Monthly Archives: January 2025

Diazeugma

Posted on January 6, 2025 | Leave a comment

Diazeugma (di-a-zoog’-ma): The figure by which a single subject governs several verbs or verbal constructions (usually arranged in parallel fashion and expressing a similar idea); the opposite of zeugma.

I was riding with my parents to my twelfth birthday party at Chucky Cheese. I was strapped into my car seat. My overprotective parents thought I was too small for a seatbelt. They believed I would fly through the windshield if we had an accident. My car seat didn’t bounce, rock, or wobble. It was solid. It took up the whole rear passenger area of the car and was bolted to the floor. It was upholstered with kangaroo hide. It had two cup holders—one on each side—a headrest, and a tray for snacks and my laptop. There was a pocket on the side where I keep my lotto tickets, cigarettes, cocaine, and newspapers.

The big newspaper headline this morning was “Trump Can’t Stop Saying “Mallard Duck.” Last week it was “Gooey Mittens. “Mallard Duck” seems to be an improvement. The thing is, nobody seems to care. Already, they’re selling hats and t-shirts that say Mallard Duck on them. JD Vance is telling us that “the mallard duck” is a strategy for “ducking things” that pose a threat to national security. That would include Chow Mein, Bidets, Maple Syrup, Cuckoo clocks, and Doc Martens.

It was hard to believe that he’d only been President for a week. So much had happened. Hilary Clinton was jailed for “taboo behavior in an automobile” for reclining her seat “all the way” in a public parking lot. Bernie Sanders has been compared to Freddie Kruger and is being sought for “crimes against humanity.” Obama has been deported to Kenya.

Now that fully-automatic weapons are legal and issued to every American, 50-1,100 people are being mowed down on a daily basis—schools and malls are the most likely places to die, followed by sporting events and dance clubs. Desolate areas of Texas and Arizona have been made into concentration camps for the anticipated influx of at least a million of captured illegal aliens. Trump’s first “catch” was a Canadian man who tried to marry an American woman he had been dating for two years.

The worst is the requirement that every American eat at least two beef patties with onions per day. People are subject to random blood testing of cholesterol levels. If you fail the test you’re remanded to “Beef Camp” for reeducation; slaughtering cows and dismembering them with electric chainsaws. A close second is “Tribute.” Income taxes have been abolished. Now, my parents pay trbute directly to Trump and he doles the money out at his discretion to government entities and family members.

2025 can only get crazier. I want to fly away on one of those drones hovering over New Jersey.

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

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

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Dicaeologia

Posted on January 5, 2025 | Leave a comment

Dicaeologia (di-kay-o-lo’-gi-a): Admitting what’s charged against one, but excusing it by necessity.

I held up ten fingers. It wasn’t a gesture. I was looking at my fingernails. I had cut them two days ago. They had grown an eighth of an inch already. I was sick of clipping them, so I let them go. Now, they were one inch long. I couldn’t push buttons—I couldn’t open the trunk of my car, I couldn’t turn on my blender, I couldn’t pet my cat, but at least I could scratch him. My claws were better than his. I thought about getting a scratching post to keep my nails in line, but they weren’t abrasive enough. Eventually, I settled on a rasp which is a mega-file. I got a 10″ Flat Bastard Cut Wood Rasp, designed to quickly make its way through wood-working projects.

Although the rasp worked like a charm, it was still a pain having to tend to my fingernails every day. Then I remembered that veterinarians did surgery on cats where they removed their claws. Maybe that would work for me. I told Morty’s (my cat) veterinarian about my problem and asked her to remove my fingernails. I showed her my hand. She put her hand over her mouth, gasped, backed up against the wall, and pulled out her cell phone. I told her I was only kidding—who would want to do that? She laughed uncomfortably, put her cellphone away, and told me our appointment was over.

My nails kept growing and I kept rasping. My life was miserable. I remembered seeing a movie where a Japanese soldier pulled out fingernails as a form of torture during interrogation. I went to a Sushi restaurant. I asked if any WW II vets worked there who knew how to extract fingernails. The waiter yelled “Asshole!” and hit me over the head with a chair. The other employees formed a circle, put me in it and took turns hitting me in the face. Clearly, I had insulted them. They threw me out into the street, where my foot was run over by a motorcycle returning from a delivery.

I crawled the 5 blocks home, leaving a trail of blood behind like a wounded animal. The next morning my head was swollen up like a pumpkin from being beaten, my foot was sore, and my nails had grown again. I started crying, picked up my rasp, and headed to Morty’s vet.

