Monthly Archives: May 2025

Paragoge

Posted on May 31, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

“Sardinarenos“ had just come on the market. They were chocolate-dipped and smoked and came in a clear plastic wrapper. Their mascot was “Captain Goof.” Even though sardines were netted, Captain Goof had a fishing pole sticking out of each ear like antennae with mackerel jigs dangling from them. He wore an old fashioned kapok life preserver, yellow rubber bib overhauls and rubber motorcycle boots. He wore a hat that said “Make Sardines Great Again.”

Captain Goof was an icon. With the exception of the ear-mounted fishing poles. Instead, his fans wear chopsticks in theirs ears. It’s amazing to see them out in public. When they cross paths they say “blub blub” believing that’s how fish greet each other.

Captain Goof’s fan base prides itself as being the most misinformed group of people on earth. They actually believe that sardines have gold in their fins and eating them will lead to the absorption of the gold into their bodies and make them into a windfall to be inherited by their families or friends when they die. This provides an incentive for eating more sardines than so-called “normal” people do. The average Captain Goof fan eats 950 packs of sardinarenos per year.

Cats follow them around. They are like walking, talking cans of “Fancy Feast.” Some of them make money on the side from catching cats from their entourage and selling them to medical labs. This is despicable and is roundly condemned by Captain Goof. He ends all his ads with “Don’t sell the cats!” Even though he has a powerful hold over his fans, he can’t deter the naughty ones from catching and selling their cat followers. The latest gambit is to offer a cash reward for information leading to the apprehension of cat sellers. The reward is $10.00, so most people think it is just some kind of PR gesture. After many complaints they raised it to $15.00, which caused international protests. There were candlelight vigils in the world’s national capitols. In Tokyo, they held a cat petting marathon where 400,000 cats participated. In Germany, they held a national cat parade with martial music and fireworks. It was almost impossible to parade the cats, but with Bavarian cat herders from the Max Mouser Institute it was mostly a success. Then, there were 100s of cats who swam across the Seine at its widest point. A strong show of solidarity from a group of animals with an aversion to water.

It all came to a head when the world’s cat models went on strike, refusing to advertise seafood in any form. Ironically, Captain Goof didn’t have an image of a cat on his sardines. That made him even more liable for censure, even though his sardines were for human consumption.

Finally, the walls came tumbling down and Captain Goof raised the reward to $1,000.00. This put an end to all the trouble. Captain Goof was a hero and life went back to “normal.” Millions of sardines were netted and prepared in accordance with the sardinereno recipe.

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.

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Paralipsis

Posted on May 30, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

“I didn’t see you give Dad the finger.” I was talking to my sister Genevieve. She was the rudest low budget person I knew. She stole. She lied. She bullied. She treated our poor old dad like crap and thought it was funny. She got sent home from school nearly every day under threat of being expelled. Her latest gambit was to replace Ms. Tompkins’ lunch with a dirty socks and cheese sandwich on white bread with mustard. Ms. Tompkins nearly choked to death on one of the socks. Given the ethos of our school, Genevieve was lauded by her fellow students and treated like a celebrity for at least a week. The adulation inspired her next misdeed. She slathered the instructor’s steering wheel in the driver’s education car with Super Glue. Mr. Komisky’s hands were glued to steering wheel. The steering wheel had to be removed from the car with Mr. Komisky glued to it. The whole school turned out to see him led to the ambulance. They stood there and chanted “big wheel” as he was driven away to the hospital.

After the steering wheel incident, Genevieve ran for class president. Given her celebrity status, she won by a landslide. Her slogan was “Fu*k the other candidates.” The administration disapproved, but what could they do when Genevieve cited her First Amendment Rights?

Recently, she turned 18 and ran for Mayor. Her slogan was “Shove it up your ass!” It was addressed to the opposition—a family that had been controlling Corn City since colonial times. The Corns wanted her dead. They couldn’t imagine giving up Corn City to a teen age prankster who was famous for screwing people over with dirty tricks. They were jealous—her dirty tricks were far superior to hers.

I was her campaign manager. The first thing I did was burn the Corn’s mansion down. It was an exceedingly popular move that probably won us the election. The Corns tried to do Genevieve in, but nothing worked. She wore a Kevlar vest and an Army helmet throughout the campaign. She “survived” six shootings, two hit and runs, and twelve poisoning attempts. It was a miracle she survived. But, the voters didn’t know that the attempted murders were staged. The Corns’ single actual attempt failed when the bomb blew up when it was being assembled in what was left of their burned out basement after the fire. It blew off Cosmo Corn’s hand and blinded him in one eye.

Genevieve won the election by a wide margin. She made me Chief of Police. So, when I see her giving Dad the finger I tell her she’s under arrest and we both laugh. I’m getting a new police car next week. It’s a black Maserati with a picture of a blown-off fist on either door. It is a reminder to the Corns that I stand for law and order.

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.

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Paramythia

Posted on May 29, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

“Don’t worry Billy. Your leg will grow back on.” I didn’t know what else to say. I was six years old. Billy was was my best friend and he was lying in a hospital bed, a recent amputee. He said, “Gee Johnny that’s good of you to say. I can feel it growing all ready.. I’ll be out of here and back on the playground in no time. We can play hop scotch!” Neither of us knew any better—we were too young and too stupid.

Billy had lost his leg playing “Butcher Man” down by the river. He had stolen his father’s razor sharp meat cleaver from the kitchen drawer. His Uncle Ted, who he revered, was a butcher. He had watched his Uncle dismember a leg of lamb countless times. He wanted to try chopping one but his uncle wouldn’t let him because he was too young. So, he had a temper tantrum and ran home and got his father’s cleaver. If he couldn’t butcher a lamb, he could sure as hell butcher himself!

