experiment is a sure sign of your broken mind. Stop throwing dog shit at me and get in the car. We’re going to the hospital to get you diagnosed and put on some kind of medication. Put down the dog shit!”

Maybe he was right. Maybe I was a lunar module. I dropped the piece of dog shit and got in the car. We didn’t talk on the way to the hospital. When we got there, we checked in and my cousin told the receptionist that I didn’t know the difference between shit and Shinola, and I didn’t care. The receptionist looked alarmed and picked up the phone and had brief, panicked-sounding conversation with somebody. She pointed to a door behind her and said to me, hand shaking, “Go in there and wait.” She closed and locked the door. I heard her say to my cousin, “People who don’t know the difference between shit and Shinola, generally do not know the difference between good and evil. They are a potential menace.” At that point, they determined that I had no health insurance. That did it. We were escorted out of the hospital by five security guards. I was blindfolded and handcuffed. The cuffs were removed at the hospital’s exit and I removed the blindfold on my own. Because I was such a threat, my cousin got me an Uber. At that point, he wouldn’t ride with me.

When I got home, my Dad was waiting on the front porch with a .357 aimed at me. He told me to get in the house, with no false moves. It was like an old cowboy movie. My cousin came to my defense when he arrived in a Kevlar vest. He said: “I’m sorry. This really got blown out of proportion. There’s nothing wrong with your son, there’s something wrong with society.” I thanked my cousin. “Not so fast!” My father yelled. “What you’re telling me is everything is relative, that there’s no single idea of anything: society’s in control?” My cousin answered “Yes” and Dad lowered the gun and hugged me. At that point I was promoted from “crazy as a loon” to “really quirky.” I was grateful.

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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Paragoge

Posted on September 24, 2024 | Leave a comment

Paragoge (par-a-go’-ge): The addition of a letter or syllable to the end of a word. A kind of metaplasm.

I’m goin’ to the rodee-odee-o. I’m gonna’ ride Milky Way, the meanest milk cow ever to be born into this world. The bull who bread her mama was named Steam Shovel. Nobody knew why, but it sounded bad. He was a long-horn so every body steered clear of him for fear of being impaled on one of his 7-foot-horns: times two, they were 14 feet wide! So big, he couldn’t fit in a trailer, which made him even meaner. He was always mad and always ready to slash and dash. People talked about putting Steam Shovel down, but his owner would hear nothing of it. She was just as mean as he was. Tarny Brimwood, it was rumored, had killed a couple of men: men who loved her, bothered her and demanded she love them in return. Both of these men were found on a manure pile with a pitchfork in their back and a boot print on their face. Tarny became a suspect because, after each murder, she showed up wearing new boots, leading police to believe her old boots’ prints would be her undoing. Tarny scoffed at this, saying she had donated her old boots to the Salvation Army for the tax write-off. The police searched every Salvation Army Thrift Store within a 100-mile radius. The boots were never found and Tarny was released from custody. Tarny’s stud service flourished and she was elected Mayor of Dusty Trail, New Mexico.

Milky Way’s mama was a piece of work too. She was gigantic for a Gurnsey. Almost 6 feet to the shoulder! Her horns were beautifully polished and she was brushed at least twice a day, and gave at least 25 gallons of milk per day. Her udders looked like baseball bats and she had to have a specially made milker. Her stall was double-wide. Billy Bindlehoof was the only person she allowed in it. He was a kind young man who was good with animals. One day, the milking barn manager yelled at Billy for leaving a pitchfork out on the floor. Milky Way’s mother went crazy, and nobody yelled at Billy ever again.

I arrived at the rodeo venue and made sure I was riding Milky Way—the Manager said “Righty” and I got prepared. I was scared shitless, given Milky Way’s lineage and the stories I had heard about her. I heard she had once thrown a man 15 feet in the air, and that she had once thrown man so hard his hand was torn off at the wrist.

I resined my hands and jeans and mounted Milky Way in the chute. The chute opened and Milky Way meandered out like she was looking for grass. Then, she stopped and stood there and the crowd booed. I kicked her and punched her between the ears. She didn’t move. The time-horn went off and I jumped to the ground. She licked my face like dog and then knocked me down and stood on my chest. The clowns came at her with their cattle prods and got her off me. I found out at the hospital that I had two cracked ribs.

My cowboy days are over, but I’ve taken up with Tarny. She’s a little bossy, but beyond that, she’s the best girlfriend I’ve ever had. We each have a mechanical bull set up in the living room. We laughingly call them our “Cowboy Treadmills.” We love watching “Roy Rogers and Dale Evans” reruns and eating Tex-Mex food. I’m learning cowboy rope twirling tricks from a school on the internet. It is purely for personal growth. For money, I’m working with Tarny to make our own brand of Mezcal. We’re naming it “Blond Snake” after Tarny’s mother.

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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Paralipsis

Posted on September 23, 2024 | Leave a comment

Paralipsis (par-a-lip’-sis): Stating and drawing attention to something in the very act of pretending to pass it over (see also cataphasis). A kind of irony.

“I’m not going to say anything about your giant ass—that it jiggles like a water balloon when you walk and makes a creepy squishing sound when you sit on it.” That was ten years ago. I was admonishing my best friend’s father Lyle. His ass had continued to grow. At first, his pants would rip when he bent over. We thought it was funny, but his ass kept growing. Lyle started wearing stretch pants, straining to pull them over his medicine-ball sized ass.

As the years went by, Lyle’s ass went out of control. Next, he’d load his ass in a wheelbarrow and hired a man to push it along behind him when he went for walks. He wore a spa towel with the back cut out and a large flap sewn to it that would “cover his ass” when he went on wheelbarrow walks.

A few years later, he had his ass weighed. It clocked in at 3200 lbs. That’s when he started using the fork lift riding slowly behind him when he went for walks. They would put a down comforter over his ass secured with bungee chords.

That’s when I finally went at him again: “Your giant ass is totally out of control Lyle. You look like you’ve got Plymouth Rock glued to your ass. Your life sucks and it’s only going to get worse. Get your ass removed!” To my surprise, Lyle capitulated.

I went nuts on the Internet and found a plastic surgeon in Belarus who said he could “take care of anything.” His name was Dr. Cutler. We set up a “Go Fund Me Site” and raised enough for the surgery. But how the hell would we get to Belarus? Lyle’s fat ass definitely would not fit on an airplane. But FEDEX came through!

They would fly Lyle to Belarus for the publicity. They fitted Lyle with a quilted goose down suit that encompassed his ass. He would also have an oxygen mask, and would be riding in the cargo bay as a piece of cargo with the other things being shipped to Belarus: Coca-Cola, bullet proof vests, roller blades, etc.

When we landed, Dr. Cutler was there to greet us, standing by the flatbed truck that would transport Lyle to the clinic. I noticed he only had one arm, but I didn’t say anything. Dr. Cutler wanted to start the surgery immediately. There was a giant tent pitched on the front lawn of the clinic, festively decorated with balloons. The tent had a hole in the top where Lyle would be lowered to the operating table by a crane. Before they lowered Lyle, Dr. Cutler let us in the tent to have a look around. The operating table was stainless steel with a large drain. The operating implements were laid out on a table next to it. There was a razor-sharp cutlass, two muffler clamps, a pair of vise grips, and three rolls of waxed paper. I said nothing. Dr. Cutler shooed us outside. I looked over my shoulder as I went through the tent flaps and saw Dr. Cutler taking off his short and putting on his prosthetic arm, The arm was decorated with blinking Christmas lights. When I got outside, I waved to Lyle as he was lowered into the tent’s hole.

