Monthly Archives: March 2025

Adynaton

Adynaton (a-dyn’-a-ton): A declaration of impossibility, usually in terms of an exaggerated comparison. Sometimes, the expression of the impossibility of expression.


“This is impossible. It’s like skinning yourself with a table knife, or making delicious stir fry with gravel.” These were Dr. Plug’s final words as he died, as his doctor said, from “trying too hard.“

He had been a professor at Habernero University (HU), holding the Chair of Repetitive Anomalous Ergonomics for fifty years. He had seen academic fads come and go—phlogiston, ghost plasma, total quality management, left-handed desks, faculty wife-swapping parties, etc. He always characterized it as “a wild ride.” He got tenure after his book “How Much?” was published in Poland by “Wydawnictwo Płatne.”

“How Much?” Was based on his decades-long study of the famous “Woodchuck” conundrum: “How much wood could a woodchuck chuck chuck if a woodchuck could Chuck wood?”

He spent days and nights in his laboratory. His wife left him and he forgot his son’s name. He called him “What’s his name?” The university’s Trustees saw the importance of his research. He was relieved of his teaching responsibilities so he could focus his endless intellectual energies on the Woodchuck Conundrum.

On campus he was a myth and a legend. Students were injured scaling the locked building where his laboratory was located. They wanted to get a glimpse of him through the second-story window working on the Woodchuck conundrum. Numerous students fell and were seriously injured. One student, Ted Clamb, managed to get a glimpse.

Clamb saw dozens of caged woodchucks and a pile of split wood on the floor. The woodchucks had muscular front legs and larger the normal paws. The student lost his grip and fell off the building before he could see more. He was seriously injured. After Dr. Plug complained about the “peepers,” armed guards were posted around the building. Unfortunately, a newspaper reporter was shot and killed when he breached the guards’ cordon and rushed the building. His death was judged to be justifiable homicide after a lengthy trial.

Based on Clamb’s observation, it became clear that Dr. Plug was secretly breeding wood-chucking mutant woodchucks as a preliminary to completing his central question regarding how much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood. We believe he was on the verge of teaching the woodchucks to chuck wood. In fact, events after his death have convinced people that he had succeeded.

One week after his death, his laboratory was vandalized by animal rights activists. They set free all of Dr. Plug’s mutant woodchucks. It didn’t take long before there were reports of rock-throwing woodchucks. Car windshield had been damaged, people were hit in the head by rocks, requiring stitches, and in some cases, hospitalization.

We are trapping the mutant woodchucks and returning them to Dr. Plug’s laboratory where his estranged son Woody will continue his father’s research.


Definitions 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.

Aetiologia

Aetiologia (ae-ti-o-log’-i-a): A figure of reasoning by which one attributes a cause for a statement or claim made, often as a simple relative clause of explanation.


I grew up in Sodom. Nobody did anything legitimate for a living. We all lived the Sodom and Gomorrah dream—carousing, lots of tattoos, having sex with our neighbors, and mistreating our pets. I had a hound dog named Bill that I hung by one leg from my garage’s rafters. Then we’d have a “garage party” and laugh and point at Bill until I cut him down around 4:00 am when the party ended and everybody but my neighbor’s wife went home.

I sold stolen eggs on the back streets of Sodom. I had six egg snatchers working for me—Rhode Island Red was my lead snatcher. He came in every morning with two baskets filled with eggs. The rest of them were pretty good, maybe Leghorn Larry was second-best.

I had emerged as the sole egg vender after the “Scrambled Eggs War.” The battles were fought with spatulas and heavy iron skillets. You can imagine the mayhem! I had an army of mercenaries that I personally trained in the technique of skillet-bopping and spatula-swiping. In combination the two techniques were unstoppable. We beat the opposition into oblivion and we began our enterprise titled “Back Street Eggs.” After years of selling stolen eggs at cut-rate prices, we’re on the verge of stealing whole egg farms, chickens and all. As a stolen business, we’d maintain our illegitimacy in keeping with Sodom’s ethic, that is, in Sodom crime is king. Even the chicken farms were criminal enterprises relying on a constant influx of kidnapped chickens,

If it wasn’t for the fact that there were neighboring cities that weren’t crime-ridden, there wouldn’t be anybody to steal from and Sodom would go banko along with its ethic of “crime first; depravity second; unbridled lust, third.” These were our founding penciled, principle that withstood the test of time—thousands of years.

There were rumors circulating that God was out to get Sodom for its so-called errant ways. It was rumored we were all going to be turned into pillars salt and our beloved Sodom was going to be blown off the face of the earth, along with our sister city, Gomorrah. Everybody laughed it off. Why would God want to do that to a little town out in the middle of nowhere, a million miles from anything that mattered?

Then, two days later the “Big One” hit Gomorrah. There was a flash of light and the whole city disappeared. I jumped on my donkey and got the hell out of Sodom. I saw this woman by the side of the road. She turned and looked back at what was happening and she turned into a pillar is salt. It freaked me out. I didn’t look back and got my donkey up to full speed by whipping the hell out of it—Dunkin Donkey did his best—he actually galloped—and we survived the mayhem.

My hair turned white and so did Dunkin’s fur. We were marked by what had happened, forever different. I’m writing a play about what happened. It’s called “The Wrathonater.” It is about the excessiveness of God’s justice. I thought the pillar of salt woman was enough to scare the shit out of anybody in their right mind. He didn’t have to make my beloved Sodom disappear along with my hound dog Bill, my band of egg snatchers, and my neighbor’s wife.


Definitions 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.

Affirmatio

Affirmatio (af’-fir-ma’-ti-o): A general figure of emphasis that describes when one states something as though it had been in dispute or in answer to a question, though it has not been.


I would never do anything like that, even for all the money in the world, or all the tea in China, or all the tomatoes in Italy, or all the ice in Iceland, although it’s not worth much.”

Everybody knew this was just another one of his ploys to blabber about his righteousness. There was always a lurking suspicion that he was a miscreant, although nobody had the nerve to actually accuse him.

He was surrounded by so many so-called accidents he had to be an insurance company’s nightmare. His house burned down ($500,000). His wife lost both her hands in a near-fatal lawn mower accident ($125,000). He lost a foot in an unprecedented golfing accident ($100,000). His daughter accidentally lost both her eyes in a boating accident ($1,000,000). He had killed his son by accident with a handgun deemed “unreliable” by a jury ($1,000,000). Most recently. He was run over by a hit and run driver. He hasn’t reached a settlement yet. “Somebody” had removed the stop sign from the intersection where he was crossing and he’s suing the town for $2,000,000 for “negligent signage maintenance.”

I’ve been a private eye for 25 years investigating insurance scams. Nobody’s accusing anybody of anything, but this guy is just too accident prone to be true. The insurance investigators have been lax, and might be getting kickbacks for turning a blind eye—ha ha. Blind eye.

I just got a phone call—a bookshelf loaded with books landed on his head, fracturing his skull. I’ve decided to tail this guy to see if I can get something on him.

After a month, I think I might have something. I saw him doing something with a saddle cinch at the riding club. His back was turned to me so I couldn’t see exactly what it was. Before I could confront him, he saddled up and rode out of the stable and onto the bridal trail through the woods.

Later that day, I got a call telling me he had hit a low-hanging tree limb at full gallop and died instantly when he was decapitated. After that, I didn’t bother to check the saddle cinch. He was gone. But I heard his wife was already calling her lawyer, before his body was even cold. There’s going to be hell to pay by the riding club for the low-hanging limb that knocked his head off.


Definitions 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.

Aganactesis

Aganactesis (ag’-an-ak-tee’-sis): An exclamation proceeding from deep indignation


“Who died and made you King?” I’m sick and tired of you telling me what do, and suspecting me of anything you can imagine. I did not murder our daughter. She’s watching TV in the living room!” Last week my crazy husband had accused me of cutting off his foot. The week before that he had accused me of being a divisive chimpanzee.

I was fed up. I was told he wasn’t crazy enough to be admitted to the state mental health facility, Medication Station. I couldn’t afford a nursing home for him. I tried leaving him in the Walmart parking lot, but he found his way home. He accused me of trying to kill him, but it wasn’t true. I was just trying to get rid of him, like a piece trash, not kill him.

I had to do something really drastic. So, I decided would go to France. I would leave him somewhere in Paris with no money or passport. It was horrendously cruel, but I felt I had no alternative. I was hoping he would die of starvation or something.

I got home. Peace of mind at last! No accusations. I prayed every night that he’d never return. I didn’t feel the least bit guilty. Then, one afternoon I was reading “Star” magazine. And there he was! He was the star of a fabulously popular French TV show: “Une Accusation.” He made outlandish accusations and the contestants made outlandish defenses. He was famous for dressing in thrift store clothing and seeming to be drunk all the time. He was compared to Jerry Lewis and venerated as “L’icône Américaine“ (“The American Icon”).