He went down by the river, took off his pants and leaned up against a tree. He lifted the cleaver and whacked his leg with all his might. It came right off. Luckily there were two hikers passing. They called 911 and used a belt for a tourniquet on Billy’s leg.

Billy was rushed to the hospital where a surgeon saved his life. The leg was never going to grow back, but nobody knew how the break it to Billy. They did not want devastate him. His parents decided the best way to do it would be a joke. Billy would laugh and he wouldn’t feel so bad. But the joke they made wasn’t that funny: “Billy, you’re always going to be stumped.” Billy didn’t laugh, even after they told him what a stump is. When they told him, he got out of bed and hopped around the hospital room. A nurse grabbed him and put him in a wheelchair.

Everybody was sad, but when Billy saw his new leg he almost jumped for joy. His leg was strapped on and he learned how to use it. He could walk, jump, hop, and sort of run. When we were teenagers he would smuggle weed and booze inside his leg—to school dances and other social events. When he got older, he had his leg lined with lead and topped up with cocaine on his numerous trips to Colombia. He made millions in the drug business. Then, he decided to give up selling drugs and live a life is leisure in his mansion and with his yacht and his 16 Rolls Royces.

His front was his rock band “The Peg Legs.” Nobody suspected him, but I ratted him out for $750 from the police department. I hated to do it, but for $750 I couldn’t resist. I was going to go to Miami for two nights and stay in a nice hotel. This was a dream I had had for years, but with my alimony payments and gambling debts, I couldn’t swing it. Now, I was going to Florida while Billy went to jail.

Billy got off on a technicality. I don’t think I’ll make it through next week. At least I have both my legs and I can run if I have to. Ha ha!

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.

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Paraprosdokian

Posted on May 28, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

His duck was fast, missing punches over and over. He never lost a fight in his 12 years of boxing. He would train every day. Sometimes he would train for the whole day. He would run along the railroad tracks, staying between the rails, sort of hopping across the railroad ties.

He was committed, committed to the Atlantic Asylum. His mother committed him because she thought all his trying was “a little off.” His mother was a hair stylist. She specialized in shaving depressed women bald. She believed it allowed the to air out their brain and, as a consequence, lighten their mood. Given the number of depressed women (who are gullible too) her business flourished. It was rumored that she sold poison to the wives of errant husbands as the best and cheapest remedy “for all the bullshit.” She was also suspected of human trafficking. Again, the victims were errant husbands who ended up working as slaves in Kazak diamond mines and the garment trade in Cambodia and Bangladesh, and tomato fields of Mexico. Needless to say, she was brazen with her crimes, but she was untouchable. Nobody knew why, but she was.

Her son wanted one thing: to get the hell out Atlantic Asylum so he could continue his boxing career. His mother told him as soon as he “wasn’t a little off anymore” he would be released. He started his personal remediation program to get normal (in his mother’s eyes). He would become a vegetarian, get covered with tattoos, wear purple all the time, nickname himself Fishhook Jackson, and get an electric bicycle.

It was exceedingly difficult to follow his program, especially the tattoos. He bribed the Director of Atlantic Asylum and everything went smoothly. The bribery move really impressed his mother and was pivotal in securing his release.

He went right back to boxing and his rigorous training program. To stay in his mother’s good graces, he had to visit a brothel everyday. His favorite was “Angels Stroke.” He “saw” Braids Vinkle everyday. They didn’t have sex. Rather, he read his poetry to her. His poems were about boxing. Her favorite was “Ruptured Spleen” about the time he almost killed an opponent with a well-placed blow. He was very emotional when he read it, as if he was reliving the near-manslaughter while he read it.

Braids could barely hold back her passion. Fishhook was having none of it, until his mother found out he wasn’t having sex. She warned him and he capitulated. The next day was set for sex with Braids. He laid down on his back and began to read. Braids ripped off her clothes and jumped on Fishook. A spring sprung out of the old mattress and stabbed Fishook in the back. He died. It was bizarre—a first time ever for an accidental death: death from spring, but it usually it bings life.

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.

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Paregmenon

Posted on May 27, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

I was crazy, crazy or a fox, or was I crazy as a loon? Sometimes I would dress up like a used car salesman and talk used car salesman lingo. I’d say things like Leather seats,” or “Low mileage, or “No rust,” or “it’s your color baby!” I had a lot more sayings, but I found out the woman went crazy when they heard them, and we’d often end up in the back seat making a red hot bargain. Coupled with my windowpane plaid sports coat, Swisher Sweet cigar, and white shoes and belt, I was like a mountain of cocaine waiting to be snorted. Sometimes I’d take a carload of babes to Ratchet Lake for a skinny dipping session. I would tell them I could only “do” one of them and they would fight for me, throwing mud at each other and swearing until somebody won. Then I would tell them I was just kidding and we’d go wild together until I was exhausted and had to be carried to the car on their shoulders.

But my favorite was my gold cap I put on my tooth. Along with my eyepatch, I looked like a sophisticated pirate. The babes loved my outfit. I had a 10-foot rowboat down at Ratchet Lake. I’d meet a babe at the mall, check into Wendy’s for a Coke, and talk about my boat down at the lake. Inevitably, the babe would want to go for a boat ride in Cap’n Crispy—my boat. They loved it.

We would row out to Jumbo Island where I had built a “Love lean-to“ with a mattress, a candle, and bug spray. It was rustic and classic. It was secluded and there was never any danger of being discovered. The married women found this very appealing and I would mention it when we met at the mall.

Sadly, Cap’n Crispy came to end. He capsized when I had three babes aboard on our way out to the island. One of them was a little over weight and tipsy and thought it was funny to rock the boat. When the boat flipped over, she went down like a rock. She drowned. She was the Mayor’s wife, so I had hell to pay. I was banned for one year from the library and all the town parks—no more Ratchet Lake.