The surgery lasted three days. The surgery was a complete success. Dr. Cutler removed Lyle’s giant ass and replaced it with a cosmetically-created “normal” ass. After Lyle recuperated for 2 months, we headed home. When we got home, there has a huge party. Even the wheelbarrow man was there. Everybody wanted to touch Lyle’s new ass. He accommodated them all.

Lyle sang the praises of Dr. Cutler for the next 6 months when he died from “complications” related to his ass surgery. Dr. Cutler had embedded two holiday hams under the excess flesh from the giant ass removal. The hams went bad, killing Lyle.

INTERPOL is currently searching for Dr, Cutler. He was reportedly seen somewhere in Syria eating a ham and cheese 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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Paramythia

Posted on September 22, 2024 | Leave a comment

Paramythia (pa-ra-mee’-thi-a): An expression of consolation and encouragement.

“I feel so sorry for you. With the facial tic, We don’t know whether you’re smiling or “tic-ing.” I said to Don with my best tone of sincerity in my voice—a sort of whining certitude with an upward inflection. At school, when Don started to tic, he was escorted out of class by the day’s assigned student. It wasn’t so much the tic, but the noises he made—it was a whooping sound that ended with raspberries topped off by a snort. The sequence of sounds was repeated over and over until he stopped tic-ing. Ten years ago Don would’ve been tied to a chair in the school basement all day. But now, Don was “mainstreamed” in the classroom’s front row. He wasn’t even tied down! This was good for Don. He only “blew up” once a day, if at all. When the tic was unwound, Don was a great guy. We all laughed when he called himself “The Ticking Time-bomb.”

I had heard that holy water could cure things like tics. You “anointed” your target with it and they were instantly cured. I had asked my priest for some and hie told me to get lost. The fount at the church’s entrance was under CCTV surveillance 24-7. I wanted to help Don, but as far as I could see, holy water was out of reach. Then, the good news came. We were going on a class trip to The Cloisters, in New York City. I wasn’t quite clear on why we were going there, but I knew the Cloisters had Catholic religious connections. Given its location in NYC, maybe I could “score” some holy water there. New Yorkers were notoriously crooked. I had a good chance of scoring.

We left early in the morning, taking a bus we went over the George Washington Bridge. I was thinking, “After all he did, all he got was a bridge named after him.” Then I remembered Washington, DC, and corrected myself inside my head. I had recently seen “Mission Impossible” so I was ready to steal the holy water if I had to. In my backpack, I had a piece of rope and a pair of black leather gloves. I would do whatever it took to get Don cured. We pulled into the parking lot, got off the bus, and headed for the Cloisters’ entrance as a group, with me lagging behind.

When I got to the entrance there was an old man outside, he held up was looked like a Tabasco Sauce bottle and asked “Holy water?” I said “Hell yes!” He told me it was $2.00. I handed him $2.00 and he handed me the bottle. When I got inside, I looked at the bottle—the label said “Holey Water” like holey socks. I had been scammed. I looked outside and the old man was gone. We toured the Cloisters and it was awesome. As we exited we went through the gift shop. There were pictures of baby and grown-up Jesus, plastic replicas of the Holy Grail, book marks, sandals, and low a behold—holy water! I bought two gallon jugs. They were hard to get back to the bus, and even harder to get home. I couldn’t wait to dump them on Don and cure him. If he had been on the Cloisters trip, I probably would’ve doused him on the bus.

I lugged the two gallons of holy water to school the next day. I doused Don after we took our showers after gym class. He immediately broke into a classic Don tic. The I remembered the counterfeit holy water in my back pack in my gym locker. I ran and got it, almost slipping on the wet floor. I ran back and shook a couple of drops on Don’s head while he whooped and tic-ed uncontrollably.

Suddenly Don went silent, then he started whooping and tic-ing again. I shook more holey water on his head and everything stopped. Was he cured? Time would tell. Don hasn’t had a tic-fit for two years. I subsequently discovered the holy water sold in the Cloisters Gift Shop at the Cloisters was fake—it was ornamental.

People say the old man at the entrance was an angel of God, and charged $2.00 to induce a show of faith. Nobody could account for the misspelling of “holy.” Since the incident, I’ve been acclaimed as a saint—anointing Don with Holey Water and curing him is considered a miracle. I’m waiting to be afflicted by stigmata to make the grade. In the meantime, I’m selling bottled water online: http://www.holeyh2o.com. The water is called “Squeaky Springs” and it comes from a secret location in North 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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Paraprosdokian

Posted on September 21, 2024 | Leave a comment

Paraprosdokian: A figure of speech in which the latter part of a sentence or phrase [or series = anticlimax] is surprising or unexpected in a way that causes the reader or listener to reframe the first part. . . . For this reason, it is extremely popular among comedians and satirists. An especially clever paraprosdokian not only changes the meaning of an early phrase, but also plays on the double meaning of a particular word.(1)

“I had a great thyme in my garden, It was six feet tall.” Ha, Ha! That’s funny. I think I’ll use it in my comedy routine. I spend most of my time composing hilarious jokes, like the thyme joke. “What did the rodeo horse say to the cowboy? If I could make a buck, I could throw my rider.” This is high comedy—it has everything: money, violence, revenge. This is a classic, and I wrote it and performed it, and nobody laughed at it. “I walked into a Church and asked a priest where God was. ‘In that book over there.’ He said.” Ha, Ha! This is so funny even the Pope would laugh. God works in mysterious ways! Ha! Ha! Religion is always funny. “What did Judas whisper in Jesus’ ear? You need a breath mint.” My God that’s funny. It teeters on the edge of perfection. “How many Presbyterians does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Presbyterians don’t screw in lightbulbs.” Wo! I’m going over the edge. I’m rolling on the floor. I think I’m having a heart attack.

Jim dialed 911. The ambulance arrived. As they were putting him on the stretcher Jim asked, “Will this gizmo make me taller? Stretcher, Ha! Ha! Get it?” Then he passed out and went into what orderlies thought were convulsions, but it was actually laughter. They strapped him down and took off for the hospital. This was Jim’s seventh heart attack induced by inane laughter. He suffered from “Bad Joke Syndrome.” He was a regular in the Emergency Room. Everybody said he was lucky to be alive. He had been admonished countless times by Dr, Bleak to stop with the stupid jokes or he would kill himself. Jim was supposed the be reading “The Scarlet Letter” and discussing it with Dr. Bleak’s assistant Dick Dour. But Jim had been lax—it never failed. He’d nearly die from inane laughter, and then go back to writing and performing his for-shit jokes in front of family and what few friends he had left. One of those “friends” was Red Oxnard.

Red worked in the IKEA warehouse in Newark, New Jersey. He had known Jim since their school days in Morristown, New Jersey. That’s when Jim started suffering from Bad Joke Syndrome (BJS). He would try to make up funny lyrics for the school song, blurt out in class, make up jokes about rope climbing in gym class, and more. When people saw him coming they would yell “shut up!” But Red stuck with him. He knew Jim would gain access to his annuity what he was 45. His parents had died in a “carbon monoxide” event in their garage when Jim was 15. Jim had made jokes about what had happened and he was “sent away” until he was 21. He was released, uncured of BJS on his 21st birthday. Red picked him up, and lauded his joke efforts, telling him he was getting better. But he wasn’t. Actually, he was getting worse.