I threw the Star on the floor and stomped on it with my high heels. My crazy, loony, abusive husband—and my God—he had even managed to learn to speak French. My husband had become a French superstar.

I decided to go back to Paris and go to his show. I was going to sit in the audience and heckle him mercilessly, until he cracked and was booed off stage. I hated him.

It was a matinee and the studio was packed with adoring fans. He came on stage to a standing ovation. As soon as the applause died down, I stood up and yelled “You are a crazy bastard who broke my heart!” The people sitting on either side of me grabbed my arms and dragged me outside and handed me over to two gendarmes who arrested me and took me to jail. I learned it is illegal in France to heckle performers. I paid the 50 Euro fine and went back to my hotel. There was a knock on my door. I expected that it would be my husband, but instead it was the guy who had given me the eye in the lobby. “Did you know you are on the front page of the evening edition of La Monde?” He sad calmly, and left. No wonder he was looking at me. I got a copy of the paper. I was characterized as a rude, brutal stalker who had deeply hurt the great star, the Accuser, and offended the French people beyond repair.

That was it. I bought a plane ticket back to the US. I went directly to the airport and was going though airport security when HE showed up. He yelled, “Stop that woman. She has my foot in her purse!” The airport security guards applauded gleefully and looked in my purse, laughing.


Definitions 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.

Allegory

Allegory (al’-le-go-ry): A sustained metaphor continued through whole sentences or even through a whole discourse.


The gym’s exercises contorted my life. I was squatting—a frog of help. I was doing handstands of love. Jumping jacks of joy. Push-ups of popularity. Squat-thrusts of hope. Cartwheels of fear. All complicated moves, and easily screwed up. Once I did a chin-up of friendship and was ridiculed for ten repetitions, and pushed off my exercise mat, and made into a joke.

I’ve started drinking excessively and did the drunk— staggering, slurring words, falling down and puking—all easily mastered poses. Easily induced by the effects of alcohol’s chemical motive that only needs to be imbibed. The performance of everyday life takes care of itself—drunks don’t do push-ups of popularity. No more going to the gym looking for love and longevity—doing all the exercises required of the good life.

I have run my jockstrap down my sink’s garbage disposal. I don’t need its chafing or support. I let my balls swing free. I am outside the gym—I have left it behind. Now, I walk, I talk. There are no set moves, poses, or displays. There’s just me comporting with others like me at an AA meeting every week. In some respects, I’ve cast off the burden of “trying.” I just “am,” I am sober and I practice good hygiene—the only aspect of my life stemming from the gym that I still perform..

I don’t care if I measure up. I don’t care if I make the grade. All I want to do is stay sober and brush my teeth twice a day.


Definitions 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.

Alleotheta

Alleotheta (al-le-o-the’-ta): Substitution of one case, gender, mood, number, tense, or person for another. Synonymous with enallage. [Some rhetoricians claim that alleotheta is a] general category that includes antiptosis [(a type of enallage in which one grammatical case is substituted for another)] and all forms of enallage [(the substitution of grammatically different but semantically equivalent constructions)].


We was crazy. I were insane. I was a mumbulator—I lived a desolate lonely life, misspeaking and having to repeat myself three or four times and raising the voulume each time I repeated myself. Mumbulation was not an option. I were born with it—when I was a baby people would say “What?” when I gooed.

So the craziness? Me and my cousin together is crazier than one alone. She is a mumbulator too. It was like we was Jungian twins living out the same archetypes—the King and Queen of Plasma TV. We was obsessed with the stream. It was like our life boood. We took the same medication and ate the same food. We were the same—like two pods in a spaceship or a pair of matching socks with smiling cows on them.

Today we took a double-dose of our medication and we are going to watch every episode of Father Brown—the priest who can pick locks and who solves crimes, usually murders. His big-breasted “house guest” Bunty flirts with him while his housekeeper Mrs. McCarthy prepares him exotic mixed drinks with names like “Bishop’s Waddle,” “Confession Sour,” and “Holy Boom!” He drinks his drink and reads the newspaper waiting to hear of the latest murder.

Me and my cousin looked at each other, smiled, nodded our heads and mumbled “This is going to be good.”

In the episode were were watching, Bunty had run over a drunk with her red Jaguar. He was horribly mutilated and Bunty’s car had gotten a flat tire from the pint bottle of whiskey the drunk was holding in his hand.

Since the drunk was found in the middle of a busy road, Father Brown surmised he was already dead when Bunty ran over him. There was a sniveling Lord that lived in a nearby manor house. Father Brown ascertained that the drunk in the road was the sniveling Lord’s father. In the meantime, he looked at the drunk’s watch and discovered it had stopped due to being knocked to the pavement one hour before Bunty ran him over.

Then, Mrs. McCarthy heard through the grapevine that the father was returning to Kembleford to reclaim the manor and dispossess his mean, idiot, sniveling son, who was immediately arrested by Detective Mallory, but not before a chase. The sniveling Lord climbed a rose trellis, admitted everything, and threatened to jump. It was five feet to the ground. He jumped and sprained his ankle. Case closed.

Bunty was off the hook. Father Brown hopped on his bicycle and headed back to the Presbytery for one of Mrs. McCarthy’s double Holy Booms and some “quality time” with Bunty, who was sure to show her gratitude for what Father Brown had done.

Me and my cousin shut off the TV. We grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge and mumbled our appreciation for what we’d just seen. We could tell from the tone of our voices that we had enjoyed the episode. The next episode is “Mrs. McCarthy Gets Hanged.” This has got to be a mistake! It says in the synopsis that “in a jealous rage, Mrs. McCarthy shoots Bunty, decapitates her, and lights her headless body on fire on the church altar.” Father Brown is defrocked when it is discovered that Bunty was carrying their child.

Fear not! There is new series starting called “Former Father Brown” about the defrocked priest’s exploits as an itinerant crime-solving plumber.

We can’t wait. We’re trying to get our hands on some acid.


Definitions 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.

Alliteration

Alliteration (al-lit’-er-a’-tion): Repetition of the same letter or sound within nearby words. Most often, repeated initial consonants. Taken to an extreme alliteration becomes the stylistic vice of paroemion where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant.


It was the dreaded dog. It had gotten loose again and was dragging a chain behind it. He was running towards me. Soon, my windpipe would be hanging out and I would be the dreaded dog’s latest victim. But it wasn’t meant to be. Instead of ripping out my throat, he was whining and running in little circle like Lassie did when she wanted Timmy to follow her.

I took the cue and we ran down the street together, crossed the street to the park, and ran into the woods. He growled at me. “This is the end,” I thought as he shook his head back and forth. “He suckered me into the woods, now he’s going to kill me.” That was it. I closed my eyes and waited to be torn apart. He could catch me if I ran, so, forget that.

Suddenly it got quiet. I opened my eyes. There was a smiling baby lying at my feet, kicking its legs. I picked it up and carried it home. When I got home I yelled “Ma, I found a baby!” She said “You found a what?” “A baby.” I answered. We decided to take it to the police station. There was a $500 reward. That gave me an idea.

I could train the dreaded dog to lift babies from their bassinets, I could “find” them and return them for the reward.

My plan failed when I realized if I started finding babies everywhere, I would become a suspect for kidnapping them. So, I toned it down. I befriended the dreaded dog with beef patties and Milkbone treats. I taught the dreaded dog to snatch purses. I took off his chain and gave him a respectable name: Marlon. We did well. He’d go up to a woman carrying a purse and look cute. She would bend over to scratch him behind the ears, and he’d grab the purse and run home.

Two months ago Marlon was caught by animal control. After being in doggie jail for awhile, he was adopted by a nice family and the kids loved him. When they were taking him for a walk, he got loose and grabbed a women’s purse. He brought it home to me. I was happy to see him—it was just like the good old days.

I emptied the purse, and I went to throw it on the pile of purses on the living room floor. But I noticed it had one of those little GPS trackers in it. There was pounding on my front door.

Guess where I live now. It’s not Elm Street. I’ll be at this address for two years.


Definitions 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.

Allusion

Allusion (ə-ˈlü-zhən):[1] A reference/representation of/to a well-known person, place, event, literary work, or work of art . . . “a brief reference, explicit or indirect, to a person, place or event, or to another literary work or passage”. It is left to the reader or hearer to make the connection . . . ; an overt allusion is a misnomer for what is simply a reference.[2]


I was going to college, I was the first person in my family to go to college. I was ready to conquer the world. My Uncle Guido had “arranged” a scholarship for me in accordance with my father’s last wishes. I was going to Rutgers, the State University of New Jersey. Uncle Guido told me all I needed to do for the scholarship is get a couple of decent rackets going at Rutgers. Like Rodney Dangerfield said,“The way my luck is running, if I was a politician I’d be honest.” I’m not certain how pertinent this is, but I love Rodney Dangerfield.

