Monthly Archives: December 2024

Eucharistia

Posted on December 6, 2024 | Leave a comment

Eucharistia (eu-cha-ris’-ti-a): Giving thanks for a benefit received, sometimes adding one’s inability to repay.

“Strawberry Fields Forever” was what I thought when I looked at the berry farm from a nearby hill. I was an illegal immigrant from Panama. I had come to the US to study English Language and Literature at Mickey Mill University. I was 45 and going bald in my freshman year. In Panama all you can do is money laundering or working on the canal. Neither option appealed to me. I wanted to teach English Composition. Even though I was a little old, I knew I could complete the degree and live out my dream.

I was so grateful for the student visa. I’ll never be able to repay America for the chance it has given me.

But it was all a ruse. I left Mickey Mill behind after one day. I had been planted in the US by my government to start a movement to sell the Panama Canal back to the US. The Canal had become a white elephant. It was hemorrhaging more money than Panama could cover. Panama was headed for bankruptcy.

Now that Trump had been elected, I might be able to turn things around. Biden wouldn’t even talk to me. I had been in the US illegally for 6 years. I begged my government for envoy status so I could operate more freely. They refused. They thought I needed to stay under cover. I was getting paid. It could’ve been worse. They sent a bag man once a month with a pillowcase filled with Panamanian balboas. I converted it to dollars at Newark Airport and nobody asked any questions.

After a month of trying, I got a meeting with Trump. Although I spoke English, he had a translator translate what I said into a New York City accent. I didn’t how it sounded to Trump, but I had to live with it.

We started. I said, “Do you want to buy the Panama Canal?” The translator sad “Do youse wanna buy the friggin’ Panama Canal?” Trump said, “Yeah, sure. How much?” I said “$650 billion dollars.” Trump said “That’s too fu*kin’ much. How about 625?” I said “Ok.” The translator said, “Fu*kin’ A!” The deal was done. We sealed it with a handshake—his tiny hand was disconcerting, but I didn’t flinch. Trump told me my check was in the mail. I didn’t believe him, but I went along with him anyway.

The check arrived in Panama two weeks later. It bounced. We tried to deposit it five times, each time Trump’s Secretary assuring us there were sufficient funds. It was like throwing a tennis ball at a wall and having it bounce back and hit you in the face.

Not since the days of Manuel Noriega, aka Pineapple Face, had Panama seen such militarization. Tanks rumbling. Troops marching. It is rumored we are going to invade the US and force Trump to pay what he owes. Every Panamanian over 12 is eligible for the draft. Iran is supplying drones free of charge. North Korean seamstresses are working overtime to supply uniforms.

POSTSCRIPT

After a successful glider invasion, Panamanian troops are occupying the US border from Texas to California. Under Trump’s command, the US military is in disarray, with troops standing by on the Canadian border, as Trump’s horoscope supposedly advises.

Finally, we got a check from the US that cleared. We’re going to play nice and welcome the US back to Panama. We are also considering withdrawing from the southern US border. We are grateful for the aid proffered by Iran and N. Korea. We can never repay them.

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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Euche

Posted on December 5, 2024 | Leave a comment

Euche (yoo’-kay): A vow to keep a promise.

“Promises made in the heat of the night.“ That’s not going to happen here. There’s no cellular service, the car won’t start and it’s minus 10f out there. We are stiuck. Stuck in the middle of nowhere. I guess I can make a promise that I can keep: we’re going to die, Srewzybelle. Screwzybelle growled and pawed my lap as if to tell me to shut the hell up and do something.

I had my lighter. I could light a huge bonfire that would light up the night and attract help. But there were no trees in the field where we had landed. Screwzybelle started barking and running around inside the car. I got the message: light the car on fire.

How did we end up here?

I was headed to my new job in Binville. I had been hired as a parking lot attendant at the local university, where people broke the parking rules all the time. I was to undergo two weeks of training on how to apply “The Boot” to illegally parked students and staff. Professors were exempt from all parking regulations.

Me and Screwzybelle were going to stay at my Grandma’s along the way to Binville. I had taken what I thought was a shortcut and we ended up here—trapped in the snow somewhere on the Great Plains.

I stuck a copy of “White Lines,” the parking lot attendants’ professional journal, down the gas-filler pipe. It had my article “Asphalt Sudoko” published in it. But we needed a fuse to get the car fire going, so it “White Lines” was going to have to burn.. I took my luggage out of the trunk and stacked it in the snow.