Now I’m working on a new “thing.” I’m the Laundryman at the gym—the women’s side. I wear a spa towel with no underwear. I jump in the big laundry hamper and sing love songs. The babes are attracted. When I hear them moaning outside the hamper, I stand up and lift up my spa towel. They jump into the hamper and I close the lid for privacy.

My seduction moves have been unconventional. I’m writing a book: You Can Always Get What You Want.

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.

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Pareuresis

Posted on May 27, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

I learned when I was a little boy that nothing went farther getting me off the hook than a good excuse.

My Uncle Corbert was a trouble machine. He had poor eyesight—chronic double vision. He suffered from vertigo and would fall down at least three times a day. To top it off, he had a case of nasty farts—they were loud and exceedingly smelly. As you can imagine, he lived alone. He tried to find a woman on a dating site for flatulent women called “Farting Tarts.” Uncle Corbert was even too much for the women of “Farting Tarts” and was never able to land a second date. Often a date would be terminated around Uncle Corbert’s first toot of the night. One of his dates told him he sounded like he had bagpipes in his pants that smelled like they were woven out of cabbage soaked in fish sauce.

These experiences nearly destroyed him as a human being. He would say to people calling him out on his farting: “He who smelt it dealt it” to no avail. Denying that he ran into a door, or fell down in the street, gave him no solace. People would just laugh at him—they saw it happen! Here he was with a bloody nose standing in front of the door, or lying in a puddle in the gutter.

Then, one day he met a retired politician at the library. They were sitting at a reading table when Uncle Corbert farted. It was one of his worst. The retired politician waved his hand to dissipate the stench and said, “You need an excuse for that. When I was Mayor, I spent at least half of every day making excuses—mostly for failing to keep promises.” Uncle Corbert asked hm what an excuse is. He told him that most of the time it had to do with shifting the blame. For example, when he didn’t get a promise fulfilled he would say “Be patient, it’s not me, it’s the economy.” It worked every time. In fact, he blamed everything on the economy for nearly five years.

“Shifting blame” became Uncle Corbert’s go to excuse for his maladies. Why he didn’t do that sooner was beyond him. Denial just didn’t work for his maladies, but shifting the blame to them worked like a charm. “I can’t help it” released him from the reponsibility, but the malady remained as the excuse’s foundation.

I’ve taken Uncle Corbert’s strategy one step farther. Anything that goes wrong in my life, I have an excuse for. I haven’t taken the blame for anything since I caught on to Uncle Corbert’s tactic. I have shifted the blame from everything from a crack in the sidewalk to my mother’s perfume.

Enjoy life. Make excuses!

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.

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Paroemia

Posted on May 25, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

I said to my wife Mags, “It’s better to be a beggar than a chooser.” she looked at me like I was crazy and I realized I sounded crazy. But, I was not going to admit it. I would go through my usual lying justification for the stupid things I said and did. What I had actually meant to say was “Beggars can’t be choosers.” I could’ve just corrected myself and be done with it, but I couldn’t do that—it was too sane, too normal, too right to be wrong. So, I let the bullshit fly.

I told Mags to stop looking at me “that” way. My fallback was Great Uncle Mark, an old, broken down, semi-demented Catholic Priest who was retired from the Priesthood and lived in the “Corinthian Home for Unhinged Priests.” No matter where they drifted, retired Priests were under the care of the Church until they died. Father Mark believed he is Jesus’ cousin, and together they went fishing and performing miracles together every day. The Sea of Galilee was too far, so they went fishing in the fountain out in front of Corinthian Home, where they never caught a fish, but sometimes they would turn the fountain’s water into wine (that only they could see).

Great Uncle Mark made up the saying “It’s better to be a beggar than a chooser.” It has a religious connotation.

When Great Uncle Mark took his vow of poverty when he entered the priesthood, he came to realize that a simple life of poverty relieves stress and enables you to focus more clearly on the gates of Heaven instead of the entrance to the mall, burning up your days making choices—of being selfish, always trying to have it your way. The Gates of Heaven start to glimmer when you begin to depend on the charity of others, giving them the opportunity to express their Christian love.

This all looks great until you find out that Great Uncle Mark ran the car lottery, and love boat cruise lottery every year. But, he was selling, not buying, so in a way he was begging.

I told Mags that when I said “It is better to be a beggar than a chooser“ I was thinking about our upcoming yard sale where we will get some spiritual purchase on our lives by selling most of what we own, and we don’t have much of a choice about it—we have to pay off our credit cards. Do you understand now?” Mags said “No. Why don’t we just sell our wedding rings? They are really gold, right?”

I said “All that glitters isn’t gold” and prepared for the worst.

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.

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Paroemion

Posted on May 24, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

Tomato trees towered tremendously tall. It was part of a fabled garden that was hidden away somewhere in South Jersey, where the “Garden State” got its name from. Somewhere near the Pine Barrens, but where the soil is rich and fertile—probably the best dirt in the USA.

My uncle Sal told me he had seen the tomato trees. He was drunk and had lost his shoes. He was crawling along fearing he would die and become a pile of dirt. Then, he lost his pants, panicked, and started screaming, still crawling along faster. Suddenly, a fairy princess with a perfectly red round ripe tomato abdomen popped out of the bushes.

Uncle Sal was terrified. He begged her to have mercy on him. She said “I will do better than that. I will show you the giant tomato trees.” Uncle Sal thought he was delirious until the Fairy Princess gave him a giant grocery bag with arm holes and a hole for his head to wear in place of his lost pants.

They started their trek. Uncle Sal was barefoot. He complained to the Fairy Princess and she pulled two gigantic bell peppers from her bag, and put a slit in each one, and shoved them on Sal’s feet. He was relieved. Then, she tied a vine around his neck like a leash and told him to close his eyes and open them when she told him to. He followed her instructions because she told him she would turn him into a slug if he didn’t.