School was going to start in two weeks, so I needed to hurry up and get something going. I came to the conclusion that parking and sex were two categories of college life that might form a foundation for solid rackets.

Parking was always at a premium and it was expensive. I found a friend of Uncle Guido’s who did time for counterfeiting. He was eager to help. He printed 500 fake parking permits. The University charged $100 for the academic year. We charged $50! I sold the permits from my car. I sold out in an hour. I ordered 500 more, and 500 more! Pretty soon all the campus parking permits might be fake. Guido congratulated me and told me I could work for him when I graduated!

Then, there was getting laid. For many male students, getting laid has a higher priority than studying. Many a lad has gone down the tubes, neglecting their studies in search of ass. I would fix that. I would flood campus with cut-rate hookers who were willing to slash their prices because of the almost endless opportunities to ply their trade—it was like wholesale hooking. They would hang around dormitory entrances. They would say things like “How about a little biology,” “Can I sharpen your pencil?” “Do you want to do the horizontal boogie?” It was crazy.

Sex was so easy to obtain now that students didn’t need to waste their time looking for it and grades went up. Students were happier. Rutgers’ rankings among other colleges improved, and everybody was happy, including Uncle Guido who skimmed 10% off each transaction. Although I didn’t like it much, I was nicknamed “Professor Pimp.”

The four years flew by. I’m graded two weeks ago with a degree in philosophy. My little brother took over my action at Rutgers, and I’m working for Uncle Guido. I’m his driver. Where he goes, I go. My favorite is Monmouth Race Track. I lose $300-400 per visit, but who cares? Uncle Guido pays me four-grand per week, plus benefits.

If you’re thinking of going to college, you should go. Look at me,


Definitions 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.

Amphibologia

Amphibologia (am’-fi-bo-lo’-gi-a): Ambiguity of grammatical structure, often occasioned by mispunctuation. [A vice of ambiguity.]


It was a foot of wood. That’s all I needed to patch the side of my house where I had hit it with my lawn tractor. It happened when I was on my way to the dentist to have a crown replaced. I was driving full speed. I was driving my lawn tractor because my driver’s license had been revoked for going 85 in a school zone. It was 10 in the morning when I was clocked. Everybody was in class, why the hell do you have to go 15 if there’s nobody there? More government bullshit. The crossing guards are sucking us dry while my kids don’t learn anything useful. What the hell can they use US History for? The past is past. It’s over and it’s useless. It’s like moldy cheese or last year’s model toaster.

Anyway, if I was late for my appointment, my dentist would pull my face off. I think she has a problem. She keeps yelling at me to open wider—I can’t open any wider, but I try. She slaps me in the face and calls me a “jaw wimp.” Then, she pulls a giant syringe out of nowhere and jams it in my gums. My whole face goes numb and I can’t talk. She tells me if I feel pain while she’s drilling to raise my hand. She starts drilling. It hurts like hell, so I raise my hand. She nods her head and keeps drilling. I say “Reejus Rice!” That’s the best “Jesus Christ” I can do with my numbed face. The woman running the spit sucker is watching something on her cell phone and my mouth is starting to flood. I have to swallow and my tongue hits the drill. I hear my dentist say “Uh Oh. That’s the end of that. You’ll have to get an implant. They’ll screw in a new tooth for you. I’ll make you an appointment. See the office manager on the way out.” The crown wasn’t replaced and I was pissed off.

I had an appointment at “Dr. Puller’s Screw-in Teeth.” My damaged tooth would be removed and a new one screwed in. I arrived at Dr. Puller’s at 7:00 am. His office manager was dressed in black. She was wearing a necklace of gold crowns. Dr. Puller came out of his “workroom” to greet me. He had a black patch over his left eye and a black leather glove on his left hand. “Come in and sit in the chair,” he said with a small smile on his face. He had a hand drill in one hand. He laughed and said “Just kidding. Here, hold this little teddy bear while I do your tooth.” Dr. Puller placed the reddy bear in my lap. “That tooth’s got to go now!” He yelled and held up a small electric saw. He said, “Don’t worry about novocaine, I am a professional. If anything bad happens, we call 911.” Just then, his assistant walked through the door. She was wearing rubber gloves and was dressed like Dorothy from “The Wizard of Oz.”

I decided to get the hell out of there, but my wrists were bound to the dentist’s chair. Suddenly, a thing that looked like a vacuum cleaner attachment came down over my face. I took one breath and was headed for cloud cuckoo land. As I fell into a stupor, a high pitched whining began. The last thing I remember was Dr. Puller yelling “Not that one!”

When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was the little teddy bear in my lap had big blotches of blood on it. Then, Dr. Puller held up a mirror to my tooth and said “Welcome back.” His assistant had slipped a note in my pants pocket when I was sedated. I started to unfold it and she told me to read it when I got home.

My tooth looked ok, but what did I know? It was apparently screwed in nice and tight and would work well as a replacement. When I got home I read the assistant’s note: “If you got me pregnant, I’ll give you a call.” I’d heard about things like this on FOX News, so I didn’t give it a second thought. “Dorothy” was full of shit. How unprofessional.

The next morning I was awakened by the NPR theme song. I don’t have a radio in my bedroom, so I was puzzled. I listened hard and discovered the music was coming out of my screw-in tooth. I called Dr. Puller and he called me back just as the NPR morning news was coming on. We made an appointment to have it fixed.

I got to his office around ten and went straight into his “workroom.” His assistant told me how ashamed she was for writing the note. She wasn’t pregnant after all. I said “That’s ok.” And sat in the chair. Dr. Puller came in the room. “You have Radiohead. Your tooth is like a germanium diode radio. It runs off your body’s electric current. I have to “tune” it by twisting it like a radio dial—twisting it by mini-microns—until I land on static-free dead air.” It took Dr. Puller a couple of minutes, listening through a dental microphone temporarily mounted on my tongue. He was a genius.

When I got home, I sat in my chair, stared at the wall, and drank Johnny Walker black. The doorbell rang. I answered it and it was Dorothy from Dr. Puller’s. She told me she had lost her dog Toto and wondered if he might be in my bedroom. I let her in and we went to take a look.


Definitions 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.

Ampliatio

Ampliatio (am’-pli-a’-ti-o): Using the name of something or someone before it has obtained that name or after the reason for that name has ceased. A form of epitheton.


“Champ.” It pissed me off when people called me “Champ.” These were people I went to high school with 20 years ago. I never left town and I never will. I’ve been folding pizza boxes at Palermo Pizza since 2005. It was my part time job during high school and Sal kept me on full time after I graduated. I sat at a little table folding boxes. When the pile got 2 feet high, I carried them to the back and stacked them up.

When I was in high school I was the state champion wrestler all four years, and one year, I won the nationals. The trophy still sits in a showcase outside the gym. I was so good at wrestling because I have severe Dermaslide. My Dermaslide is an extremely oily skin condition. It enabled me to wiggle out of any hold my opponents could put me in. Numerous complaints were registered against me because of my skin condition. The complaints were dismissed because Dermanslide is a natural condition, like the size of your feet or the color of your eyes and can’t be used as grounds for discrimination. It was a landmark case. I went on Tv a couple of times and illustrated my “Slippery Wiggle.” More people watched the episode of the “The Tonight Show” when I wrestled Jay Leno than in the history of the show. I was famous for about a week. That’s when everybody started calling me Champ. But now, in 2025, it doesn’t fit any more.

When somebody calls me “Champ,” I get a heavy feeling in my stomach and I almost start crying. It reminds me that I’m a has-been, doomed to fold pizza boxes until I die in my little corner of Palermo Pizza. I go home at night smelling like tomato paste and mozzarella, have my free pizza for dinner with cheap Chianti, and go to bed. But that was about to change.

When I showed up for work a little while ago, Sal excitedly told me he had been contacted about placing an employee in the “The World Championship Pizza Box Folding Competition” in Naples, Italy. Sal’s brother Anthony who was “connected,” got us the slot after one of his “clients” on the Championship Board became “so inclined” to invite us. He had called us from his hospital bed.

I started training immediately. My skin condition would be an advantage—I could slide my thumb and index finger down a box’s crease lightening fast, lubricate a tab, and slide it into its slot almost invisibly!

I arrived in Naples the day of the competition, still a little jet lagged. Each competitor had to fold five boxes and carry them to a table across the stage. I was proudly wearing my Palermo Pizza t-shirt and was feeling great. It was like my old wrestling days again. Maybe I could earn the title of “Champ” once more.

Finally, I was called out of the green room and took my position on stage, sitting at the table with five flat pizza boxes. The whistle blew, and I started folding—folding like a God of tabs and slots and creases. My hands were a blur. I finished folding. The crowd went silent. I ran with my five boxes to the table at the other side of the stage, set them down and raised my arms, clasping my hands. The crowd went wild, cheering for ten minutes before I left the stage. It didn’t take the judges long to unanimously declare me “World Champion Pizza Box Folder.” I was a Champ again!