Red called his girlfriend on the phone to tell her his plan was going well. He was about to worm his way into Jim’s will and then show him “Benny Hill” reruns until he laughed himself to death with another heart attack.

Jim was listening in and recording Red’s phone call. He accosted Red in the hall and said “Ha! Ha! The joke’s on you!” He started playing the recording in Red’s face. Red said, “I was only joking.” Jim started laughing. He laughed so hard he blew his aorta and died. Red’s plan was foiled and per his will, Jim’s fortune was donated to the Henny Youngman Foundation. Jim’s tombstone reads: ”I’m dead. I can’t get you started.”

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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Paregmenon

Posted on September 20, 2024 | Leave a comment

Paregmenon (pa-reg’-men-on): A general term for the repetition of a word or its cognates in a short sentence. Often, but not always, polyptoton.

Movin’ and groovin’, groovin’ and movin’ makin’ my way to Saturday night—night fever had me in its groovy grip. The Bee Gees were blaring and I was bustin’ moves in front of my full-length mirror, making the floor shake in my funky old apartment by the railroad tracks in a tiny town in south Minnesota. By day, I wore a hairnet and worked in the Thor Knudsen High School Cafeteria. On Saturday Nights, I wore a black leather jacket, black platform shoes, black slacks, a black belt with my initials as a buckle, a black ruffled shirt unbuttoned to my belly button, with gold neck gear around my neck, featuring a Peruvian Coke spoon the size of a soup spoon, a peace sign medallion and a gold-placed Matchbook toy ambulance. My life was devoted to the dance, and, eventually, to Ruby, my partner.

Nobody wanted Ruby as a dance partner. She only had one leg, and those oafs couldn’t see past that. Her leg had been amputated below the knee, so she still had considerable mobility with her prosthetic leg. She had lost her leg in a car accident. She and her boyfriend were riding along singing “Blueberry Hill.” When they got to “I found my thrill . . .” Ruby squeezed her boyfriend’s crotch and he ran into a bridge abutment at 70MPH, killing him instantly. Ruby became despondent, taking responsibility for Tommy’s death. She would do crazy things, like drinking beer out of her prosthetic leg. That’s where I met her. She was drunk and she was taking a drink from her leg. I knew her story and my heart went out to her. I said “Come on baby, let’s get you home.” She swung her leg at me and hit me in the face. My nose started bleeding and she started crying and apologizing. She put her leg back on and we left. We dated and she seemed to be calming down. Then, the disco craze hit.

It hit me hard. I was obsessed, addicted, a prisoner of the beat. Initially, I left Ruby behind. After all, she only had one leg. But when I saw her face when I was practicing in the mirror, my heart broke. We had to figure out a way to get her on the dance floor. We practiced in the apartment, surprisingly fast, she got the moves—the leg-thing meant nothing with the exception of one dance move we developed together. I would pick her up and take off her leg and set her on the floor—she would rock back and forth to the beat of the music, watching me, while I would hold up her leg and wave it around like a lasso over my head. Then, she would lay on her back and I’d pop her leg back on and pull her up, continuing to dance. Not everybody liked the move, and that was a shame.

Anyway, Ruby and I outlasted the Disco craze. We are married and have a daughter. I was promoted to lunchroom cashier and eventually started a franchise of all you can eat buffets called “Tubby’s Trough.”

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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Pareuresis

Posted on September 19, 2024 | Leave a comment

Pareuresis (par-yur-ee’-sis): To put forward a convincing excuse. [Shifting the blame.]

“Excuse me, I just remembered I’m supposed to be somewhere else. I have to leave.” I was fearless and I was bored. Grandma was ready to blow out the candles on the cake marking her 82nd birthday. Everybody said they understood as Grandma held her breath a little too long and landed face down in the cake. Somebody called 911 while i called Uber to take me home. I was looking forward to listening to music and playing with my X-Box—the latest “Call of Duty.” I found out a couple of days later that Grandma had a stroke. I sent her some flowers and hoped she’d live a while longer.

Excuses are the soul and substance of my life. Excuses are like apologies. They may mend relationship fractures after you screw up, or before, as a part of hoping to get your way. You give them when you’re accused, or, without being accused, in order to show your social competence, by being conscious of a potential breach of decorum. In most cases you’re searching for forgiveness, not redemption—too late for that. You want to mitigate your guilt. What you’re involved in is “accounting” (See: Scott, M. B., & Lyman, S. M. (2008). Accounts. American Sociological Review, 33, 46-62. https://doi.org/10.2307/2092239).

As you’ve probably guessed, accounts are great for keeping your ‘face’ intact. There are also justifications, they’re for anther day (this is an excuse. Ha Ha).

One day I’m walking along behind a family. I pick Dad’s back pocket and fish out his wallet. I trip on the pavement when it’s about a quarter-inch from being stolen goods. Dad feels it and spins around. “Did you steal my wallet?” He asks clutching my throat. I yell choking, “No sir, HE did, He ducked in that alley!” I point. He takes off to catch the guy and I take off in the opposite direction, wallet hidden in my secret pocket.

The excuse I employed: shifting the blame to guy in the alley. Also, talking to my fellow robbers, I could account for almost getting caught, by “blaming” the crack I tripped on. More shifting the blame. So basically, you have en excuse because you had no intention, or you had no control—buffeted by the winds of fate, or a crack in the pavement.

Remember, if things go wrong, and you’re caught red-handed, you should always have, at a minimum, an excuse ready, and better yet, a justification. Master the art of accounting, and you’ve mastered the art of life.

At least half of life consists of being accused—you’re always late (excuse: “I have a cheap watch, sorry, it’s all I can afford.”), you don’t care about me (excuse: Sorry, I’m not good at showing my emotions”), you spend too much money (excuse: “Sorry, I have a counting disability—numerochosis.”), you’re a slob (excuse: “I’m sorry, but it runs in my family. It’s in our genes.”), you drive like a maniac, (excuse: ”I’m sorry. When I get behind the wheel, I feel like I’m taking my dying mother to the hospital again, like it’s a matter of life or death. Mom died in the hospital parking lot.”), etc.

You can’t admit any accusations are completely true, instead, you must shift the blame. Watch out for accusing the accuser—as a rejoinder “Actually, it’s all your fault bitch” is the road to hell and could even result in your murder, especially if you’re unarmed and your accuser’s holding a knife or a gun.

If you master the excuse, most likely you’ll become known as a lovable boorish teddy bear among eligible life partners, husbands, or wives. Read Scott and Lyman, cited above. They offer a far richer tapestry of accounts than I offer here.

When you screw up, a good excuse will keep you in the game! But if somebody says “There’s no excuse for what you did,” get ready to take a heavy hit.

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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Paroemia

Posted on September 18, 2024 | Leave a comment

Paroemia (pa-ri’-mi-a): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegm, gnome, maxim, proverb, and sententia.

There are so many wise sayings, I had a friend, his nickname was Maxim. He had a saying for everything we had done, what we were doing, or what we were going to do: the past, the present, the future. Back in the day we called him an “idiot savant” but now, it is considered an insult. Now, we say he has “Savant Syndrome.” Maxim never deserved to be called an idiot.” We enjoyed his company and marveled at his amazing ability to summon sayings to provide guidance and shed light on our circumstances.