She told him to open his eyes and there were the tomato trees! They were as tall of redwood trees. The tomatoes were gigantic—the size of hot air balloons. Then, the Fairy Princess waved her wand at Uncle Sal and he woke up on a park bench hugging an empty bottle of Mr. Boston. His pepper shoes and paper-bag suit were gone. He was cold lying there in his underpants. He was arrested and spent the night in the Chatsworth Town Jail where he was given a pair of used tuxedo pants and a pair of well-worn pleather loafers.

Nobody believed Uncle Sal’s story—nobody, not one person, not one single bit.

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.

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Paromoiosis

Posted on May 23, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

I was hungry. Life was crappy. This was too much to bear. I was torn like a paper towel. Some gears had come loose. They were rattling in my head—off their pins and shafts, scratching inside my skull like hamsters stuck behind a wall.

Suddenly the mayhem stopped. Everything quieted down. There was a little blood dripping from my nose, but that was normal. I got dressed and went out in public. I went to the park. It was filled with people eating sandwiches and throwing different-colored frisbees. One man had a rifle and he was shooting swans. Nobody paid any attention. They just wanted to eat their sandwiches and throw their frisbees. After the man shot all the swans he shoved his rifle in his scabbard and rode away on his very nice red electric bike. It was picturesque. It probably didn’t happen.

I didn’t have a sandwich or a frisbee, so I left the park and went to the restaurant named “Exotica” across the street where I could buy my lunch. “Exotica” specialized in meat dishes made from exotic animals, mostly in the form of meatball sandwiches with cheese on top. The other way they prepare the “exotica” is chicken-fried—batter dipped and crispy. I ordered a wolverine meatball special and a glass of tap water. I also got a basket of fried woods voles on the side. It was a lot of food, but I was hungry. I ate my lunch quickly and hurried back home to watch “Mint Man” on TV.

It was a great show. Mint Man was a serial killer who made friends with his victims and would date them. Eventually, he would kill them. When he was ready to kill them he would eat a Tic-Tac breath mint—chewing it until it was gone. Then, he’d put a plastic bag over his victim’s head and suffocate her. When he was done, he’d eat another Tic-Tac and go home to his unsuspecting wife and two children. The next day he would go back to work at the sawmill like nothing happened, working his peavey hook on the logs and looking forward to his next murder of some innocent woman who he had developed a relationship with—cheating on his wonderful loving wife, feeling no guilt.

My head was starting to hurt again and my gears were coming loose again. My poor wife and kids. I leaned my peavey in a corner and ate a Tic-Tac. I was coming apart. Worlds were starting to collide. I grabbed three plastic bags from my jacket pocket and headed for the kitchen.

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.

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Paromologia

Posted on May 22, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

Her: Oh. the hell with it. You’re right. I’m wrong. Same old song. “Oh, say can you see by the dawn’s early light—you’re always right.” What’s it like being right all the time? I guess I’ll never know. After two years of this crap, I’m heading out. I don’t know what else to do. Maybe if I was allowed to be right just once when have a disagreement, I might stay

He: You’re not always wrong, that’s wrong! What about last week when I capitulated?

Her: You didn’t tell me I was right. You just said “I give up” and left. I don’t call “giving up” like that capitulating. It’s more like writing off a point of view as if it wasn’t worth advocating.

I’m going to Maine to live with my brother. I’ve always liked it there . I spent my summers up there until I graduated from college. I love collecting beach glass.

He: What a waste time, breaking your back collecting broken pieces of glass and keeping them hidden away in a sandwhich bag somewhere. Why not just collect sheets of toilet paper off a public restroom floor? You have no sense of class—you were born to money but you live like a bag lady. What the hell is wrong with you?

She: You’re what’s wrong with me. I never should’ve gotten tangled up with you. You did a pretty good job of being nice when we first met—you even helped me with my coat. At first, I thought you were being patronizing, treating me like a “woman.” Then, I bought it, and it stopped, and that was around when you quit with the coat and stopped with the dinners out. Sadly, this signified that you ”had me” and you could drop the facade, and treat me like I was yours—I cooked, I did the laundry. I cleaned the house. Washed the car. Mowed the lawn. Did the grocery shopping. Drove your mother to her endless doctor’s appointment. What a bunch of bullshit—you lived the good life while I became a college-educated charwoman. So, fu*k you, you self-absorbed little prick.

He: I’m not going to argue with you. I just have to say, my mother will miss you. Goodbye.

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.

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Paronomasia

Posted on May 21, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

“I took a shot, but I missed and it ran down my chin.” This is one of those once in a life time puns that come to you like a lightning strike—BLAM! Everybody laughs so hard they cry, they pee their pants, they faint, they tear their hair out. The women regret being married because you’re single and you’re probably the funniest person on planet earth

Ever since you made your first pun there’s been a small herd of women who chase you from place to place like you’re a wild buffalo or some kind of feral cat.

You’re in. You’re on top. You’re “A” number one and the celebrity parking spot at “Boinky’s Restaurant” is all yours. You go where the wild goose goes. You know the way to Jose. Your life is littered with hope. You can do no wrong. It’s all good!

This is how it seems— to the outside world—the world outside my head—the laughter, the giggles, the hardy-har-hars, the guffaws. the snickers, the hoo-hahs. But I’m lost in a sinkhole the size of Nebraska, spread out around me as far as I can see. My big confession: some 12 year old kid from Queens writes my puns.

The kid’s a genius. He speaks in puns, he sings in puns, and someday I’m gonna get caught and smeared all over the place, like a bribe-prone politician or a fat bug on the floor. I’m just waiting for the day when my fans push me into a landfill and say “Goodbye fu*ker.” But, until then, I’ll keep faking it. Like this: “She had a hump on her back, and then her husband went to work.”