When I got back to Palermo Pizza Sal had installed a throne for me to sit on while I folded pizza boxes. He had a crown made out of a pizza box that I wore, and the trophy was parked in the pizzeria’s front window. Although the boxes had nothing to do with the quality of Sal’s pizza, nobody thought about that. Sal’s business grew. I started a sideline having patrons’ pictures taken with “Champ,” the pizza box king, on his throne. I charged $25 per picture without my autograph, and $50 with my autograph. I had a website too.

I bought a Cadillac and went to the track with Sal every Saturday. We were riding high. Between the track and selling pictures, I was becoming wealthy. I was a real champ again. I thought maybe I could meet a woman and get married. I heard there were a lot of beautiful women in Slovenia who didn’t care what kind of person you were as long as you’re American and have a lot of money. So, I took off for Slovenia.

When I got to Ljubljana Airport, after going through customs and passport control, when I emerged I saw the concourse was jammed with beautiful women holding signs reading things like “I love you now,” “Let’s have a date,” “I went to art school,” “I know Melania.”

I pushed through the crowd and boarded a cab. When I got to my hotel, it was just like the airport. When I got to my room there was a catalogue by my bed. It had hundreds of pictures of beautiful women with contact information. I opened the catalogue randomly and put my finger down. Her name was “Ema.” We got married in my hotel room two days later.

We’ve been back in the US for a year now. Ema is pregnant with twins, and I am exceedingly grateful.

Just call me “Champ!”


Definitions 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.

Anacoenosis

Anacoenosis (an’-a-ko-en-os’-is): Asking the opinion or judgment of the judges or audience, usually implying their common interest with the speaker in the matter [and illustrating their communally-held ideals of truth, justice, goodness and beauty, for better and for worse].


“Haven’t we all farted at least once in our lives? Go ahead and raise you hand if you’ve never farted. There you have it. No hands up. How would you like to learn tactical farting? How would you like to fart on demand—real bad smellers? On demand! Raise your hand. All of you but one person—the priest sitting in he back row. It’s your prerogative father, but you could do some real damage in the confessional: a little sulphuric smell could motivate penitents to really open up. You could say ‘I don’t know about you, but I think I detect Satan’s smell quite nearby, maybe here in the confessional.’ Wow! Would that boost the disclosures—from the petty to the dark evil deeds? It would add to your absolutions and help you get more members of your congregation into heaven. Who would ever think a fart could perform such a noble purpose? Salvation!”

This was my fiftieth “Tactical Farting” seminar. I had learned when I was ten years old that I could fart whenever I wanted to. I discovered my skill the first time when my bad-breathed Aunty Kathleen wanted to give me a “hug and a kiss.” I visualized a fart escaping from my anus, and “blurrrrt!” I blew one . It smelled so bad that Aunty Kathleen changed her mind and rushed out of the room. There are countless examples I could cite.

I learned, if I farted, my teacher would not stop at my desk and look at an assignment I was working on. Better yet, I was never asked to speak in front class. She knew I would blow a blockbuster and clear the classroom. Or, once, I got called into the IRS for an audit. We were sitting in a small room when I blew an eye-burner. The agent started choking and waved me out of the room. Through his choking, he told me we were done.

My greatest triumph occurred when I was working behind the counter at Cliff’s. It was my first job out of high school and I was diligent. As top Employee one month, I got to meet Cliff. It was by a swimming pool in Arizona. He is seven feet tall and has the Cliff’s logo tattooed on his chest. He had a Red Bull in each hand and was smoking a Tiparillo cigar. He had an attendant who would hold his cigar when he took a sip of Red Bull or talked. He said “How’ya doin’ boy?” I told him “Great!” and he told me to get back to work before he fired me.

Anyway, some guy came into Cliff’s wearing a balaclava and brandishing a .45. He came behind the counter and told me to give him all the scratch-off lotto tickets. I visualized him as as a patient on an operating table and blew my anesthetic fart at him. He collapsed in a heap on the floor. I called 911 and the police and an ambulance came. The stick-up man was barely alive, but he survived, stood trial, and went to prison. The newspaper headline read: “Fart Foils Robbery.” For foiling the robbery, I made the Cliff’s employee of the year! I got to stay in Cliff’s mansion for two weeks. He wasn’t there, but his daughter Cliffetta was there. I asked her to marry me. She said no, and that was that.

I went back home. That’s when I thought of the idea of tactical farting. I wrote a book and set up a blog—they had the same title: “Tactical Farting: Winds of Change.” Anything you imagine, tactical farting will help you accomplish: from solitude to self-defense. The book outlines how to tactically fart—the steps, the exercises. The blog has real-time videos of tactical farting in action. One of my favorites is titled “Family Reunion.” It follows Jim to his family reunion, where all the relatives he hates are celebrating. He blows a one-minute megaton ass-buster blanket fart and chases everybody away. They get in their cars and drive recklessly, colliding with each other in the narrow driveway. What a tactical farting triumph! Kudos to Jim!

Anyway, this is my final seminar. It’s been a gas, but I’m winded.


Definitions 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.

Anacoloutha

Anacoloutha (an-a-co’-lu-tha): Substituting one word with another whose meaning is very close to the original, but in a non-reciprocal fashion; that is, one could not use the first, original word as a substitute for the second. This is the opposite of acoloutha.


He opened the door. He pushed hard. The door swung quietly on its hinges. He didn’t knock. He didn’t tap. He just pushed his way in. He tiptoed to the living room. There was his girlfriend Nell sitting in front of a crackling fire reading what looked like a magazine, but he knew it was a catalogue for men’s exercise clothing.

I was on page 24 of “Workout Meat,” sort of a “Victoria’s Secret” of scantily clad man hunks. I gave it to her to look at when she got lonely for me. I had so many muscles that I was paid to model nude at the local medical school’s anatomy classes. I was known as “Muscles Mike.” I loved to model, but I loved walking up and down the beach in my Speedo at Seaside Heights even more. The Jersey girls weren’t shy about whistling and applauding when I walked by. I loved the cat calls—“Gimme some of that pepperoni,” “Get on me big boy,” “Pull down your suit and I’ll pull down mine.” “Make me moan.”

Even with all that attention, I stayed faithful to Nell. We started dating in high school when I was a 98-pound weakling. She stood by me while I bulked up. Lately, I started taking steroids and my penis has shrunk to the point where it looks like a second belly button. Nell has cut me some slack, but lately, she has been adamant about me quitting the steroids, and we both know why—an important part of our relationship is gone. That’s why I snuck up behind her to see what picture she was looking at in “Workout Meat.” I was shocked to see she was looking at Mr. Muscle Mountain’s photo. He was my body-building rival in high school. He knew Arnold Schwarzenegger and had beaten him in a couple of body-building competitions. He was the spokesperson for “Body Propellor Protein Shakes.” He was arrogant and flexed anywhere, all the time. He’d be walking through the mall and suddenly stop and strike a pose. It was disgusting.

I quickly moved in front of Nell. Her pupils were dilated and her face was flushed. She told me: “I saw Mr. Muscle Mountain at Cliff’s today. Although he’s graying a bit, he had a nice banana bulge in his sweat pants. I couldn’t help but notice. We exchanged pleasantries, and he asked me if I wanted to take a ride with him at Motel Gaucho tonight. I told him no, that you’re my one and only love.”

I almost cried. I vowed to get off the steroids and grow my penis back. I could take human embryo shots to maintain my bulk—a lot more expensive than steroids, but Nell was worth it.

Inch by inch I grew back to proper poking size. Soon, when I wore my sweatpants to Cliff’s, I was sporting a hefty banana bump of my own when. I could make it twitch if I wanted too—only for Nell.

One afternoon, I met Mr. Muscle Mountain at Cliff’s buying beer. We faced each other and nodded, wiggled our hips, and shook our bananas at each other. I made mine twitch. His banana’s movement in his sweat pants looked fake. I could see him struggling, but he couldn’t make it twitch. I didn’t say anything.


Definitions 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.

Anacoluthon

 (an-a-co-lu’-thon): A grammatical interruption or lack of implied sequence within a sentence. That is, beginning a sentence in a way that implies a certain logical resolution, but concluding it differently than the grammar leads one to expect. Anacoluthon can be either a grammatical fault or a stylistic virtue, depending on its use. In either case, it is an interruption or a verbal lack of symmetry. Anacoluthon is characteristic of spoken language or interior thought, and thus suggests those domains when it occurs in writing.


“I am going to grab . . put that under it.” I lost my balance. I was supposed to be on vacation. There was a goddamn monkey on my back. He’d been riding me for weeks, heavily breathing in my ear, laughing his chattering laugh, and making me pick parasites off his shoulders. I was pulling a wagon loaded with bananas. I was feeling oppressed.