One summer we were going to go to New York City to buy fireworks to resell where we lived in New Jersey. We heard you could buy fireworks in Chinatown. Maxim said, “Not all who wander are lost.” We took that as a positive sign. We weren’t wandering anyway. We knew where we were going.

We took the train to the ferry terminal, bought our tickets and got on board. We were really excited about a boat trip to Manhattan. Given our mission to buy explosives in Chinatown, we felt like pirates! As we left the dock, Maxim said: “A sailor’s heart knows no boundaries; it sails the seas of dreams.” As I leaned over the railing and looked into the swirling water with the wind in my face, I felt inspired, and I was only 14.

We slammed into the dock and we were in New York City. The air was polluted and the traffic noise was everywhere—especially the honking horns. Maxim said, “Arriving at one goal is the start of another.” “So true” I thought as we looked at the subway map trying to figure out our route to Chinatown. It was the Line 1 subway. A short trip, but not cheap. Maxim said: “Price is what you pay. Value is what you get.” As far as value went, it was a cheap ride: we were headed for a treasure trove that would be worth its weight in gold back in Jersey.

We got off at Canal Street and walked to the heart of Chinatown. It was amazing. Maxim said: “Travel and change of place impart new vigor to the mind.” He was right, we were excited. We couldn’t resist picking up a couple of souvenirs. I bought a puzzle box. It had sliders on the side that you had to slide in a certain sequence to get the box to open. It was really cool! Maxim said: “The art of simplicity is a puzzle of complexity.” I’d need to think about that one. It seemed like one of those “key to life” quotes Maxim would come up with every once-in-awhile. It made you think.

Now, it was time to buy our fireworks. The plan was to go up to random people ask if they knew where we could obtain fireworks. We insulted a lot of people before we found a guy leaning at the edge of an alley with a brown bottle in a paper bag. He said, “Sure. Give me your money. I will go get them.” This was just what we were looking for. Maxim said: “To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved.” Yes, I thought as I handed our $30.00 over to our go-between. He took off down the alley and never came back. We waited an hour. He robbed us. Maxim said: “Being robbed is a really great way of editing your belongings.” He was trying to make light of a bad situation. But it got worse. We emptied our pockets on the sidewalk. We had enough for the subway back to the ferry., but we didn’t have enough for the ferry back to New Jersey. We should’ve bought round trip tickets, like we did for the train. Maxim said: “Empty pockets never held anyone back.” The saying inspired us. We got on the subway. When we arrived at the ferry terminal our plan was to cry and beg to be let on the ferry with no tickets. At first the ticket seller told us to “fu*k off” he’d heard it all before, but we kept begging and crying and told him we’d been robbed. After ten minutes, he relented and told us to go ahead. Maxim said: “A little thought and a little kindness are often worth more than a great deal of money.” So true, I thought, as we boarded the ferry and sailed for New Jersey.

When we got home, we were empty-handed, but we had had an amazing day. I had fun playing with my Chinese puzzle box on the train ride back home. Maxim said, “Live and learn.” I agreed with that.

I hope you got an idea of what it was like to have Maxim around. He married my younger sister. They have a daughter named Anecdote.

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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Paroemion

Posted on September 17, 2024 | Leave a comment

Paroemion (par-mi’-on): Alliteration taken to an extreme where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant. Sometimes, simply a synonym for alliteration or for homoeoprophoron [a stylistic vice].

“Determined dogs drove dump-trucks down Drake Drive, dreadful, damned dogs.” This is the first line from the famous fiction writer Robert Magellan’s prizewinning novel “Dirty Dogs.” The 4 dirty dogs wear suits and ties and frequently speak in Latin catchphrases like “bona fide” or “alea iacta est.” Noteworthy for its astute use of alliteration, it prompted the “Colliding Consonants” fad, not only in literary works, but in speech too, where everyday speech became an alliteration arena, and so affected, that people were ticketed for its over-use. “Consonant Guards” were stationed in public places. They would record you on a phone and ticket you. If you took it to court, the recording would be played, and that would be that: a $25.00 fine would be levied and the defendant would be admonished by the judge to “Tone down the alliterations.”

How did this happen? How did alliterations make it into the legal system?

There was a woman in Texas, Taffy Jackson who never removed her hair curlers, and was as mean as a rattlesnake. She formed group called “Mothers Against Alliterations.” She argued that the Bible contains no alliterations, so they are Satan’s voice. Nobody bothered to check the veracity of her claim, so she became known as the “Chopper” chopping apart “consonanted couplings” and replacing them with non-alliterative words. She specialized in Texas school textbooks and novels. She earned permission to censor texts due to death threats and corrupt law enforcement departments, PLUS the huge following she had—millions of women had started wearing hair curlers all the time, some adopting terrycloth bathrobes and slippers too.

“Mothers Against Alliteration” caused unanticipated damage. “Fads” have almost become a thing of the past. There is fear that they will be regulated and become entangled in legal problems. After the alliteration fad was killed, men wearing high-heeled shoes emerged. The high-heel fad was quickly killed by “Real Men” a group from Texas founded by “Peener” Jackson, Taffy’s son who was a bouncer and professional wrestler. Peener was recently released from Huntsville State Prison where he spent six months for selling steroids to middle schoolers. Peener told us that the “Real Men” is his attempt to atone for past transgressions.

Just last week the “Equal Rights” fad bit the dust. It is part of a trend that will continue so long as there is social media and an infinite archipelago of burning hell-islands that it affords. Maybe literacy is the problem. Teaching people to read and write isn’t enough: it’s like giving a machine gun to a monkey.

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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Paromoiosis

Posted on September 16, 2024 | Leave a comment

Paromoiosis (par-o-moy-o’-sis): Parallelism of sound between the words of adjacent clauses whose lengths are equal or approximate to one another. The combination of isocolon and assonance.

Red lay cold, stiff, and dead. He should’ve listened to what I said. No brains, no helmet on your head. Now his brans are on the road, red and shiny like a condiment: like hot sauce. Your fate is your recalcitrance, your unbending unwillingness to take advice. I’m surprised you got this far—alongside Rte. 22 by “Hot Deals Hot Tubs.” They had to close for 3 hours while they cleaned you up and took away the remains of your stubborn unyielding life. You smoked too much. You drank too much. You ate too much ice cream. You engaged in risky behaviors. You marked targets at the rifle range. You bungee jumped off of every bridge in the New York Metropolitan Area. You raced Go-Karts. You ate Sushi. And there you go, riding away in the meat wagon to the morgue.

As your so-called best friend, I would be expected to give some kind of eulogy at your funeral. God, what will I say?

“Red was a risk-taker. But, he was also a gentle and kind human being. When he came to visit, he would pull Grandma out of her chair and make he march around the living room to get some ‘badly needed’ exercise. He would sit in Grandma’s chair counting cadence: ‘I don’t know but I’ve been told, marching grandma’s never grow old.’ He was kind. He cared. But his risk-taking was exiting. We could live out our own death-wishes by being around Red and watching him walk the tightrope he strung between life and death. Too bad he fell off and landed on Rte. 22. It is a New Jersey highway commensurate with Red’s character. It is like a bungee chord stretched across Central New Jersey. Driving it is like smoking five packs of Luckies per day, or running with scissors aimed at your throat. That’s why Red liked to ride his bike on it and that’s why we’re petitioning the New Jersey State Legislature to name a stretch of Rte. 22 ‘Red’s Way’ to celebrate what he stood for. Jon Bon Jovi has signed our petition. He’s also working on a song titled ‘Smear on 22.’