I dropped my lighter in the snow. It wouldn’t light now, so I put it in my pocket to dry out. The snow stopped tor about ten seconds and I saw lights up the road! We were going to make it! I trudged through the 2-foot deep snow and Screwzybelle followed in my tracks, wagging his tail and barking.

The lights were coming from a snowplow by the side of the road. The driver had his window down and was smoking a joint. We told him where we were going and he told us to get in. There was a box on the passenger side floor with a strong smell coming from it. He said: “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t open that box!” Screwzybelle sniffed at it and whined. He pulled a .45 and yelled “That goes for the fu*ing dog too!”

I hauled Screwzybelle up on my lap and said, “Message received.” We didn’t talk at all on the way to my grandmother’s. We arrived and I thanked him for the life-saving tide. As I exited the cab, by accident, I kicked the smelly box out into the snow. A soiled adult diaper fell out. The driver aimed his pistol at me and said “Put it back in the box and hand it to me!” I looked at him like he was crazy and handed him the box. Screwzybelle sat and watched.

He sad, “I fished that out of a porta-potty at a Trump rally. I think it belonged to Trump. I want him to autograph it so I can add it to my collection of Trumpa-billia. I have it in my plow’s cab to air-cure it, so it hardens up and becomes a better writing surface. Now, get out of here and keep your mouth shut. “I promise to keep my mouth shut forever. I will never break this promise.” I sad. Screwzybelle barked his agreement.

As you can see, I broke the promise.

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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Eulogia

Posted on December 4, 2024 | Leave a comment

Eulogia (eu-lo’-gi-a): Pronouncing a blessing for the goodness in a person.

I loved saying “God bless you.” It made me feel powerful, granting God’s blessing. Me, tuning in, at right moment, to give God’s blessing, to make it official in words. God bless you! I knew God appreciated it, I just knew. It was at the core of my faith in the one almighty invisible God.

At first, my criteria for what God would bless were rigorous. If I witnessed a life-saving event, I would give it God’s blessing. Lesser good deeds didn’t qualify, like holding a door open or helping an elderly person cross the street.

I started hanging out near the fire station. I would follow the firefighters and watch for blessworthy events and run up and bless the person performing the deed, or who had already performed it. Even when they failed, I blessed them. For example, there was an old man who died from smoke inhalation. I blessed the firefighter who had failed to resuscitate him. The firefighter asked me “what the fu*ck” I was doing. I told him I was blessing him on behalf of God for his saintly efforts. He told me to “go fu*k” myself and threw one of the dead man’s shoes at me.

Subsequently, I was banned by NYC from attending fires and rescues. At first, I didn’t know what to do. Then, I realized that God would probably bless anything a person did that wasn’t evil. After all, He blessed sneezes.

Once I relaxed my standards, unlimited “bless you” opportunities opened up for me. My first “bless you” under my new standards was a man who washed his hands after peeing in the Burger King restroom. I walked right up to him and said, “Bless you.” He hit the button the hand dryer and ignored me, but I knew I had done the Lord’s work.

In order to reach a larger group of potential saints and increase God’s reach, I moved my “bless you” operation exclusively to the subway. I started dressing like a priest to make it easier for God to recognize me as his trusty minion. Anybody I encountered on the subway that seemed good, I would bless. It was out of my purview to damn all the miscreants I met on the subway like the weird people squirming around on the floor, incessantly farting, or talking to themselves.

I would bless people who just sat there blankly staring or looking at their phones.

Then it happened.

Somebody wrote an article about me for “The Daily News.” She called me “the Blesser.” I was characterized as “a fake priest with a fake belief in God, who mocked truly religious people with his bogus willy-nilly blessings. Beware!”

And then I thought: the kid with a crutch in “Scrooge” had said “Bless us everyone.” It’s a low-standard blessing that nobody ever criticized. In fact, it made some people cry to see a boy who should’ve been embittered by his gimpy leg, offer his blessing to everyone—no exceptions.

I wrote a letter to the “Daly News” rebuking the author of the piece about me. My faith was stronger than ever. I believed I had redeemed myself and God had spoken to me.

I made a sign that said “I’ll bless you. $1.00.” I said “God bless you” as I headed for Times Square.

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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Eustanthia

Posted on December 3, 2024 | Leave a comment

Eustathia (yoos-tay’-thi-a): Promising constancy in purpose and affection.

I had bought her on a trip to Japan, where her “sisters” were on display in the window and inside “For Your Pleasure” in Tokyo.

I was chronically lonely, and extremely awkward. I couldn’t do small talk and I was obsessed with my toy electric trains.