Now he wanted me to give him a manicure. I looked at the fellow members of my tour group and they were all filing and clipping their monkeys’ nails. The favorite color was turquoise followed by purple.

I was regretting ever hooking up with the “Primate Treasure Monkey Tour.” The brochure made it look like you’d have a monkey pal for two weeks, who “would be as close as any friend you’ve ever had.” I never equated friendship to slavery, but that’s what happened on the tour. That’s how I ended up with a monkey on my back.

Part of the tour was a banana plantation. I was given a large wagon and ordered to fill it with bananas. It was grueling work. Three members of the tour group came down with heat stroke and it was rumored that one of them died. That’s when I realized I had become a slave. I resisted picking bananas and I was tied to a whipping post. I wasn’t whipped, but it was very disconcerting. It was the only time the monkey got off my back. The march back to the hotel was horrendous—people falling like flies and loaded onto gurneys for a bumpy ride back to the hotel, one or them in a body bag.

My monkey started sticking his tongue in my ear and doing his monkey laugh. I told him to stop, and he just laughed harder. I snapped and yelled “Get the fu*k off my back!” That was it. I laid down and pinned him under my back. I beat him over the head with a rock until he stopped wriggling and laughing and his grip loosened on my shoulders. He was dead.

All the monkeys dismounted and formed a circle around me. The troop was going to tear me apart. I prepared myself to die. Suddenly the “Treasure Monkey Tours” proprietor popped out the bush. His name was Reginald Pramford and his ancestors had been oppressing monkeys ever since they colonized their habitat in the mid-1800s. Reginald was like a God to the monkeys. He told them to go home and they immediately disbursed. I was saved!

A female monkey wearing a dress, earrings, and a crown, seemed to be whispering something in Reginald’s ear. He frowned, unholstered his handgun, and pointed it at me. He said “An eye for an eye. My wife, The Monkey Queen, won’t have it any other way. Sorry old chap.” Clearly, he was insane.

I rushed Reginald, knocked the gun out of his hand, picked it up, and put it to his “wife’s” head. I told him: “Tell the monkey troop to back off and call me a cab to the airport.” He pulled out his cellphone and booked me a cab. Luckily, I had my passport with me. I didn’t pack. The cab came and we headed for the airport. Then I saw it: A monkey was driving the cab! But, he was a “good” monkey. I arrived at the airport safely.

I boarded my jet to Newark Airport. It was going to be a long flight. I sat in my seat and was shocked to see a monkey sitting next to me! But it was ok. He was a “emotional support animal” belonging to the woman in the window seat. His name was Salvatore, and he lived in New York City. He was wearing a NY Yankees hat. We shook hands and nodded. I was relieved.


Definitions 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.

Anadiplosis

Anadiplosis (an’-a-di-plo’-sis): The repetition of the last word (or phrase) from the previous line, clause, or sentence at the beginning of the next. Often combined with climax.


My prospects were shrinking. Shrinking to the size of an ant; the head of a pin; a grain of salt; a hummingbird’s squeaking butt, There was almost nothing left that I could do. I was kicking myself in the ass for majoring in music in college. My instrument was the bassoon, and I couldn’t play it very well. Luckily, my college graduated everybody who showed up and paid their tuition. So, at least I had a degree that I could put on my resume.

The problem was that the degree did me no good. Prospective employers would ask me, for example, “How will playing the bassoon help you work efficiently on the spice rack assembly line? Too bad you didn’t major in wood shop.” I would try to explain that my background with the bassoon would make my fingers nimble. But, I would be told “Don’t get funny with me young man. Musical instruments are not spice racks!”

There were no bassoon-player jobs anywhere in America. I tried becoming a street musician. I played The Mamas and Papas “Dancing Bear” over and over every day. It was ok, but there wasn’t much to it. Then, one day, a person dressed as a bear showed up and started dancing and singing to my bassoon. We didn’t talk. The bear-person just sang and danced. That went on for three months, and then, the bear disappeared. It destroyed my cash flow and put me back in employment panic mode.

I finally found a job, but it wasn’t playing the bassoon. “The Matthew Wilkie Memorial Museum” was opening in New York City. Wilke was one of the best bassoonists who ever lived. He could make you feel like the sun was rising in your shirt. My job was to sit on a stool holding a bassoon, dressed like Wilke, and answer customers’ questions. I wasn’t permitted to play my bassoon and that made me angry. However, it was a job.

Then one morning, I got to work early. Wilke walked in out of nowhere! He asked me to play for him. He cringed and said, “Jesus Christ! You play like shit.” I got really angry and tried to break the bassoon over my knee. I threw it on the floor and ran out of the museum.

Wilke felt bad about what he did. He got me a better job! I leave for Switzerland tomorrow. I will be playing the alphorn in the Swiss Alps. I will be stationed in Geneva, where I am provided with a free Ricola ration, and rental lederhosen to wear to mountain gigs. I am burning my bassoon tonight. I’m putting its ashes in a little brass urn. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to scatter the ashes in the gutter outside my apartment, toss the urn in the dumpster in the alley, and head for JFK.


Definitions 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.

Anamnesis

Anamnesis (an’-am-nee’-sis): Calling to memory past matters. More specifically, citing a past author [apparently] from memory. Anamnesis helps to establish ethos [credibility], since it conveys the idea that the speaker is knowledgeable of the received wisdom from the past.


As Rumpelstiltskin asked, “What’s my name Baby?” I was looking in the mirror preparing for my big move. I had been stalking this woman for about 3 months. I didn’t have anything better to do. I’m an unemployed stockbroker. My 401k is keeping me alive. I had earned the nickname “Tank” because everything I invested in for my clients “tanked.” I thought it was funny at first. That is, until it kept happening and happening. I lost the firm 2mil, then, they told me goodbye. I didn’t go quietly. I did a month in jail (with early release) for beating up my boss and trying to throw him out a second-story window, starting a trash fire on my desk, and throwing my stapler through one of the plasma monitors displaying the Dow.

As a condition of my early release, I had to attend anger management classes at “Featherdown,” a night “school” that makes a lot of money from the state, and deals exclusively in short-fused, belligerent, violent offenders.

On my first night, I brushed past a woman as I was going through the door. She pulled a knife, kicked me in the crotch an yelled “Don’t move you perverted asshole. What do I look like, your fu*king mother?” She was quickly frog-marched to her seat by two of the class monitors.

My favorite exercise was “Dipshit.” Facing your partner from two inches away, you yell “dipshit” in their face over and over until one you hits the other or pushes them away. Eventually, you look forward to being called dipshit, and you enjoy it. Then, you move on to the next exercise. Eventually, if everything goes well, you like being abused and you don’t get angry anymore.

The final exam consists of an atomic wedgy. You are given a loaded .45 and hung up by your underpants and taunted by your fellow classmates. If you don’t shoot anybody, you are designated “in control” and a “Certified Anger Manager.”

I found out after the exam that the .45 was loaded with blanks. That made me really angry. But, I was a “Certified Anger Manager” so I calmed down pretty fast.

The woman I was stalking ducked into a bar. I went in and sat down on the stool next to her at the bar. When I got close to her I could see that she was the woman I’d brushed up against my first night of anger management classes. I said “What’s my name Baby?” I expected to be knifed, but she laughed and said “Tank. I know you from Featherdown. You probably don’t remember me, but my name’s Rusty for my red hair.”

Success! We talked and drank. Drank and talked. I ended up at Rusty’s apartment. After awhile Rusty said we had talked enough and it was time to do something else. She wanted to make some scrambled eggs for an early breakfast.

I was looking for the eggs in the refrigerator when she came up behind me and yelled “Who do you think you are?” and hit me on the head with a frying pan. I said, “Quick! Let’s do the Dipshit!” We positioned ourselves and started yelling “dipshit” in each other’s faces. Rusty quickly regained her composure.

I got out of there as quickly as possible and went to urgent care for an x-ray. The next day, Rusty called me and apologized. We made a date to meet at “Slasher’s Steak House.”

POSTSCRIPT

Rusty had an anger attack at Slasher’s. Tank had taken the precaution of making sure her place was set with plastic tableware.


Definitions 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.

Anaphora

Anaphora (an-aph’-o-ra): Repetition of the same word or group of words at the beginning of successive clauses, sentences, or lines.


My family’s muffins were great. My family’s muffins were the best. My family’s muffins saved England. It was 1210. England was ridden with warfare—people were lying around all over the place riddled with arrows, looking like sleeping hedgehogs. People were starving to death left and right—children, adults, whole families. People were so hungry they ate their own fingernails and toenails. Poverty was the norm. Nobody had money. They bartered what little they had, or became indentured servants. Most people wore feed bags or flour sacks and lived under rich peoples’ carriages. They had to move continuously to keep a carriage over their heads.