Red will never be forgotten. He will be remembered instead.”

There wasn’t a dry eye in the parking lot. The eulogy came through loud and clear over the PA system at the Stewart’s Drive-in where we held the funeral in Seaside Heights. Seaside heights is where Red took his first risk as a kid. He rode the “Wild Mouse” when he was 3.

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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Paromologia

Posted on September 15, 2024 | Leave a comment

Paromologia (par-o-mo-lo’-gi-a): Conceding an argument, either jestingly and contemptuously, or to prove a more important point. A synonym for concessio.

I told her I couldn’t take the dog for a walk because it was dark and I might get lost. She told me we’ve been living here for 12 years and it hadn’t happened, so it was nearly certain it wouldn’t happen now. Damn, I lost again. But, I’d give it another try. “But this could be the time.” She told me to shut up and handed me the dog leash. “But, what do think, I’m a flashlight.” She told me to shut up again and put the leash in my hand.

Losing to my wife had been going on for years, but I always had a new reason not to walk the dog up my sleeve, or ready to pull out of my ass. I didn’t hate the dog, but I hated walking him—walking, stopping, sniffing, peeing, and eventually squatting and dropping a steaming bomb. And then, I had to squat and pick it up in a little plastic bag. If anybody had told me 30 or 40 years ago that we’d be picking up our dog’s shit by the side of the sidewalk, I would’ve thought they were some kind of creepy poopoophiliac, on medication, and undergoing counseling for their condition. Anyway, I hated walking down the street with a bag of swinging hot poop in my hand. So, I had invented the “Poopvac.” It was like a Dust Buster for dog poop. It was a hollow walking stick with a rechargeable battery-powered a vacuum concealed in the handle. You inserted a specially designed condom-like receptacle in the walking stick’s tip. You’d hold it over a poop, pull the trigger, and it would suck up the poop and seal the receptacle in one smooth move. It was a failure. The receptacles had a tendency to explode, spewing poop from the walking stick’s handle. I tried to get funding to perfect it on “Go Fund Me.” I raised $16 and was mercilessly ridiculed. I gave up. A dark time in my life.

Two nights ago, I told my wife I couldn’t walk the dog because my foot hurt. I figured that was a winner, because she’d have a hard time proving it was a lie. She got up and went into the bathroom. I heard the medicine cabinet squeak open. She cam back with a bottle of Ibuprofen, told me to take two and shut up. I was had again. Would I ever come up with a reason not to walk the dog that would work—that would persuade her?

Last night was the end of it all. I told my wife I couldn’t walk the dog because I couldn’t find him. Somehow, he’d gotten lost. But actually, I had hidden him under the bed with a bag of Doggy Doodles dog treats. I was just starting to realize that putting him under the bed was a bad idea—he was housebroken, but not that broken. Just then, my wife walked past the bed and the dog came slithering out and ran in circles around her. She took him for a walk.

When she got back, she told me she was sick of the nightly dog walking bullshit, that she would walk the dog from now on. My new responsibility is “Housekeeper.” I keep the place clean, do the laundry and cook our meals. My wife walks the dog and pays the bills. Currently, I’m watching Julia Child reruns and working on a chicken fist puppet “Punch and Judy” routine.

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

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Paronomasia

Posted on September 14, 2024 | Leave a comment

Paronomasia (pa-ro-no-ma’-si-a): Using words that sound alike but that differ in meaning (punning).

I was going toward the best time of my life. I had won the lotto—$22,000,000,000. That’s a lot of money. Small countries were lining up asking for help paying off their national debts. I told them all no. Why not ask to be annexed by a wealthy first-world country, like China or Germany?

I was headed to “Peter Punster’s Prudent Puns.” It was a school in Newton, New Jersey offering a one-year course of studies in punning, opening doors to the future as comics or pains in the ass. I didn’t know whether I wanted to be a pain in ass the or a comic. I was already a pain in the ass, so I guess I’d become a comic.

Our first day of class we were regaled by Mr. Punster’s nearly non-stop punning: “I’m addicted to brake fluid, but it’s OK because I can stop at any time; What do you call an alligator in a vest? An investigator; What did one eye say to the other? Just between you and me, something smells; I can’t stand Russian dolls. They’re so full of themselves; Why couldn’t the pony sing in the choir? He was a little horse.”

This is just a sample. I felt like yelling fraud. Every one of Mr. Punster’s puns were taken from the internet, from Will Styler’s “A Collection of Terrible Puns.” I went directly to Mr. Punster and told him what I knew. He pulled a pistol out of his desk—it was a flintlock! He told me to go stand in the corner. He asked: “What’s black and white and stands in the corner?” I said I didn’t know. He said “A naughty Panda.” Then, he pointed at his desk and asked: “Why did Arthur have a round table? So nobody could corner him!”

What the hell was going on here? He told me to shut up and not tell anybody what I had discovered, and he would let me live. I agreed to keep my mouth shut: “No word of mouth, just mouth.” Mr. Punster slapped my face and said “That sucked more than a Hoover.”

On our second day of class we made lists of potential pun words: similar words and similar-sounding words with different meanings. The first one I thought of was gun: gun an engine and a gun you shoot people with, and then court: basketball court, legal court, and courting your girlfriend. I thought of about 50 and couldn’t make a pun out of any of them. That’s when I knew I wasn’t cut out to be a punster. So, I dropped out.

At lunch assembly, I got up on stage and announced that Mr, Punster was a fraud—that he couldn’t pun his way out of a wet noodle. That did it. He pulled out his gun and took aim at me. He pulled the trigger and the flintlock made a popping sound and a lead ball rolled out of the barrel. As he tried to quiet the panicked students, I ran out of the lunchroom door, hopped on my motorcycle and went back to being a normal person.

Have you ever wanted to be something, but didn’t have the skill or ability to be it? I pulled up my pants and said to myself: “If you can’t make it, criticize it.” I decided how being a critic may be just the thing for me. I could channel my anger through other peoples’ literary efforts—offering completely unbalanced readings of their works. No positive side. I’m calling myself “Blackie Spite.” I have a blog called “Ripping You A New One.” I have 500,000 followers who revel in my tasteless bashing of everything I read.

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

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

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Tagged definitions, elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Parrhesia

Posted on September 13, 2024 | Leave a comment

Parrhesia (par-rez’-i-a): Either to speak candidly or to ask forgiveness for so speaking. Sometimes considered a vice.

Somebody said “Honesty is the best policy.” If you’re going to follow this advice, there’s another policy you need to be aware of: a life insurance policy. In my business being honest is the quick way to a comfy coffin. There’s no place for honesty unless you’re making threats—“I’ll tear your throat out” is so honest it could be enshrined in the “Book of Truth.” It’s the epitome of honesty to threaten people and their pets. In my business everybody knows there’s no such thing as an empty threat. We’re not playing “just you wait until your father gets home,” the classic empty threat.

You guessed it. I’m a mobster. In addition to making threats: I steal. I cheat. I sell drugs. I shoot people. I kidnap. I blackmail. I con. you name it, If it’s bad, it’s dishonest, and if it’s dishonest I’ll do it for revenge and money. In fact, I spend half my time seeking revenge for myself and my associates. The aim of revenge is to inflict pain and mental anguish, and then, shoot the bastard in the head with your trusty Beretta.