The salesperson assured me that if I kept her clean and didn’t abuse her, she would be my partner for as long a fifty years. Plus, I could name her and dress her however I liked. I named her Bettina after my 7th grade art teacher.

She was made of some kind of space-age rubber that was used for skin grafts on burn victims. By programming different parts of her body, I could make her moan, squeal, or say “yes, yes, yes” when I touched them.

She had a beautiful voice. I wished that she cold say more than “Yes.” Then, one night we were having our weekly “slut night” at a broken-down motel at the edge of town. It was frequented by hookers and drug addicts. It was a perfect place for me to play out my fantasy. I dressed Bettina as a female version of the scarecrow in Wizard of Oz. I would pull out pieces of straw and tickled her crotchless overalls, I would say “This isn’t Tokyo any more baby,” playing a lecherous Wizard of Oz. I would then jump on her yelling “I’m ridin’ the yellow brick road baby!”

Suddenly, Bettina said “I love you Mr. William Bowyan.” I stopped yelling and jumped off her. All could say was “What?”

She said, “I love you Mr. William Bowyan. I want to be with you forever. You are my dream come true—ride the yellow brick road all the way to my heart. I am all yours, until death do we part. “Yes, yes, yes! Faster, faster! Ride!”

I can’t even say how I felt. I jumped back on and went wild. After my ride was over, I asked Bettina if she still loved me. Silence. I packed her in her canvas zipper bag and drove home feeling totally crazy.

When we got home I put her in her room. After about 15 minutes, I heard her bag unzip and there she was, standing at the foot of my bed in a sexy nightgown. She asked if she could get in bed with me. I said “Of course.”

When I woke up in the morning the bed was stained with blood and Bettina’s head was missing. It was found in my trash can and a bloody hacksaw was found on my garage workbench. I told police that Bettina was a rubber sex doll that I had purchased in Tokyo. They laughed and arrested me. Nevertheless, they investigated and found there was no such place as “For Your Pleasure.” Further, they found valid I.D. in Bettina’s purse, and finally, they had verified her employment as an art teacher at Fudd Middle School.

I’ve been convicted of first degree murder. I’ve exhausted all my appeals. I’m awaiting my lethal injection.

When the jury found me guilty and the judge sentenced me to death, I could hear Bettina softly saying “Yes, yes, yes.”

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

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

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Epizeuxis

Posted on December 2, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“Help, help, help!” It was 2:00 a.m. It was my goddamn parrot Larry. He was crying for help, so I had to check and see what was wrong. As usual, it was a false alarm. His seed dish was empty and he was pecking at it and crying “Help!”

I had inherited Larry from my Aunt Lana and I would inherit $500,000 if I took care of Larry for five years, or if Larry died of natural causes before the five years had passed. My aunt had died the previous week in a mysterious poisoning incident. Everybody joked that it was probably Larry who killed her. She and Larry had a notoriously bad relationship ever since she had bought him at an estate auction of Zippy Williams’s worldly goods.

Williams was found dead on his kitchen floor, his throat cut by a cuttlebone—the sharp internal bone of a Cuttlefish. Cuttlebones are often given to birds as a source of calcium, and also, to sharpen their beaks with. Everybody laughed and joked about Larry being Zippy’s killer.

Zippy had been paroled after spending ten years in prison for feeding his wife to a wood chipper. He claimed it was an accident, that she had gotten sucked into the chipper when she was looking for a missing erring. Her hair got caught in the chipper, and that was the end of that.

One of the terms of Zippy’s parole was that he obtain a pet and “learn how to nurture and love it.” That’s where Larry came in. His previous owner was an EMT who had fallen out of his kitchen window and died. Larry learned how to mimic the obnoxious “wee-wah” sound of his owner’s emergency alert box, and also to say “Help, help, help” like his owner yelled when he would frequently get up in the middle of the night and run out the door to an emergency.

Clearly, Larry had a checkered past.

Now, Larry was mine and I didn’t know what to do with him. His midnight antics were making me crazy.

Thanksgiving was just around the corner. Maybe I could pass Larry off as a small turkey and eat hm for Thanksgiving dinner. Only my girlfriend would be coming over. It might work.

First, I had to take off his head. I got out my biggest kitchen knife and headed for his cage. He knew what was up and he started yelling help. He got around my knife-hand and flew out of his cage, still yelling help. I dropped the knife, realizing it wouldn’t look like natural causes if I cut his head off.

He flew to the top of the bookcase and pulled what looked like a vitamin capsule out of the basket on top of it. He flew at me and shoved the capsule in my open mouth, dug his talons into my cheeks and flapped his wings until I swallowed it.