I burst into her front office brandishing my rasp. I dragged her into the surgery with my rasp to her throat. “Pull ‘em” I yelled “Or I’ll file your nose off.” She told me to calm down and sprayed my hand with lidocaine. She got a pair of surgical pliers out of a drawer behind her. She told me to put my hand flat on the operating table.

Suddenly there was a pounding on the door. “Open up! Police.” I said, “I will kill Dr. Leah if that door moves. I am desperate.” The pounding stopped.

She pulled out my thumbnail. The pain was horrible, but fleeting. She did all ten fingers and bandaged my hands. I put down the rasp, opened the door and was arrested.

I was charged with false imprisonment, disregarding police orders and making death threats. During the trial, I told my fingernail story, and how, since I had them removed, I was living a normal and productive life working as a masseur, where having no fingernails was a real advantage.

I was found guilty. In his sentencing, the judge cited mitigating circumstances and gave me two weeks of home confinement.

I noticed the judge had longer than normal fingernails.

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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Dilemma

Posted on January 4, 2025 | Leave a comment

Dilemma (di-lem’-ma): Offering to an opponent a choice between two (equally unfavorable) alternatives.

Making choices is overrated. I was stuck on the horns of a dilemma. You know, animals have two horns, and either one will hurt if it pokes you. But, the cow decides whether to stick you with one or both of its horns. You can try to escape both horns and escape injury. Otherwise you’ll be gored and make a mess on the barn stall floor and, with luck, maybe survive.

But what I’m talking about is making a choice between equally bad alternatives that are impinging on your life, and it can be as minor as between spinach and broccoli—if you have to make choice at all. Abstention from both is an option, unless your mother’s standing there with a spatula ready to beat you on back of your legs if you don’t choose one or the other, of both, “for your own good.”

So, you run away from home and live on the streets and discover you can’t live a dilemma-free life. If you had to do it over again, you would’ve eaten the broccoli. It’s flowers. There’s no grit. It may smell bad, but it tastes good. You needed to learn that smell is less important than flavor when it comes to eating. If I had only known then, what I know now, I wouldn’tve had to fend for myself on the streets of Camden, New Jersey.

Since nobody ever went out for a walk in Camden for fear of being mugged or shot, panhandling on the street was out of the question. So, my plan was to seek alms door to door. That was a a mistake—begging for money door-to-door angered my prospects. The first time I was hit on the collar bone by a length of lead pipe should’ve been a wake-up call. But, I persisted, absorbing the obscenities, thrown objects, and the doors slammed in my face.

Then I came to a house with peeling paint and an overall look of disrepair. When I climbed the front steps one of my feet broke through the step and a cat meowed from under the porch. I rang the bell and nothing happened. I banged on the door. A girl my age answered. Her hair was dirty. Her nightgown was dirty. There was dirt under her fingernails and she smelled strongly of butt. But I could see—under it all she was beautiful. I said I was there to beg for money. She said, “Ok. My parents are in the kitchen.”

She motioned me into the house. Her mummified parents were sitting at the kitchen table with bullet holes in their foreheads, posed as if they were playing poker, with a huge pile of hundred dollar bills between them, and falling off the table 2-feet deep on the floor. She flashed a cute smile and I almost fainted. Then, I thought: “Its a friggin’ gold mine!”

She told me she had shot her parents “Just to see them die.” She said she was ashamed to admit it, but she was inspired by the Johnny Cash song and asked if I wanted to hear her perform it on her karaoke machine. I said “Yes” to appease her. Her voice was enchanting—she made murder sound like “Onward Christian Soldiers.” I was hooked.

We dismembered her parents and burned them in the fireplace piece by piece. We scattered their ashes in the Delaware River. We had 10 million dollars cash. I asked her where all the money came from. She told me her father was an exiled politician. She didn’t know from where.

By the way, she started practicing admirable hygiene, washing and brushing everything. She was beautiful. We fell in love. We got married. We decided to stay in Camden and raise a family. We rehabbed the old house, installing a walk-in vault in the basement.

Then one day, she aimed a pistol at my head and said, “I want to see you die.” I was ready. I drew my .44 and pretty much blew her head off. It was self defense. Now, everything would be mine.

I was tempted to sit her body at the kitchen table holding an Ace of Spades.

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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Dirimens Copulatio

Posted on January 3, 2025 | Leave a comment

Dirimens Copulatio (di’-ri-mens ko-pu-la’-ti-o): A figure by which one balances one statement with a contrary, qualifying statement (sometimes conveyed by “not only … but also” clauses). A sort of arguing both sides of an issue.