I should have known better when I became a punster. I stole my first ten puns and enjoyed the adulation so much that I hired the boy. I’ve made him rich. All he has to do is rattle off puns with his god-given gift. I have started to look for a replacement for him though—a woman my age or younger that will marry me—preferably an idiot savant punster. I started looking around the state’s mental institutions for my match.

I found my match at “St. Norbert’s Rest.” Her name is Zinnia and she is a lightening punster—80 per minute, 24/7. There are technicalities in my state that allow sane people to marry insane people. It takes a burden off the state and gives insane people a chance. Zinnia and I went through a relationship seminar called “Apples and Oranges.” Then, we got married at St. Norbert’s with all the trimmings, even rice-throwing.

We now live in a one-bedroom ranch house by the railroad tracks. We painted it baby-blue. I have set Zinnia up in a big cushy BarcaLounger. She wears a headset and records her puns 24/7 on her laptop, except when she’s eating, sleeping, or bathing. It is paradise. The little weasel who used to write my puns was taken out by a hit and run driver when he was walking to school. Now, nobody will ever know he wrote for me. It happened right after I got married.

“She put a bow on her head and shot a bullseye.”

This is where Zinnia is taking me. I’m king. There’s no turning back.

“The man had a mole on his face. It dug a hole through his forehead.”

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.

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Parrhesia

Posted on May 20, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

I’m sorry, but you smell like a circus animal. Maybe a monkey who needs a bath. Can’t you do something about it like take a shower or a bath? Tricia told me, due to an embarrassing family incident, she is half monkey and her smell is natural. She was a little hairy, had huge brown eyes and wore a dress and sneakers all time. She loved banana smoothies and made a cute little chirping sound whenever I kissed her or patted her butt.

Her father had accidentally had sex with his pet spider monkey when they lived in Africa—in Botswana. He came home from a wild night at the playing darts and drinking warm lager. He was drunk and called for mom for a tumble on the mattress with him. She was down in the basement labeling preserves for Christmas gifts. However, Lola (the monkey) heard him and made the very seductive sound that female monkeys make when they want to mate. In his drunken state he thought it was his wife. It was dark in the room and he jumped on Lola. His wife came in the room and climbed in bed after they were asleep. Lola was between them like usual and nobody was the wiser. However, Lola got pregnant and everybody thought we were going to have a cute little baby monkey around the house.

She didn’t have a monkey.

Tricia was born, the child of Tricia’s father and Lola the monkey. When she was a baby Lola took good care of care of Tricia. But, as Tricia grew to human size, Lola rejected her and got violent and had to be caged and eventually put in a zoo.

Tricia is the only monkey cross-breed in the world and I love her. Sometimes I will peel a banana for her and she’ll give me a hug and a kiss and squeeze my crotch and lick her lips and make her little chirping sound. Sometimes, she’ll stick her tongue in my ear. When she’s really excited she goes “Uh-huh, Uh-huh, Uh-huh” over and over again. That makes me wild!

Since Lola got put in the zoo, Tricia is lonely. Her father comes by once a week, but Tricia just yells at him. Someday things will settle down. When Tricia and I settle down and get married and have a child, everything’s going to be alright.

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.

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Pathopoeia

Posted on May 19, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

My dog was dead. My wife was dead. They were run over by a train while they were walking on the tracks. My sadness was gigantic like a monument to my grief. They were my two best friends, in addition to my spaced-out friend Mack who was still alive.

No more decent meals. No more making the bed squeak. No more roll over and fetch. No more swimming in the pond. No more watching TV. No more wearing her bathrobe on Sundays and playing corn hole in the driveway.

It was over. It was all over, like the end of a game of checkers, or the end of a rope. I was crying. I was blowing my nose. I was punching the wall. I was heartbroken, bereft, lonely, and lost.

What would I do now? I had to have a woman in my life. I couldn’t live without female companionship. I was 35 and I still had a long way to go. There was a widow, Mrs. Angle, who lived down the street. She was 72, but she was convenient. Three houses down! She had beautiful blue hair that matched her eyes. She had a small hump on her back that was hardly noticeable. She had all of her teeth and had a beautiful smile. I was going to give it a shot.

I put on my black muscle man t-shirt showing off the tattoo of a coiled snake on my left arm that said “Don’t Thread on Me.” It was supposed to say “Don’t Tread on Me,” but the tattoo guy had screwed up. I put on my khaki cargo shorts. Finally, I put on my Birkenstocks. I trimmed my beard and sprayed on two squirts of my “Time Passages Cologne” that my dead wife had given to me for Christmas.

I headed down the street to Mrs. Angle’s. It took me five minutes to get there. I rang the doorbell. The door opened and there was a beautiful young woman standing there! Mrs. Angle introduced me to her granddaughter. She was 25 and had come to live with her. Her parents had recently died in a car crash—going over a cliff and burning to death. She still hadn’t recovered from the tragedy. In a way we were in the same boat.

Mrs. Angle asked me what I wanted. I asked if I could borrow a mixing spoon. I told her I was making pancakes and freezing them. She looked at me funny, but she loaned me the spoon. I asked her granddaughter if she wanted to help me. Her name was Tammy, and she said she’d help me.

When we got to my house, I told her I changed my mind about the pancakes. We watched an old film noir classic “Double Indemnity” about murdering a person for an insurance payout. Tammy snuggled up by me and put her head on my shoulder. My grief melted away. The movie gave us a great idea.

Mrs. Angle had a $100,000 accidental death insurance policy. Tammy was the sole beneficiary. We decided to push Mrs. Angle out of the upstairs bathroom window. Mrs. Angle was bending over looking at her bird feeder out the open bathroom window. Tammy walked up behind and lifted up her legs and shoved her out window. She went straight down and landed on her head, breaking her neck and dying.

We were rich!

Tammy moved in and we got married. Tammy’s pregnant. We never made the pancakes.

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.