In short, it was hell.

My ancestor was Chief Baker to the King. While surrounded by poverty and starvation, the big fat king had an abundance of gold and an abundance of food. My ancestor thought it was obscene.

The king loved my ancestor’s muffins. He ate ten every morning for breakfast and three more before bed. After eating his morning muffins he would burp loudly and take a nap. His favorite were plum muffins. When he stuffed them into his mouth he made a smacking sound, drooled, and spilled crumbs all over the floor. Sometimes, he would do this while looking out a window, watching starving people starve. He would snort and laughter. He was a nightmare and a glutton.

My ancestor couldn’t stand watching the King’s antics. So, she started smuggling muffins out of the castle to feed the poor. She was caught and tortured, and returned to her duties. The King loved her muffins too much to have her executed.

The King’s birthday was coming. For his birthday, she would make him his annual giant muffin. This year, she would poison it. She couldn’t wait to see him writhing on the floor coughing blood. She used plague- ridden rat testicles, disguised as plums, to do the job, baking them into the muffin. The King gobbled down the muffin. It took the King a week to die, moaning for God’s mercy as he passed away in his blood- and sweat-soaked gilded bed.

The King’s brother Neville succeeded him. King Nevill was benevolent, releasing the realm’s royal assets to the Kingdom, feeding the starving, creating government jobs, and providing subsidies to craftsmen and tradesmen.

England was saved by a giant muffin baked by my ancestor Mrs. Bran Oxley. Oxley’s Muffins are still sold by my family all over England. They are known as “The muffins that saved England.”


Definitions 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.

Anapodoton

Anapodoton (an’-a-po’-do-ton): A figure in which a main clause is suggested by the introduction of a subordinate clause, but that main clause never occurs.

Anapodoton is a kind of anacoluthon, since grammatical expectations are interrupted. If the expression trails off, leaving the subordinate clause incomplete, this is sometimes more specifically called anantapodotonAnapodoton has also named what occurs when a main clause is omitted because the speaker interrupts himself/herself to revise the thought, leaving the initial clause grammatically unresolved but making use of it nonetheless by recasting its content into a new, grammatically complete sentence.


As it was. Because of it.

The kaleidoscope of regret is spinning in my head like a multicolored wheel of misfortune. I had just finished dealing with the latest catastrophe and I was waiting for the next. It was like I was a fish hooked on a line of ill fate flopping out my future.

Most recently, the brakes had failed on my Tesla in autonomous driving mode. I couldn’t turn the ignition off either, and I just kept rolling on until I ran into a school bus. Kids poured out of the bus yelling “Elon must die.” I was surprised that Musk bashing had trickled down to middle school. Then they started pounding on my Tesla with their aluminum school-themed water bottles, still yelling.

My Tesla’s exterior finish was ruined and it was covered with dents too. The brakes suddenly started working again. I drove to an auto-body shop to have it repainted and the dents ironed out, but they refused to work on my Tesla because they hate Musk. So, I drove it out to my father’s farm. I parked it in the middle of a corn field, doused it with diesel, and lit it on fire. After it burned and cooled, I had it towed to the Tesla dealer. The place was surrounded by angry protestors. It was crazy. I left my car there with “Fu*k Musk” painted on both sides. I took an Uber home, and called my insurance company. Here I am now, waiting for the next shitstorm to hit.

I heard my 14year-old daughter yelling, “Daddy, Daddy, come here!” Panic stricken, I ran down to the living room. There she was with her left pant leg pulled up and a tattoo of Satan on her calf captioned “I Love You” written out in flaming script. “Isn’t it cool?” She asked. I flipped out. In our state you had to be eighteen to get a tattoo, I asked he who the hell did it. She told me she had fake I,D, and had been passing for eighteen ever since she was ten. My first thought was to have her leg amputated.

I think I started foaming at the mouth and running around in circles. When I stopped, I dragged her to the tattoo parlor, “Posh Ink,” to see what we could do. When I told the Tatoo guy my daughter was only fourteen, he said he couldn’t work on her, due to the law. I felt so stupid for telling him my daughter’s real age. He saw how distraught I was and took pity on me.

We couldn’t erase the tattoo, so he inked it over. He covered Satan with a big red heart and added “Mommy and Daddy” to the caption: “I Love You Mommy and Daddy.” That was a nice touch. If my daughter was going to have a tattoo, that’s the one I would like. My daughter thought it was cool too. Her gym teacher had recommended the Satan tattoo and my daughter didn’t like it from the start. She said her gym teacher was an ass and she wouldn’t listen to her ever again. I was relieved.

I sat in my chair waiting for the next piece of shit to hit the fan. I heard a loud crunching sound and my wife screaming in the basement. “Here we go,” i thought as I jumped from my chair and ran to the basement door. I opened the door and looked down the stairs, and was filled with dread when I couldn’t see what my wife was wrestling with. I flipped on the light. The was an Anaconda wrapped around her legs. Our son Breck’s pet had returned after missing for a year. He named Beagle. He thought that was really funny. God only knows how it had survived down in the basement, but the rodent infestation that we endured had abated.

I grabbed my Skill saw, plugged it into an extension chord and carefully sawed off Beagle’s head. I unwrapped him from my wife and we dragged him into the back yard and buried him in an unmarked grave.

Well, I was glad that over. I sat in my chair waiting for the next disaster. Then, I heard a loud buzzing sound and went to the window. It was a swarm of killer bees. All I had to do was stay inside and I’d be ok.


Definitions 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.

Anastrophe

Anastrophe (an-as’-tro-phee): Departure from normal word order for the sake of emphasis. Anastrophe is most often a synonym for hyperbaton, but is occasionally referred to as a more specific instance of hyperbaton: the changing of the position of only a single word.


Darkening was the starless sky. Darkening as dark as tar. Darkening as dark as the dark shadow of a crow. So dark! So damn dark. Something bad was going to happen. Ink black skies are always foreboding. I went inside. It was dark—filled with shadows and gloom. I wanted to flee—to grab a flashlight and get out of there.

I turned on the lights.

“Surprise!” My friends were gathered in the living room. Music started playing. There was a banner stretched across the entryway to the kitchen that said “Congratulations!” “For what?” I asked. I couldn’t think of anything I should be congratulated for. My birthday was two months away. I had graduated from Milton Weed High School two weeks ago.

Suddenly, Mary Beth’s eye fell out and hit the floor with a plop, like a mini water ballon. She said “Whoops” and started walking toward me arms outstretched, dragging one foot. Then, Mike’s right arm dropped to the floor. The stench of rotting flesh was overpowering.

I woke up!

I was having my “All my friends are zombies dream.” I was wide awake, My heart was racing. I could hear music playing downstairs. It was probably my sister and her boyfriend. I was thirsty. So, I headed downstairs to get a drink of orange juice from the refrigerator. I heard voices in the living room. Oh God! Could it be?

I flipped on the lights and there they were—just like in my dream, even with the “Congratulations!” banner. But I knew what was going on—I had gotten a full scholarship to Yale, and that’s what this was about. I said “Thank you. Thank you. I love you guys.”

Then, Mary Beth’s eye fell out. She picked it up and put it back in. “Damn this thing. I’ve got to get it readjusted,” she said, and the Midnight party started.


Definitions 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.

Anesis

Anesis (an’-e-sis): Adding a concluding sentence that diminishes the effect of what has been said previously. The opposite of epitasis.


It was a beautiful sunset. I was sitting on the beach, observing it. My shorts were soaking wet and the sand was sticking to my arms. I did not like it one bit. I had been stung by a jellyfish a couple of hours ago. My foot was swollen and I felt like shit. If this was vacation, I’d rather be working. My girlfriend Shelly had talked me into this. Here I was on the beach in Ecuador. There was nothing to do except sit on the beach and run to the restroom every half-hour or so. Shelly had disappeared and I didn’t give a damn. Knowing her, she probably found a new boyfriend. Maybe I’d see her on the plane home unless she changed her reservation.

I was eating a Guinea Pig sandwich for lunch, along with a glass of rum, when a kid came to my table and handed me an envelope addressed to me in the worst handwriting I had ever seen in my life. The letter inside was from Shelly. At least it was in her handwriting. She told me she had joined a cult “The Motorcycles of Moses.” I had heard of them before. National Geographic had done a story on them. Like their name indicates, they are a motorcycle gang, and a cult at the same time. They venerate Moses’s beard. All members have a big white bushy beard, including the women. They are devoted to living in accord with The Ten Commandments (as they interpret them). For example, “Thou shalt not kill.” They interpret that to mean “hire a hit man to do it.” So, they’re bad. But, if that’s what Shelly wanted, she could have it. Bye bye Shelly!