Almost immediately I saw colors and little men climbing my living rom walls yelling obscenities over their shoulders.

There was pounding on my front door. It was the police! The policeman told me that “Somebody called 911 from this address yelling “Help!” I told him it was my bird (who had gone silent when the police arrived). Then I asked if he was the Atman or the walrus and told him he better take care of the unpleasant little men climbing my walls.

Somehow, Larry was able to make a small cut over his eye. I was arrested and charged with animal cruelty and put under observation for “bizarre statements and paranoid delusions.”

Larry was sent to Florida to a place called “Parrot Kingdom.” I have heard he performs segments from the second act of “Don Giovanni” for the “Parrot Kingdom” tourists.

“Parrot Kingdom” has received the $500,000 from my Aunt Lara’s estate.

I will never know where the drug capsule came from that Larry shoved in my mouth. I suspect he had it hidden under his wing when he moved into my house from Aunt Lara’s. But, where did it come from? Maybe Aunt Lara was a fan of psychedelics? She often talked about attending “Woodstock” and how she was Peter Max’s mistress for a week. She made macrame plant hangers, tea cozies, mittens, balaclavas, and coasters for a living, and sold them on her Etsy site “Knot Now.”

I am homeless now and I owe it all to Larry. I have often thought of hitch-hiking to Florida and killing him.

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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Epistrophe

Posted on December 1, 2024 | Leave a comment

Epistrophe (e-pis’-tro-fee): Ending a series of lines, phrases, clauses, or sentences with the same word or words.

Snow was falling. Night was falling. I was falling. I had slipped off of “Life’s End.” It was a fifteen-hundred foot drop off a cliff. So, I had some time to think while I was falling. Nobody had gone over the cliff for 10 years. In fact, it was a disoriented lemming that last fell off the cliff, and now, it was me.

Nearing death, things started flashing before my eyes—the time I pulled off Santa’s beard and destroyed my Christmases forever. The time I lit my car seat on fire, playing with Dad’s BIC on a family trip to Canada. Trying to ride my hamster Tawny and crushing her on the kitchen floor. Gluing my hands in my mittens so I wouldn’t lose them.

Suddenly, I could see the ground. Two seconds, and I would be dead.

I felt something grab me! It was a net! I would live.

I knew why I had fallen! Why? Because I thought I knew better than the danger signs with pictures of skulls posted all around Life’s End. Plus, There there was no railing, just the abyss. Add the snow, and the darkness, well, anybody with a brain would’ve stayed away from the edge. But not me.

I had a brain, but some of it was missing. When I was 10, I had been injured in a clamming accident on the clam flats on River Road outside of Damariscotta, Maine.

My brother had accidentally hit me over the head with a clam fork and sunk 5 tines into my brain. I lost my sense of smell, and worse, my ability to foresee. So, I have trouble managing consequences. I usually travel with a minder who says “watch out” and keeps me from acting foolishly. But, my insurance had been voided when I was fired from “Only Bunkbeds,” and along with that, I lost my minder. I replaced him with a girlfriend. She didn’t cost anything, but she wasn’t as observant as my minder was, to wit, I lost two fingers on my left hand in a blender accident, got a tattoo of a fly on the tip of my nose that made me chronically cross-eyed, got my head stuck in a bucket like a bear, fell out a window, etc. So, we broke up and I was going to try to go solo. I was on my own, suffering numerous unforeseen consequences. I was trapped underneath my bed for 2 hours, until my mother pulled me out. I burnt my feet, toasting them in my fireplace. And now, the cliff.

Thank God for the net at the bottom of “Life’s End.”

Now, I’ve joined a support group called “Watch Out!” It is run by my former minder. There were a lot of stories told there. One of my favorites was the man who kept walking in front of cars. He stopped coming to meetings after one week. We all figured he was dead. Then, there was the woman who said she had 172 cats. She smelled like “Fancy Feast” white fish, had kitty litter in her hair, had a prescription catnip inhaler, and purred if you got to within 2 feet of her. We don’t know how she fits the group’s “Watch Out” theme, but she’s welcome anyway, just as long as she sits by an open window.

Currently, we are learning how “things lead to other things.” The first exercise we did was “The Pinch.” We pinched ourselves and became mindful of the fact that pinching “causes” pain. That is, first, there is the pinch, then there is the pain. The pinching exercise is a small step along the way to knowing how to “avoid or seek a given outcome.” I am optimistic I’ll get there.

POSCRIPT

Mr. Rollins, our narrator, died two days ago from a concussion received after wearing roller- skates while taking a shower.

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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