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Perclusio

Posted on May 18, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

“Cut across my lawn again and I’ll incinerate you with my laser ray gun. All that will be left of you is your belt buckle, unless it’s made of brass. Otherwise, you’ll be a pile of smoking ash.” I was yelling at my neighbor’s teenage son who led a gang called the “Whacko Bananas.” There were five of them and they terrorized the neighborhood. For example, recently they had started spitting their chewed bubblegum on my sidewalk. It would stick to the soles of peoples’ shoes as they walked by. They would become enraged, yelling at me and even throwing things at me when I was mowing my lawn.

I had purchased my laser ray gun on the dark web. It had supposedly been retrieved from an alien spacecraft that had crash-landed in Battle Mountain, New Mexico. It was made of what looked like space-crafted cardboard with a long extension chord hanging out the back and what looked like a light bulb mounted in the front. It had a light switch mounted on the bottom. The instructions were not complicated: plug in, aim, switch on, incinerate. One of the instructions really stood out: Use only for killing people within five feet. Any other use will result in the death and dismemberment of the laser ray gun’s operator.

I wasn’t sure if I was ready to kill my neighbor’s kid for cutting across my lawn. But, I could threaten him with the laser ray gun. It was a formidable prop, better even than waving my shotgun, which had failed numerous times. Finally, after threatening the little bastard 50 times, I decided to incinerate him. There would be no corpse. I would rake the ashes around in my yard and retrieve his belt buckle if there was one.

The day came. I plugged in the laser ray gun and sat on my front porch. There he was! He was cutting across my lawn for the hundredth time. I jumped down off the porch and yelled at him: “Come here you little prick.” I needed to get him within five feet. He lunged at me and grabbed the laser ray gun. He looked at it and found the off/on switch, flipped it on, and aimed it in the air. He was instantly dismembered and died screaming on my lawn. His legs had landed in the street. His arms were on my front sidewalk. His head had landed in the gutter. His trunk hadn’t gone anywhere—it just lay there oozing blood. I was sick to my stomach, but was relieved that the little pest was gone. Now, I could live in peace, except for the police interrogations. I told them I was mystified as to how this could happen in my front yard. The laser ray gun had conveniently disintegrated. Without it, nobody had a clue to what had happened. Anyway, I was innocent of murder. The boy’s death was self-inflicted. He failed to follow the instructions.

Now the “Whacko Bananas” stay away from my yard. There is a rumor that I dismembered the boy with my bare hands.

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.

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Periergia

Posted on May 17, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

I bought another nik-nak. Nik-naks everywhere. A paradise of nik-naks. Nik-nak heaven. I was floating on a cloud of nik-naks, high above the world of everyday people—unwashed, unblessed, the sweat smelling masses blind to the sweet light of nik-naks

I had over 1,000 nik-naks. The walls of my apartment are lined with shelves. The nik-naks were arraigned alphabetically: from “A” for an alligator-head plant stand, to “Z” for a zebra-hoof ashtray. I probably had $60,000 sunk into my collection. I had it appraised and I was told t was worth $700.00. I was devastated. According to the appraiser, some of the items were worth nothing at all, like the partridge in a pear tree made of goldenrod run through a blender. You wouldn’t know it was a partridge in a pear tree unless I told you. The partridge looked like a rabbit poop and the pear tree was a roll of toilet paper with toothpicks sticking out of it. I thought it would be worth a least fifty cents, but the appraiser laughed and said, “If we had half-pennies, you might get something for it.”

That’s when I decided to burn the lot and start out collecting something else. I went from loving my nik-naks to hating them. Their worthlessness turned me against them. I loaded them in the back of my pickup truck and drove them around behind my house. I threw them in a pile on the ground, doused them with gasoline, and made them into a bonfire. They made a beautiful blaze. But then, the guy from the Museum of Folk Art, came yelling into the back yard. I had met him on my frequent trips to the museum to marvel at the artifacts collected in the special Nik-Nak room.

He yelled, “Put out the fire you fool! He was an imposter—he was no appraiser— he is a janitor at the flea market who wanted to humiliate nik-nak collectors who had the sense to assemble cheap oddities into valuable collections. He was jealous and angry and fairly crazy. Your collection was actually worth $1,500,000. Too bad you burned it.”

Hearing that, I jumped into the flames and was severely burned. I’ve recovered and now I do the talk show circuit sharing my experience and how I got burned.

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.

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Period

Posted on May 16, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

There was time without any sort of link to the vast horizon and the rising moon’s peach-colored glow. I faced the moon—it was in the west, that’s all I knew. It didn’t matter which direction I faced, but at least I knew where the four directions were.

Big fu*king deal.

I was lost. I had been minding my own business driving across the desert when a sand storm kicked up. Like an idiot, with zero visibility, I kep driving. I drove for about an hour. Then, I drove over a cliff. It wasn’t a sheer drop, but it was close enough. It was about 60 feet. My Range Rover hit a boulder and flipped onto its side. I was able to get out of it before it went up in flames and exploded. I was lucky to be alive, but not that lucky. I was lost as hell.

I had been in Vernon, AZ at the trading post looking for a specific ancient Zuni artifact—a small stone carving. It supposedly had properties that would induce healing. My three-year-old daughter had been diagnosed with brain cancer. The stone was a possible help with its curative powers.

A Native American found me in the middle nowhere and we walked to his camp. I told him my story and he told me not to worry. He held up a piece of carved stone. He said: “This is is what you’re looking for” and gave me the piece of carved stone. “Press it to her forehead every day for one hour.”

My daughter was cured. It was miraculous. I went back to Arizona to thank the man who had given me the carved stone. His camp was gone. He was gone. My daughter was alive.

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.