Aside from finding the target, the big challenge is arranging the hit with minimal exposure to yourself. You see these stupid movies where hitters wearing balaclavas burst into a restaurant and shoot some guy in a suit eating veal saltimbocca. What a joke. What you want to do is use your Google AP to determine whether your victim has CCTV up and running. If he does, use your “CCTV Bye” AP to shut it off when you get to his home. Put on clothes you wear only to do hits. Put on your dark sunglasses. Check your weapon. Don’t forget the duct tape! When you arrive, park up the street and hack the CCTV to make sure he’s home alone. If he is, kill it and ring the doorbell. When he answers, stick the gun in his face and bully your way inside. Have him duct tape his feet together. Tell him to hold his hands together with wrists facing. Use your lightning-fast one-handed taping technique to tape them together, Then, using the same technique tape him to a chair. Now, it’s time to torture him—we’ll skip the details. When you feel like you’ve hurt him enough, shoot him in the head. Be prepared for almost constant begging, and crying, and swearing, and denial, and offers of huge amounts of money not to pull the trigger. Just ignore it and remind him why you’re there.

Revenge brings closure to my associates and tons of money to me. I have no conscience. I am a sociopath among sociopaths.

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, trope

Pathopoeia

Posted on September 12, 2024 | Leave a comment

Pathopoeia ( path-o-poy’-a): A general term for speech that moves hearers emotionally, especially as the speaker attempts to elicit an emotional response by way of demonstrating his/her own feelings (exuscitatio). Melanchthon explains that this effect is achieved by making reference to any of a variety of pathetic circumstances: the time, one’s gender, age, location, etc.

I worked hard on my garden from the first hint of spring, I raked, and hoed and pitchforked. I hauled in sacks of manure. I prepared the ground. Our lives were dreary. As a cashier at Mr. Preshet’s Kamra-Mart, I hardly made enough money to support my family. Every once-n-awhile I would buy a fresh carrot for Little Ralph. Although he had a mustache, he was only two years old. I loved sitting and watching him gnaw on his carrot like he was a little bunny rabbit. My wife Nutsy can’t get a job because of chronic body odor—CBO. She contacted it when she started jogging. The exercise triggered her sweat glands to overreact. She can’t use deodorants because of the overreactive glands’ intolerance to the deodorant’s chemical ingredients. So, without her working, we can’t afford to put fresh vegetables (or frozen!) into our shopping cart. It’s down to the garden.

I went to Lowe’s and bought some seed packets—acorn and yellow squash, watermelon, radishes, carrots, peppers, okra, and corn, and some tomato plants. Tomatoes were one of Little Ralph’s favorites; right up there with carrots. He would twirl the ends of his mustache, and then plunge his little fingers into the tomato’s thin red skin.

The next day we raked again, and then planted everything. It didn’t take long for everything to start sprouting. It was beautiful. Soon there were ripening tomatoes, squash blossoms, and lots of little leaves from the other vegetables. We were going to have fresh vegetables! Little Ralph twirled his mustache and clapped his hands. This was his ultimate expression of happiness. We were fans of Salvatore Dali and would watch newsreels of him. Little Ralph would watch too. Sometimes Dali would twirl his mustache, and that’s where we think Little Ralph got his mustache-twirling from, but maybe not. So, anyway, we couldn’t wait, se we picked a green tomato and sliced it, breaded it, and fried it. It so good, it even made Nutsy happy and smell a little better too. We all went to bed.

The next morning he was on his fourth cup of coffee and third jelly donut when he heard a weird sound in the back yard—a combination of grunting and scratching. He looked out the kitchen window and there was line of about 30 groundhogs mowing down the garden. They’d already eaten half of it. He grabbed the kitchen mop and ran outside to beat them to death. They weren’t having it. Before he could land a blow, they swarmed him.

He called for Nutsy, but by the time she got there, they were gone, and her husband lay bleeding on the ground. Little Ralph was crying in the kitchen window. Nutsy called 911, next she set up a “Go Fund Me” site! She’d been waiting for an opportunity like this—she was going to go for $1,000,000.

Everything went well. No fatalities, and $1,000,000 raised. But, in the hustle bustle of it all, Little Ralph didn’t get his revered carrot. He ventured out the front door and was run over and killed by a Good Humor ice cream truck driving through the neighborhood ringing its bells.

Little Ralphie’s little headstone has a carrot engraved on it with a quote from Bugs Bunny: “What’s up doc?” Poor Little Ralph.

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

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

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Tagged elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, schemes, trope

Perclusio

Posted on September 11, 2024 | Leave a comment

Perclusio (per-clu’-si-o): A threat against someone, or something.

“Can’t you read? The sign in front of to my house says ‘No Parking,’ not ‘Free Parkihg.’ It was put up by the city.” Actually, that wasn’t true. My son had made the sign in art class, as the final piece for his art project “Who says we’re free?” The other signs in the project were “Use Crosswalks,” and “Press Button to Cross.”

My son’s no parking sign was a masterpiece. It looked lke the real deal. So, I mounted it on a 4×4, dug a hole with my post hole digger, and put it up in font my my house. So, you might ask: Why did yo go to so much trouble? Well, I’ll tell you, and it isn’t pretty. It’s the marauding gangs of dog-eating Venezuelan refugees. I’ve never seen any, and nobody else has either, but, if we can’t believe presidential candidates, who can believe? What this enables is a clear line of fire that is not blocked by somebody’s parked car. I am serving my community and the United States of America—the good old red, white, and blue. So, the guy moved his car.

He heard bugles and drums. they got closer and closer. He ran side, loaded his assault weapon, and grabbed his binoculars. He crept up the street, and reconnoitered the marching group. It was a group of elderly women, some with walkers and canes, but almost all of them had small dogs under their arms. They were flaunting their intention to eat the dogs. They had a big banner that said “Seniors Love Their Little Dogs.” Their banner was a ruse—it says “Loves their little dogs—YES, LOVE TO EAT. They will be picnicking on those little dogs in the park at the end of my street.

Some of the marchers would raise their canes in a threatening manner. My hands were shaking as I set my AR-15 on a sandbag. I was risking a lot, so I called 911, gave a phony name and told them I was ready to kill some dog-eating Venezuelans, rampaging down my street. The police officer gasped. I ran outside to my no parking sign and pulled it up and hid it in my garage

The police arrived in minutes. They confiscated my weapon and arrested me. I’m awaiting trial for installing a fake road sign, and menacing.

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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Periergia

Posted on September 10, 2024 | Leave a comment

But what about my mother? She was made of slid personal hygiene flooring. We never talked about anything else, we would talk about different brands of soap at dinner. We’d talk about the relative merits of their smell—a very important topic to my who wore the soap sachets dangling n her armpits from a specially designed harness. Mom really smelled good. It gave me a feeling of optimism, that the world was becoming a better place—a place where cared how they smelled. we would have hygiene themed meals. The names of the didn’t reflect their actual ingredients. Hit and miss use them as topics for dinner conversations. There was Clorox chicken, Windex, Tidy Bowl Tuna casserole, Lysol lamb, Peroxide glazed pork shoulder, Comer sprinkled cod. Dinner time was always great. As we became better acquainted with disinfectants, we learned what it took to survive this filthy germ- and virus-laden hell hole. We knew we hand to be vigilant, armed sponges, paper towels, brushes, rags, and mops. Once a month we would eat off the floor. It would affirm Mom’s vigilance in protecting from the world’s filth. And this where the floor took on deep metaphoric significance eating from the floor symbolizes our desire to be close to the boards under our feet, that keep us from slipping into the basement’s abyss—the tangled mess below.