Protagoras (c. 485-410 BC) asserted that “to every logos (speech or argument) another logos is opposed,” a theme continued in the Dissoi Logoi of his time, later codified as the notion of arguments in utrumque partes (on both sides). Aristotle asserted that thinking in opposites is necessary both to arrive at the true state of a matter (opposition as an epistemological heuristic) and to anticipate counterarguments. This latter, practical purpose for investigating opposing arguments has been central to rhetoric ever since sophists like Antiphon (c. 480-410 BC) provided model speeches (his Tetralogies) showing how one might argue for either the prosecution or for the defense on any given issue. As such, [this] names not so much a figure of speech as a general approach to rhetoric, or an overall argumentative strategy. However, it could be manifest within a speech on a local level as well, especially for the purposes of exhibiting fairness (establishing ethos [audience perception of speaker credibility].

This pragmatic embrace of opposing arguments permeates rhetorical invention, arrangement, and rhetorical pedagogy. [In a sense, ‘two-wayed thinking’ constitutes a way of life—it is tolerant of differences and may interpret their resolution as contingent and provisional, as always open to renegotiation, and never as the final word. Truth, at best, offers cold comfort in social settings and often establishes itself as incontestable, by definition, as immune from untrumque partes, which may be considered an act of heresy and may be punishable by death.]

The complexities of life are never-ending. Just when I think I have an answer, I am confronted with another question I need to resolve. As long as there are answers, there are answers that are liable to repeatedly fail and, over time, may become foundations for questions, or themselves become questions.

We live in time—time consciousness is life itself. However perceptible, or imperceptible, change is the horizon of life’s striving. Life’s contingencies become “settled” by choice— they are “held” near and dear, and as we know, they can can be let go of—often to maintain our sanity, self-worth, or to release one’s self from the bonds of a broken heart.

We know, as we engage with other people, we differ. As two people look at the “same” set of circumstances, one may see reason for hope, the other may see reason for fear. Or, one may see reason for a judgment of guilt, the other for a judgment of innocence. Depending on the contexts, these differences are expected and negotiated by opposing discourses that may “win” a judgment commensurate with an advocate’s standpoint. In short, the so-called truth does not speak for itself, rather it may be spoken for by an advocate in a contest with an opposing truth, that may more plausibly affect the judgement of auditors—here truth functions as veracity and must appear relevant to a sound judgment of the case at hand.

And why must this happen? Because nobody knows—nobody knows what happened in the past and nobody knows what’s going to happen in the future. In sum, neither the past nor the future exist in the present.

This is what makes life so difficult, unsettled and unsettling. I don’t know if my girlfriend’s story of what she did before we met is true. I don’t know if her promises for our future are true—are sincere, as are her avowals of love and affection. I have to constantly impute motives for all she does—from giving me a ride to work to paying for our dinner and drinks on my birthday.

I suffer from “Suspicious Minds Syndrome.” Elvis sang about it, and probably suffered from it. When two people with suspicious minds try to form a relationship, they are doomed—there is no faith between them.

I am undergoing suspicion therapy—learning how to summon belief in my partner, without being duped. it is a kind of secular faith and a gamble.

Viva Las Vegas!

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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Distinctio

Posted on January 2, 2025 | Leave a comment

Distinctio (dis-tinc’-ti-o): Eliminating ambiguity surrounding a word by explicitly specifying each of its distinct meanings.

It made me mad, and I didn’t mean crazy or that it was somehow cool—I was angry. I had been slighted—made to feel smaller than I was. I am six-foot-two. She told me I looked six feet tall. I don’t know why she wanted to demean me, but it made me so mad I pushed her out my living-room window. I live on the first floor so she was wasn’t injured, but she had me arrested. I spent 30 days in jail and have to meet with a psychologist every Friday. I’m also doing 200 hours of community service scraping chewing gum off movie theatre floors. I put the gum in a backpack and carry it home. I’m making it into a chewing gum ball. After 200 hours it will be the size a Fiat and I will exhibit it on my front lawn, standing on top of it singing inspiring Bob Dylan songs, like “Masters of War.”

But anyway, as I’ve talked with the psychologist, I’ve remembered events from my life that may have made me so quick to anger.

My mother called me her little “Bugs.” She dressed me in a bunny suit and taught me how to hop around the living room. I learned how to say “What’s up doc?” before I could say anying else. She fed me raw carrots, and sometimes, lettuce. She made my father talk like Elmer Fudd when he talked to me, and call me Bugs too. At my tenth birthday party, my mother told me it was all a “tradition” and I could take off the bunny suit and be a real man.

Up to that point, I had worn my bunny suit to school. My mother had told the principal that it was “ethnic” clothing and that our origins demanded boys wear the bunny suit until their tenth birthday when they become a man. They shed their suit in a ritual lasting five-ten minutes. Afterwards they put on underpants, trousers, a shirt, and shoes and socks and find a job. When I finally shed my bunny suit, she asked the principal if he had any openings and I was given a part-time job in the school library at the check-out desk.