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Periphrasis

Posted on May 15, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

How did I become known as “Stampy?” Was it because I liked licking stamps? Stamps didn’t need licking any more. You just pull them off a sheet and stick them on an envelope. How about stamping my foot to display impatience? That’s a good guess, but it’s wrong. The only time I stamped my foot was to kill a bug or to stop a blowing piece of paper. What about clog dancing? Never. No way. I like music, and I might tap my foot, but I would never clog dance, let alone, even dance!

Ok, so why am I called “Stampy”?

I wear a bandoleer of rubber stamps and carry an ink pad in my back pocket. The stamps are preloaded with opinionated statements. When I feel compelled, I rubber stamp the nearest flat surface with a phrase. For example, after finishing a meal I didn’t like at an expensive restaurant, I stamped the table underneath my plate with my “Your food tasted like shit.” I leave no tip and revel in the thought of the busboy picking up the plate and seeing the message.

All my opinionated statements are negative. I believe the negative has a stronger, longer lasting effect than cute little trivialities—quickly forgotten, like a car passing by. However, stamping does have its risks.

I was in a bar. The drinks sucked and they were way too expensive. The two pole dancers moved like they were sleep walking and the volume of the music was way too loud. I pulled out my “This place sucks” stamp and stamped it on the bar. The bartender grabbed me by the wrist and told me menacingly to sit on the bar and cover up the stamp. He told his assistant to go to the supply room and get the “Ink Out” cleaner and bring it back with a rag. They made me clean off the bar. The “Ink Out” worked really well. It took the stamp right off the bar.

It gave me an idea.

I could stamp people’s parked cars and front doors. Then, I’d “notice” them and offer to clean off the stamp’s message. For cars, I used “I’m an asshole” on the driver’s side front fender. For front doors, it would say “Child abuse practiced here.” I would charge $50 to clean the surface. People were very grateful and gladly forked over the $50.

But then, the shit hit the fan. It was a doorbell cam that caught me stamping. When I offered to clean the door, I was recognized as the person who put the stamp there. The police could only prove the one instance, so I was let off with a small fine and one month of community service. I’m still stamping car fenders though—I just don’t offer to clean them any more. The thrill of leaving my mark hasn’t gone away. I’m still “Stampy.” By the way, I’ve gotten a job in City Hall as a bureaucrat. Guess what? I rubber stamp documents all day long. I love the sound of the stamp hitting paper! I am blessed.

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.

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Personification.

Posted on May 14, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

The tree was smiling at me. I couldn’t figure out why a tree would smile at me. It was a maple tree in my sugar bush. Every yer I drilled a hole in it and drove in a spline. Its sap would drip into a bucket and I would collect it and boil it into maple syrup—delicious sweet maple syrup.

It was bad enough what I put it through every year, but a smiling tree wasn’t normal under any circumstances. It looked like a cartoon character. By the way, it had a woman’s voice. I asked the tree what her name was. She told me it was Ms. Maple. I thought she was kidding around, punning on Miss Marple, the TV detective. She didn’t like what I said about Ms. Marple. She didn’t think it was funny.

About half way down to the ground she had a woodpecker hole with moss growing out of it. I asked what it was. She said “None of your business human loser. Why don’t you ask me something interesting like how old I am, the changes in the woods over the years, the men and women who’ve loved me over the years. I know you’ll never love me, you just want to suck my sap in February and March, drilling a hole in me and taking my sap. So I asked her how old she is. She told me she is 125, one of the oldest maple trees in New York. She told me that when she was a sapling, the chainsaw was invented and struck horror in all the maples—“We are rooted, we cannot flee. If we get cut down, we get cut down, made into furniture, cutting boards, toys, and more. When we are sawn each piece retains its consciousness of the other parts. It is funny to to see a salad bowl run across a wooden spoon that is him or her and vice versa.”

“The men who have loved me are all poets. Francis Joyce Kilmer was the most passionate. He wrote a poem about me titled “Trees” that won my heart forever. As a healthy maple tree, I outlived him. He died in 1918. I am haunted by my feelings for him. The power of love’s echoes sometimes soothe me, sometimes they plunge me into sorrow, where I almost hope some lumberjack will take me down and make me into veneer for the interior of a luxury sedan.”

Then, she went quiet and didn’t talk any more. I picked up my backpack and ran to the roadside adjacent to the head of the trail at the border of my sugarbush. I didn’t know what to do. I started crying. I sat in my car and cried—cried for Ms. Maple and her life’s trajectory. I vowed I would never drill a hole in her again. Under the circumstances, that was the best I could do. I read Joyce’s “Trees” on the internet that night. Poor Ms. Maple.

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.

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Polyptoton

Posted on May 13, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

My head was filled with unhealthy thoughts. It was time to head to the shrink’s and try to develop a strategy for making the thoughts go away. Doctor Pabst was amazing. She was beautiful. Also, she always gave me “medication” that brought me around. Two weeks ago I was totally nutso. I wanted to shoot my dog. I had become convinced he was making fun of me by sitting up and begging all the time, parodying my taking care of him. It was ghastly the way he wagged his creepy tail in a figure 6-6-6 and made whining sounds like my last girlfriend, Georgia, who had disappeared without a trace 6 months ago. I was briefly a suspect.

Well, Dr. Pabst saw that I was going over the edge and she gave me a pill that put me in a coma for a week. She kept me “stored” on her living room couch. Through the fog I could hear her talking softly in my ear. When I awoke my t-shirt was on inside out and it smelled like Dr, Pabst’s perfume, “Copay.” But, I was healed! The one-week coma had worked miracle—I loved my dog again and loved it when he begged and whined.

So, I told Dr. Pabst that that I was having unhealthy thoughts. She asked me what they were. I felt very uncomfortable telling her that I didn’t want to wipe after pooping any more. I had never been good at wiping, so I thought I should just give up entirely. Part of this came from my growing fear of toilet paper. I was afraid it would get stuck in my anus, dry, and harden into something like a cork that could only be removed with a corkscrew. I was terrified that my bowels would explode from the pressure of not pooping, probably at work, and kill me while making a horrific smelly mess, a mess so bad, that I would be transported to the morgue in a garbage truck.