I met another woman who hung around the Porta-Potties by the beach. Her name was Esmeralda and she liked American men. She said we should go to my hotel and watch television. We were watching an episode of Andy of Mayberry, subtitled in Spanish, when I heard the roar of motorcycles outside. It was the Motorcycles of Moses! Esmeralda hid under the bed crying and praying.

I looked out the window again and there was Shelly, her big white beard blowing in the wind. She yelled “I’m coming up.” I heard her big boots clomping on the stairs. She knocked, and I opened the door. Esmeralda whimpered from under the bed, “Don’t kill me.” Shelly laughed and said “I need your help.” She pulled at her beard and smiled seductively. How can I help you?” I asked. “If we pay them 50 USD, they will let me quit the cult. I left my wallet here, so I couldn’t pay them myself.

She found her wallet in the nightstand, pulled out $50.00 and headed for the door. After a couple of minutes, the motorcycles started up and roared off. Esmeralda climbed out from under the bed. Shelly knocked on the door. “I’m free,” she exclaimed as she entered the room. She threw her beard on the floor and sat on the couch. I introduced Esmeralda and we sat on the couch too. I found another episode of “Andy or Mayberry” and we ordered a Guinea Pig pizza.


Definitions 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.

Antanaclasis

Antanaclasis (an’-ta-na-cla’-sis): The repetition of a word or phrase whose meaning changes in the second instance.


The time was getting late. I was having the time of my life. I didn’t know what to do. It was close to 3:00 a.m. I was supposed to be home by 11:00 p.m. My parents were probably flipping out, maybe even looking for me at the morgue.

Here I was, sharing a joint with my best friend’s little sister. She had just turned 18 and she told me she was ready to do a lot of things that she couldn’t do before because she was too young. I thought that included sex and I was going to try to broach the topic and go crazy with her. She told me she had a passion for politics and could finally participate and “go all the way,” Hmm. It sounded like sex to me until she added “and vote.”

That’s when I went home.

When I got there, there was a police car parked outside. I heard an ambulance in the distance. My father was lying on the front lawn, unconscious, with a pair of binoculars in one hand. Neighbors were gathered around and my mother was talking to the policeman. My mother saw me and came running toward me “When you didn’t come home at eleven, we thought you were missing.” she said. My father is an avid bird watcher. He had climbed up on the roof of the house to see if he could spot me somewhere with his “lucky” binoculars—the ones he had spotted the rare pink-capped Chickadee with.

He slipped and fell off the roof. I knew I would be blamed for what had happened to my father. Mother admitted that he hadn’t taken his Lithium for a week and had started hearing voices and seeing birds circling around the dining room table. The last time he had gotten like this, he had stuck a spatula up his butt and tried to make scrambled eggs. He was severely burned and spent two months in the hospital. But, he always smiled and was always happy to see me (when he recognized me).

Later that afternoon I saw my best friend’s little sister. She said, “I’m ready for you to stuff my ballot box.” I thought “My prayers are answered!” I asked her where she wanted to do it, She said “Right here!” I was shocked. Then she pulled a little locked box with a slit on top out of her backpack. “I’m running for Prom Queen an your vote will help.” She handed me a ballot and a pen: I voted for her and stuffed my ballot into her ballot box.

When my father came out of his coma, the first thing he sad was “Smile at the little birdie.” My mother had given him a stuffed duck to comfort him while he was unconscious. Now, he was holding it. He was back!


Definitions 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.

Antanagoge

Antanagoge (an’-ta-na’-go-gee): Putting a positive spin on something that is nevertheless acknowledged to be negative or difficult.


The most insane spin I ever heard on a bad situation was when my mother was burned over eighty percent of her body. It was my high school graduation party. She was sticking a lit tiki torch in the ground in the back yard when the cap popped off the fuel reservoir and doused her in kerosine, and she caught on fire. My party was cancelled and I was really disappointed, but I knew Mom didn’t do it on purpose, so I harbored no anger

She was in a coma for a week. When she woke up she said, “It’s going to be a long road to recovery, but look at all the weight I’ve lost.” She held up her arm. It used to have a swinging fat roll under it. It was gone, along with at least five pounds. She said, “It was charred so they just snipped it off and stitched it up.”

This was a spinner’s spin! Being grateful for losing weight as a consequence of being a burn victim clearly indicates the value attributed to losing weight in American culture.”I had to have both legs amputated, but by God, I lost fifty pounds.” “I had to have a cinder block implanted in my stomach to kill my appetite, but I lost 30 pounds in a month!” “I have a tapeworm, and the pounds are melting away. His name is ‘Skippy’ because he makes me skip meals.”

Anyway, my mother recovered and is now receiving plastic surgery treatments. She’s having her legs skinned and the skin applied to her face. She knows she’s doomed to wearing pants to cover her legs, but she says “At least I’m getting my face back and I’ll be able to go shopping again without grossing out my fellow shoppers.” Her sensitivity to the sensibilities of her fellow shoppers is admirable.

The worst situation I’ve ever been in was not being able to find a matching sock. It was partially my fault because I just stuffed my socks in my sock drawer without sorting them out. I had a job interview downtown in one hour. I dumped my sock drawer on the floor. I ripped though them, but nothing matched. Then I realized my little brother he played one of his brotherly pranks on me. At least I had socks to wear. Good warm socks. I was blessed. I was sure I would be challenged at the job interview for wearing mismatched socks.

I pulled on my Smokey the Bear sock and my blue, yellow, and red-striped sock. I barely made it to the interview. The first question was “Why are you wearing mismatched socks?” I told him my brother had played a prank on me. We both laughed. He stuck his feet out from under his desk. His socks were mismatched too. “My daughter,” he said.

Needless to say, I got the job. I thanked my brother for mixing up my socks. His next trick was to put a live garden snake in my underwear drawer.


Definitions 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.

Antenantiosis

Antenantiosis  (an’-ten-an’-ti-os’-is): See litotes. (Deliberate understatement, especially when expressing a thought by denying its opposite. The Ad Herennium author suggests litotes as a means of expressing modesty [downplaying one’s accomplishments].


“I am the greatest thing America has ever seen. George Washington would’ve been my court jester, like JD was. Frankly, the new Golden Age is upon us. The deficit is a thing of the past. I saved billions by eliminating all federal entities except for DOGE and the Navy. Random airport crotch checks have gone a long way toward the success of the ‘Two Sexes Mandate.’ I assured the defeat of Ukraine’s dictatorship and kept the price of eggs below $30.00. God couldn’ve done what I did. Frankly, I am perfect.”

These were his final words from the scaffold where he was about to be hanged for treason. As they put the black bag over his head, he yelled “Not one of you deserves to be a pimple on my ass or the toilet paper I wipe it with!” The trap door opened and he swung free, into oblivion. Nobody mourned his death. There was nearly universal jubilation following his execution. How he ever got elected President of the world’s greatest democracy and turned it into an oligarchy, where only two things mattered: personal wealth and fealty, nobody will ever know. Forever, his name will be synonymous with “Traitor” and every foul adjective in the English language.

The VP had been found guilty of treason too and pleaded “I was just following orders.” His last words on the gallows were: “When are you going to thank us?” Everybody laughed and he swung.

Congress had decided it would be fitting to hold new presidential elections. Bernie Sanders has been appointed Interim President.

My favorite candidate is Jorge Jacinto whose ancestors had fought on the side of the Texans at the Alamo, and who helped draft the Republic of Texas Constitution at Washington-on-the-Brazos in 1836. Here’s an example of what he has to say:

“My anscestors were giants, but I am just a man. I stand in awe of their accomplishments, but their accomplishments, while noteworthy, do not credit me. I stand humbly in my own right seeking your support for what I’ve done, not what they’ve done. You tell me I am great, but I’m not great. Rather, I am striving to keep promises that will benefit us all. Please vote for me. I will keep my promises and give credit where credit is due: to you, the people.”

What a difference from the blustering traitor who was hanged. There’s something about Mr. Jacinto’s self-effacing character that I find very appealing. I trust he will not construct himself as a king or dictator like the Traitor did. The Traitor’s executive orders summoned the soul of tyranny, taking our democracy apart piece by piece by piece and alienating our democratic ally’s around the world.

Mr. Jacinto is running as an Independent. This is fitting.

Finally, after three years of oppression, the US is rising from the ashes like a Phoenix. Hope is coursing throughout the land.


Definitions 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.

Anthimeria

 (an-thi-mer’-i-a): Substitution of one part of speech for another (such as a noun used as a verb).


I am Doer. Who do? I do. I am do. Do-Man, the getter of things done. People call me “Do.” Not dude, but Do. I taped every episode of CHPs and made a secret shrine out in the woods where I go and yell “vroom vroom” at night. Then, I look around for criminals in the mall. I wear big black CHPs boots and wrap-around sunglasses. My favorite catch-phrase is “Roger that.” It is the kind of acknowledgement we all need to paper over the walls we build with muted blues and grays printed with snowmobiles and beach umbrellas—in short, images of hope. Everywhere you look in your living room—hope, hope, hope.