All that time I was imprisoned in the bunny suit it would’ve been helpful to know why. I never asked, but my mother should’ve volunteered the information. When I was hopping around the living room and everybody would clap their hands and laugh, I was filled with rage at hopping for no other reason than their perverse entertainment. I felt like a freak—a furry, hopping, cotton-tailed, carrot-eating rabbit-boy bunny freak.

This deeply buried memory of growing up as a bunny boy, triggers my anger, it is so twisted and vague that that it can encompass all of my experiences. For example, my girlfriend’s misrepresentation of my height enraged me because it reminded me of the veil of inaccuracy draped over my being that made me vulnerable and translated guileless inaccuracies into taunts and threats. I’ve since apologized to her. She has hired a bodyguard who, she says will beat the shit out of me if I come anywhere near her. So, the apology didn’t work out and it wasn’t therapeutic either.

I’m starting my 15th year at the school library this Fall. I am full-time now and my duties have expanded to cleaning the glass on the copy machine, and sometimes, shelving paperback books.

My psychologist has proposed marriage to me. I think it may be illegal, but I am going to give it a try. She agrees, if we have a baby boy, we should not dress him in a bunny suit.

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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Distributio

Posted on January 1, 2025 | Leave a comment

Distributio (dis-tri-bu’-ti-o): (1) Assigning roles among or specifying the duties of a list of people, sometimes accompanied by a conclusion. (2) Sometimes this term is simply a synonym for diaeresis or merismus, which are more general figures involving division.

Ok, one more time: Vinny, you stand on Old Man Nut Case’s front lawn and scream like a stuck pig. He’ll come running out the front door to see what’s going on. Ralph and Ticky, as he comes out the front door, you break in the back door and use your metal detectors to find his gold. When he gets to you Vinny, you taser the old buzzard, chloroform him, and you and Joey drag him back in the house. I’ll pull up and the four of us will load the gold in the van and take off. Any questions?

“What if somebody sees us?” Vinny asked. “We’re all wearing Ronald Reagan masks and I took the plates off the van.“ I answered. “What if the old goat doesn’t come running out?” Asked Ticky. “Then, we go in. We ring his bell and barge in the front door when he opens it.” I answered. “But why don’t we do that in the first place?” Asked Ralph. “Shut up.” I said.

The night came! We were going to be rich. It was rumored that the old man had $500,000 in gold stashed somewhere in his house. Supposedly, he was a gold miner when he was young, panning near Sutter’s Mill, California when discovered a vein of gold the size of a box car. He mined the vein and had the gold melted into ingots. He bought a modest home here in Bakersfield and had the gold transported here by tractor trailer truck. It took him a year to move the gold into the house without being detected. He wrapped the ingots in baby blankets, disguising them as infants, and carried them one-by-one inside.

He lives by shaving thin slices off the ingots and turning them into cash at “Gold Line” at the mall. The proprietor of “Gold Line” is our inside man. He gave us the heads up on the old man, so he gets 10% for informing us, and also, laundering the stolen gold.

The big night had come.

Vinny had perfected his stuck pig call. We pulled up and prepared to take our positions. We were immediately faced with a police car that pulled up alongside us, lights flashing. What the hell? We hadn’t even gotten out of the van. The cop said, “Mr. Zwanger across the street noticed your van doesn’t have any plates.” I said, “They fell off in the car wash and I’ve been too busy to put them back on.” The policeman said, “Ok. Put ‘em back on and stop by the station tomorrow morning.” I breathed a sigh of relief, but our plan was foiled.

As we were pulling away we saw the “police,” now with balaclavas over their heads, barging through the old man’s front door. We looked at each other and then said “Nah” almost simultaneously.

The morning newspaper’s headline read: “Phony Fuzz Finds Gold.” The cops that had told us to be on our way and put the van’s plates back on were fake! They had robbed the old man’s gold. We had seen their faces! We could help catch them. We went to the police station to see if we could help apprehend the robbers. The desk sergeant was of them! He recognized us instantly and he motioned us to the interrogation room. His three co-conspirators showed up. We made a deal. They split fifty-fifty with us to keep our mouths shut.

I was pretty sure they were going to kill us. So, I took my share of the gold and built a mega-church and became a Christian Evangelist Minister. I figured I’d be safe as a minister of the Lord. Plus, I give sermon after sermon on loving your neighbor. I think I even saw one of the fake cops in the back row of pews one Sunday morning. He kept pointing his index finger at me like a gun.

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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