Periergia (pe-ri-er’-gi-a): Overuse of words or figures of speech. As such, it may simply be considered synonymous with macrologia. However, as Puttenham’s term suggests, periergia may differ from simple superfluity in that the language appears over-labored.

It was obvious to all who beheld Bo Jangles’ tap shoe that it’s well- considered whacking of wooden floors gave us pause and opened our minds to the realization that the floors were instrumental to his success. No floor, no above Jangles, the floor is a sweet metaphor for everything that keeps from falling into a hole or a basement? Your floor could be your car or your mother. Just think how your car is your floor. You come home from work angry and sad because Gorge Ridgly got promoted ahead of you. He escaped the hell of assembling Big Macs,and now, he’s a table wiper. You tell your cat Buffles what happened. Buffles sits there staring you as if you had a sardine in your pocket. This all you need to regain your footing: your cat has shown an interest in you. You Ross hm the sardine and go on to you next adventure—maybe having a beer at the pub around the corner where they’ celebrating Ridgly’s promotion. Damn. I’m staying home.

But Mom threw Dad out for cheating. Her name wasBabs and she had giant breasts—that’s all we about her, and that was enough. We made her favorite Method meatloaf. She was sad, but thar didn’t affect her appetite. At dinner, we talking about the best way to kill Dad, we determined that cleaning products were the way to go. We’re still working on the plan. We invited for next week to “make amends.” I don’t care if anybody gets their hands on this manuscript.

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

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

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Tagged elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, schemes, trope

Period

Posted on September 9, 2024 | Leave a comment

Period: The periodic sentence, characterized by the suspension of the completion of sense until its end. This has been more possible and favored in Greek and Latin, languages already favoring the end position for the verb, but has been approximated in uninflected languages such as English. [This figure may also engender surprise or suspense–consequences of what Kenneth Burke views as ‘appeals’ of information.

I was looking hi and low, far and wide, above and below for my toothbrush. After I tore the bathroom apart, I looked in my bedroom. There was my cat sitting under my bed with my toothbrush between his paws purring loudly. When I reached for it he put it in his mouth—like a dog with a bone. I yelled at him to give me my toothbrush and he just sat there. I got a mop out of the utility closet and tried to push him out from under my bed with it. He wasn’t going anywhere—he kept hopping over the mop when I swept it past him. I went and got his treat bag and dropped a couple of treats in front of him. He would go for treats, open his mouth, and drop the toothbrush. I would grab it.

Backing further under the bed, using the toothbrush like a rake, he dragged the treats and himself out of my reach. I gave up. I would put toothpaste on my finger and use it as a toothbrush. When I stood up, my cat popped out from under the bed and dropped my toothbrush on the floor. I picked it up and went and brushed my teeth.

When I got home, my cat had torn a hole in one of the couch’s cushions and was curled up sleeping in it. He looked so serene, black fur with one white foot. Looking at him, I almost forgot that he had destroyed a couch cushion. But I was getting used to this kind of stuff. He’s started using the kitchen door’s jamb as a scratching post. I’m not sure what’s next, but when he curls up on my lap, he looks at me with his green eyes, and purrs, I feel like I have the perfect cat.

Some friends told me if I get a second cat the two of them will be too busy to make mischief. I had no idea what “keeping busy” would have do with anything., or if “busy” would even factor in to having a second cat. I did what my friends advised.

When the to cats tipped over my plant stand, I realized the new cat would help with mischief involving heavy lifting. For example, as a team they could open my bottom dresser drawer and run wild with my socks and underpants.

I’ve given up. I’ve started trying to beat them to the punch. Yesterday, I pushed everything off my dresser. Tonight I knocked a couple of books out of my bookcase onto the floor. I wonder what they are planning next. Light the house on fire? Invite hundreds of other cats to live here? Find a way to trip me up on the stairs? Maybe I should try to load them up with catnip.

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

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

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Tagged elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, schemes, trope

Periphrasis

Posted on September 8, 2024 | Leave a comment

Periphrasis (per-if’-ra-sis): The substitution of a descriptive word or phrase for a proper name (a species of circumlocution); or, conversely, the use of a proper name as a shorthand to stand for qualities associated with it. (Circumlocutions are rhetorically useful as euphemisms, as a method of amplification, or to hint at something without stating it.)

“Sneezy.” I was allergic to air. They called me “Sneezy” because of my nearly non-stop sneezing, disturbing the quiet, waking up my family at night, startling old ladies on the bus. I had tried every available remedy from over the counter, to prescription pills and nasal sprays. I carried a handkerchief everywhere I went to block the spay and wipe my nose and blow out the remaining snot. The sneezes were unpredictable, day and night. I lived in New York City, so there were plenty of quacks offering a variety of treatments that probably didn’t work, but seemed to be worth giving a try. The first one I tried was kitchen matchsticks. I stuck the matchsticks up my nose and carried a Bic lighter. When I felt a sneeze coming on, I was supposed to light the matches. The first time I tried it the lit matches shot out of my nostrils when I sneezed and started a small fire on my comforter, and also, I slightly burned my left nostril and had a terrible time picking my nose for about three days. I had my comforter repaired and quit the matchstick remedy.

Next were filter tip cigarettes. I learned to smoke through my nose. It was awkward, but if it worked it would be a blessing. The idea was that the smoke would “terminate” the nasal pathogens causing my sneezing. I lit up and laid back on the couch to watch “Saturday Night Live” and fell asleep. I sneezed and the lit cigarettes blew out of my nose and caught my shirt on fire. The fire burned into my beard before I could stand up, rip off my shirt with the cigarettes wrapped in it, and run water on it in the kitchen sink. My hands were slightly burned and I had to smear them with Neosporin daily and wear plastic bags over them in the shower for a week.

Then, I tried a nasal vacuum. It was an attachment for my Hoover. I stuck the two prongs in my nose and flipped the switch. It cleared my nasal cavities, but the prongs got stuck in my nostrils. I had to go to the hospital Emergency Room to have it removed. People looked at me like I was a space alien. Some laughed out load, and one guy asked me “What the fu*k” had happened to me. They were going to perform emergency surgery on me when I had a super-sneeze and the prongs blew out and hit the surgeon in the face.

I could tell you ten more stories, but I think three is enough to give you a sense of what I have endured, willingly, for the sake of killing the sneeze. Finally, I went to Botswana. There was a shaman there named Doc. Rhino who reputedly could cure the sneezes. When I arrived he was waiting for me at the airport. He looked like a normal person. We took a cab to his home. Along the way to his home the front driver’s side door fell off the cab and we were delayed ten minutes while the driver put it back on. Doc. Rhino said “Welcome to taking a cab in Botswana.” The house was beautiful with two hyenas chained outside front door. He said: “There is one price you must pay to remedy your sneezing. You must have a permanent booger tattooed in your right nostril where it can be seen.” At that point, I would’ve agreed to having my nose amputated if it would’ve helped. So, I agreed. We went into a back room where there was a chair like a dentist’s chair and I was tattooed.