But you must find your own images and custom order them from “Rosy Wall” a manufacturer of custom wall coverings.

To each his own. Horses never say “Nay.”

Now it’s time to plan what Mr. Do will do today. Maybe I’ll make an ice sculpture with my lawnmower (I don’t have a chainsaw). Maybe I’ll hop on one foot out to the my mailbox. Maybe I’ll invent something. I’ve been thinking of something to open cans with. My screwdriver works, but not that well. Or maybe, I could invent an electric propeller to make oranges into juice. Hmmm. Maybe I could use my lawnmower to mow the snow off my driveway. I don’t know, there’s so much Mr. Do could do. Ooh. I know! I could take a shower with my dog Skipper. We could be like two birds killed with one stone!

POSTSCRIPT

Mr. Do should’ve been named Mr. Don’t. He never thought of consequences. He would be injured or scammed at least once a week, but the shower with Skipper was the end of the line. Skipper loved the shower. He jumped up on Do and put his paws on his shoulders. Do dropped his bar of soap and fell forward slipping on the soap and smashing his head on the shower faucet and falling through the tub enclosure’s glass doors. They found him slumped over the tub’s side. He was dead.


Definitions 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.

Anthypophora

Anthypophora (an’-thi-po’-phor-a): A figure of reasoning in which one asks and then immediately answers one’s own questions (or raises and then settles imaginary objections). Reasoning aloud. Anthypophora sometimes takes the form of asking the audience or one’s adversary what can be said on a matter, and thus can involve both anacoenosis and apostrophe.


“You may wonder why I’m standing here with a paper bag pulled over my head. Well, surprise! I’m not going shopping!” This was the opening to my first lecture of the semester. It was an English literature course on the oddball writer/philosopher Vaslov “Swordfish” McNulty. He was famous for writing 300-page tomes about nothing. His final book “I Can’t Get a Grip,” won the 2015 Hefty Preface Award, for the longest and most obtuse “Introduction” to a work of fiction. McNulty’s Introduction to “Underpants Eclipsing” was 150 pages long and written in extended similes—like a train-track to nowhere, like a pothole in an invisible highway. Many thought it should’ve won the 2025 Hefty.

I pulled the bag off my head, but there was another bag underneath. It was a shopping bag I had purchased at Hannaford supermarket. It was ornately printed with flowers, a big red barn, and vegetables. Like the other bag, I had cut out eye holes in it.

I said “Underneath. We do not know anything until we know what’s underneath. What’s buried. What’s occluded. What’s covered. What’s underneath.” I ripped off the Hannaford bag. Underneath, I was wearing a balaclava like a thief, or murderer, or an ICE agent wears. I brandished my Swiss Army knife. The sudden unveiling shocked some of the students. One young man in the front row tucked his hands in his armpits and flapped his arms like a bird and mooed like a cow. Another young man started jogging in place. A young woman dumped her backpack out on the floor, stood up, and started stomping on the contents. Numerous other bizarre activities took place, until the entire class was weirding out.

A shoe flew by my head. I closed my Swiss Army knife, and I pulled the balaclava off. The commotion ceased immediately. The students stared, mouths hanging open, fear and weirdness were replaced by awe.

I had a Sufi winged heart tattooed on my forehead. I had a flying saucer on my right cheek and Cher on my left cheek. I had a target on my chin and a question mark on either eyelid. I said, “My face is an aggregate of hope and fear. It weighs the ambiguity of value on its own idiosyncratic scales. At once, it projects the dialectical tensions of idiocy and genius and fabricates a surface for posing wonder.”

Then, I tore off the tattoo mask and revealed my own face. The students groaned with disappointment and one or two even booed. I am a pasty-faced bookworm who never goes outside. My face is shiny and belies my Scandinavian heritage. My last name is Godson, and I take it seriously. I ask my students: “Can you take your masks off? No! You can’t. Without your mask you would have no face—nothing to save, nothing to lose. Nothing to punctuate your life with or register your placidity and anxiety. Like Swordfish, you would be drowning in a sea of non-sequiturs, and, more bluntly, bullshit.

This semester, you will wear bags over your heads to every class. You will not get to know each other. For all we know, a serial killer may sneak in with a desire to kill one of us, or all of us. But, we will learn to trust each other, like Swordfish’s protagonist trusted the hotel doorman to open the door for him and hold it open until he entered the hotel, a key moment in ‘Floating Frozen Turkeys,’ perhaps his most ambitious work. Spanning 9,142 pages, nobody has ever read it all the way through, cleverly protecting it from the back-stabbing insults of literary critics who nearly universally condemn Swordfish’s works as vile, tautological, trivial, vice-ridden, incomprehensible, insulting, liberal, ersatz, puerile, and makeshift. This semester, you will become the bags over your heads.”

The students seemed eager to proceed. I looked forward to the experiment. Yes, it was an experiment. The next class-meeting would be the beginning of my revolution in University teaching—I would win the State University at Cowbridge award for “Believable Instruction” and get tenure. I could marry the student I’ve been living with since her Freshman year. Things were looking up. Then I got the news. One of my students was trying on bags at Hannaford’s and was mistaken for a robber. He was shot 12 times by the newly hired bipolar security guard. Since I had required my students to wear bags over their heads, I was charged with conspiracy to commit robbery. I am serving a one-year sentence. During my trial I was known in the newspapers as “Professor Bag Man.”

The students staged a demonstration protesting my conviction and proclaiming my innocence. They all wore bags over their heads and chanted “We are the paper bags over our heads.” The demonstrations were ineffective. It rained and the bags turned into paper mush. No more bags, no more protest. That was it. Here I am. I have decorated my cell with paper bags. I am grateful to the prison authorities for allowing me to do so.


Definitions 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.

Antimetabole

Antimetabole (an’-ti-me-ta’-bo-lee): Repetition of words, in successive clauses, in reverse grammatical order.


“I love you. You love I.” It wasn’t grammatically perfect, but it clearly conveyed our love. We had been going steady since high school. I wrote the little ditty as a part of Bingo’s birthday. Her real name is Martha. I nicknamed her “Bingo” because that’s what I yelled when I saw her undressing in the girl’s locker room, where I spied from a locker with a peephole drilled in it. It was one of my most successful ventures. I rented the locker for $10,00 per hour. Even Mr. Binge, the shop reacher, rented it out.

Anyhow, when I yelled “Bingo,” Bingo heard me and found me. She yanked open the locker and kissed me. I asked her to go steady, and the rest is history. It was Bingo’s 27th birthday and she was pressuring me to marry her. We still live with our parents and we still go out on dates. We were going on a “walking around” date. We just wander around town holding hands until around 11:00. Sometimes we do “it” in the thick bushes in front of the bank—mostly in summertime.

Her mother greeted me at the front door “Oh god, it’s you again. Martha’s coming right down. Why don’t you just leave her alone?” Bingo’s father was a little more creative. He had installed a fire escape with a ladder outside Bingo’s window hoping some other boys might climb up and visit her and fall in love. It didn’t work. She kept her window locked, and had a “No Trespassing” sign hanging in the window. It was a relief. Love is good and good is love! Nobody was going to steal my girl. Bingo was mine all mine.

I decided to marry her.

I worked in a sliding board factory, testing random slides for speed and smoothness. I had been working there for 15 years and made pretty good wages. Bingo skippered a fishing boat. It was a trawler and they fished for cod, haddock, and flounder. She’d be out for a week at a time with a boatload of men, but I never mistrusted her. Bingo made tons of money. So, we’d be wealthy when we combined our incomes.

We planned for months. Then, one day, in front of the bank, I ran into Mr. Binge the shop teacher who had rented my spy locker. He was bent over a walker and was drooling a little on his hand. He said “I banged her that day, and we’re still goin’ at it. I got these little blue pills. We meet in the bushes over there.” That really hurt. I thought the bushes were our special place. I ripped the walker out of Mr. Binge’s hands and he fell flat on his face yelling “You bastard!” I ran home to hide in my room. I was cleaning my .45 when there was a knock on my bedroom door. I opened the door. It was Bingo.

I was surprised my mother her let her into the house. Bingo was crying. Between sobs, she said “I ran into Mr. Binge in front of the bank today. He told me the lies he told you. Ever since that day in the locker room, he’s wanted to do ‘it’ with me. But, I said no, and I keep saying no, but he has fantasies, even at 82, and he just won’t give up. I’ve reported him for harassment several times to no avail. If you don’t believe me ask the police.”

I was calmed by what she said. I asked the police. Bingo was telling the truth. We went ahead and got married. Every once in a while I would see what looked like walker tracks heading toward the back door. but I knew they were from our son’s baby carriage and I had nothing to worry about. Nevertheless, I installed a tiny security camera and I check it every day. So far, so good.


Definitions 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.