The next day at breakfast he pulled out a ziplock bag with a disgusting-looking rag in it. “Here is your remedy. Put the rag over your nose when you feel a sneeze coming, and the sneeze will vanish. To keep it working, you have to return once a year to have it reinfused with the potion.” I agreed, and it has worked ever since. It disgusts most onlookers when I use it, but I can’t live without it. The booger tatoo has been a bit of a problem though. Dating has been a real problem. I put makeup on it, but it doesn’t quite look right. My dates spot it right away. Some will tell me I have booger, and when I tell them it’s a Tatoo, they excuse themselves and don’t come back. Less sensitive people just leave. My only hope is find a man who has been to Botswana too. We’ll share matching boogers and, with luck, live happily ever after.

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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Personification

Posted on September 7, 2024 | Leave a comment

Personification: Reference to abstractions or inanimate objects as though they had human qualities or abilities. The English term for prosopopeia (pro-so-po-pe’-i-a) or ethopoeia (e-tho-po’-ia): the description and portrayal of a character (natural propensities, manners and affections, etc.).

I looked into the forest and it said “Cut me down. Make me into picnic tables.” This was a familiar request. My Great, Great, Great, Great Grandfather Willard Stick in invented the picnic table, and sort of like Johnny Appleseed, “planted” them in public places throughout the New England states. He planted his first picnic table in Sterling, Massachusetts. Today, that picnic table is preserved under a canopy to commemorate the first “planting.” In the 60s it was set on fire by a crowd of hippies protesting its “forcing people” to face off in lines on either side of the table leading to conflict, and even food fights . They favored circular tables emphasizing unity and love. The fire was quickly extinguished and the demonstrators were arrested. They made t-shirts that said “Round not Rectangular” that were popular for a couple weeks and disappeared from the streets of Boston where the protesters had a commune.

Since then, of course, the picnic table has established itself once and for all as a staple of public places, and also private gatherings. Many a hot dog and hamburger has been consumed at picnic tables, along with beans, coleslaw with pineapple chunks, potato salad, and jello with little marshmallows mixed in.

My lifelong dream had been to build the word’s biggest picnic table. I’ve thought about it since high school when I told my girlfriend about it, and she told everybody else about it. I was ridiculed by my peers at “Hoity Toit Prep” for having working class dreams for my future—picnic tables were for losers. When they ate outside, they would have their servants carry a table and chairs outside. If they wanted eat outside at a park, their servants would load a table and chairs in the estate’s pickup truck and drive them to, and unload them at the site of the picnic.

The ridicule didn’t deter me. I was rich, but I didn’t care. I had worked for the past 20 years at the factory overseeing the construction of our picnic tables. Now, it was time to realize my dream. I purchased a hill top in Vermont with an outstanding view of a valley.

I assembled the best woodworkers in the world from Germany’s Black Forest. These men and women were renowned for their ability to build cuckoo cloaks with one hand while being blindfolded. Next, I drew up plans. Briefly, the table’s top will be the size of a football field. The table will 200 ft. tall. There will be two elevators at each end of the table. They will be designed as large picnic baskets and will be outside in full view, going up and down. There will be a restaurant on the tabletop designed to look like a picnic basket. The menu will include only picnic food, and, of course, the seating will consist of picnic tables. Last, there will be a corn hole court at one end of the tabletop and a tether ball court at the other. The whole will be named “Picnic Immortal.”

The picnic park’s name is intended to hint that “the picnic” is an activity that could be could considered sacred and could be one of our activities in the afterlife. In fact, Heaven could be an eternal picnic. I have begun to see: clearly, the table prepared in Palm 25:3 is a picnic table. The picnic table is frequently a site of familial love. It can be understood as a shrine, with baked beans and hot dogs, and all the rest, taken as sacraments and their eating as a kind of “table top” communion—kind of like the last supper which was eaten at a picnic table.

Now that I see the spiritual significance of the picnic table, I have gathered a small group of followers. We wear small picnic baskets around our necks that we purchase from a company that sells miniature dollhouse items made out of plastic. As I continue my activities, I prophesy I will crucified on a picnic table. Today a picnic table said to me: “Don’t fret Mr. Stick—have a cold fried chicken drumstick and a couple scoops of potato salad.”

POSTSCRIPT

Mr. Stick’s dream picnic table was never built. After many court hearings, he was judged incompetent to run the picnic table business. He has been admitted to “Rainbow’s End,” a private psychiatric rehabilitation hospital. His brother told us “Toward the end he wore a white robe and carried a beaver in a picnic basket who was going to be his German workers’ supervisor. Now he makes toothpick picnic tables and sells them in the hospital’s gift shop.”

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

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

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Tagged figures of speech, rhetoric

Polyptoton

Posted on September 6, 2024 | Leave a comment

Polyptoton (po-lyp-to’-ton): Repeating a word, but in a different form. Using a cognate of a given word in close proximity.

The steak was tough. I had a tough time cutting it and even tougher time swallowing. But, I was going to eat it anyway. I had to eat it. I had subscribed to “Straight Willy’s Honest Meats.” I got a “surprise” cut of meat in the mail each week and the subscription fee was non-refundable so I had to suck it up, or I should say “chew it up.” $450 down the tubes—well—not totally. The emu was delicious—red, juicy, and bloody. It came sliced and I cooked on the grill and ate it on hamburger buns topped with cheddar cheese with crinkly fries on the side.

The meat became increasingly exotic: raccoon loin, wildebeest tongue, pickled python, woodpecker neck, and whole porcupine. The porcupine alerted me that something was wrong. There were no instructions on how to prepare it—how to get past the quills and how to dress it for eating. Also, it looked like there was a tire mark cross flattened head. I wrote an email to “Straight Willy’s” complaining and I didn’t hear from them for a week. Then, they apologized profusely and were sending me five “braces” of prepared ruffed grouse chicks, a smoked armadillo, and a nutria. All exotic, and of interest to me as a connoisseur of weird food.

The baby grouse came packed in a box with dry ice. They were laying their backs with their little feet sticking up. Each one had a neatly printed name tag tied to its left leg. There was Ben and Jerry, Willy Nelson, Buck Rogers, Rembrandt, Ulysses Grant, Clint Eastwood, Blondie, Madonna, and Cher. This was too bizarre even for me! I sent “Straight Willys” another email, telling them I didn’t appreciate their sense of humor. They wrote back and told me that they didn’t intend to offend anybody. The naming was supposed to enhance my eating pleasure. That’s when they sent me the steak as a “peace offering.” They told me it was “aged beef” and it was—cut from a 20-year old cow. Inedible!

So, I cancelled my subscription. But, they’ve continued to send me bizarre meats. Earlier this week, smoked goat udders. Last week, breaded pig anuses. it is horrifying. If I could find where they’re located, I’d burn the place down. I just received a box today. It feels very light compared to the others. There’s probably no dry ice in it. I opened the and it was empty. There was a note in the bottom of the box. It said: “I hope you starve, Straight Willy.”

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

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

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Tagged definitions, elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Monthly Archives: September 2024

Optatio

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Paenismus

Palilogia

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Paralipsis

Paramythia

Paraprosdokian

Paregmenon

Pareuresis

Paroemia

Paroemion

Paromoiosis

Paromologia

Paronomasia

Parrhesia

Pathopoeia

Perclusio

Periergia

Period

Periphrasis

Personification

Polyptoton

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