Dr. Pabst nodded emphatically while I talked. When I got to the exploding bowels part, she said “Holy fu*k! You are as crazy as a bag of squirrels! I’m going to drill a teeny hole in your forehead. I will drill to your sanity center, and you’ll be fine. Don’t worry, I learned this technique in medical school in Belarus where we had plenty of “patients” to practice on, and the and the Belarusian version of the Hippocratic Oath permitted doing harm as long as your team leader told you to do so. So, take this pill and lay on the floor.

I took the pill and went into a coma for a month. When I awoke I had small hole in my forehead. It was plugged by a post erring with a peace sign mounted on it. Dr. Pabst told me not to pull it out or push on it or I would have a potentially fatal seizure. She kissed me on the forehead (on the peace sign) and asked how I was doing “baby.” That got my attention.

I told her I was fine—no more toilet paper horrors. She said that was good, and now we could finish what we had started. I asked what that was. She laughed and asked, as she pushed on the peace sign, which was some kind of off on switch, “Are you turned on?” I didn’t know what I was! I stood up and tried to talk but all I could do was emit steam and reach for the sky with both arms. When I raised my arms my pants fell down revealing skid marks on my underpants that could’ve been made by a tractor trailer truck, or race car tires.

She handed me a pill and told me to lay on the floor and take it. I followed her instructions. I must’ve been in a coma for a year. When I awoke Dr. Pabst had a baby. We had gotten married while I was in a coma—she told me we had to take an ambulance to Alabama where it’s legal to marry a person in a coma even if they are brother and sister. Who said Alabama is a conservative state?

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.

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Polysyndeton

Posted on May 12, 2025 | Leave a comment

Polysyndeton (pol-y-syn’-de-ton): Employing many conjunctions between clauses, often slowing the tempo or rhythm. (Asyndeton is the opposite of polysyndeton: an absence of conjunctions.)

There was a house, and a yard, and a swimming pool, and a shooting range, and a garage, and a greenhouse, and a grill. It was home. It had always been home. When I first came through the front door, I was an infant. I learned to ride my bike in the driveway. I learned to shoot with unerring accuracy in the backyard shooting range. I could hit the head of a pin from 25 yards with a pistol.

I was 29–a little old to be living at home. Dad was selling the place. Soon, I’d be out on my own. He was asking $500,000 for the place. That’s a lot of money, but I was resolved to raise it and keep the property for myself. I tried “Go Fund Me” but nobody was interested. I got comments like “Idiot,” “This is the stupidest fundraising gambit I ever heard of,” “Give it up Bozo.”

I knew I needed another plan. So, I got my parents to make a will leaving the house to me. I convinced them they could die at any minute, even before they found a buyer for the house. I was planning on killing them both and blaming my notoriously psycho sister, who was living in a half-way house down the street from the state mental institution. Then, I decided it would be even better to get my sister to actually kill our parents.

I told my sister that I couldn’t hold it in any more: our parents were serial killers from the third dimension of the future’s origin on a secret Tik Tok channel run by apes. I told her that they specialized in killing children, but lately, they had developed a thirst for her blood. They would come to her apartment with empty coffee mugs they would fill with her blood after they slit her throat and drained her.

My sister was visibly shaken. I gave her a loaded .45 to protect herself. I called my parents and invited them over. I told them that all my sister’s coffee mugs had been broken by her cat, so they had to bring their own mugs. Then, I left.

Everything went fine! My sister killed our parents. I told the police that my sister had stolen the handgun from me. I inherited the house and am enjoying life!

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.

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Prolepsis

Posted on May 11, 2025 | Leave a comment

Prolepsis (pro-lep’-sis): (1) A synonym for procatalepsis [refuting anticipated objections]; (2) speaking of something future as though already done or existing. A figure of anticipation.

What about it? Rev. Bilk told us last week that the end is near, and if we can’t dance a jig while speaking in tongues, we will be the first to go to Hell. In my mind the Raptures are here—I’m going down though, not up. I’m taking an elevator ride to Hell where I will spend eternity on a barbecue spit roasting over the fires of hell, screaming in agony and being slathered by an cackling imp with “Cardinal Newman’s Own Satanic Sauce.”

I can’t jig and I can’t speak in tongues, but Rev. Bilk has a home study course that he guarantees will provide eternal salvation by teaching me these two essential skills. It is titled “Dancing With Your Tongue.” Rev. Bilk says the $2,000 book is based on a holy manuscript he “discovered” in the Holy Land when he was there with his ministerial assistant Glenda, who he had a saintly relationship with which permitted them to lie down together in green pastures fearing no evil. They found the manuscript in “Shlomo’s Joke Shop” in Bethlehem. It was damaged, but he bought it anyway. Shlomo thought it was a joke, but the Rev. Bilk knew it was a stairway to heaven.

It had many exercises. For example, to facilitate learning how to speak in tongues, you were encouraged to go to the dentist and receive multiple injections of novocaine. As your tongue went numb and you lost control of it, you simulated speaking in tongues. It was fantastic. I sounded like a saint! After I had been to the dentist for my weekly injection, “Oogalogoo mormajog” was what I said to a police officer when I got pulled over for a broken taillight. He was about to arrest me when I wrote on a piece of paper “I am a saint speaking in tongues.”I showed it to him. He read it and smiled and made the sign of the cross and let me go as he said “Peace be with you brother.”

Well, after two years of study and practice, I’m ready for the Raptures. This time, I’ll go up instead of down. Now that I’m a Certified Saint, I can berate the sinners I’m surrounded by. I’m working on legislation to have them all put in prison where they belong.

May peace be with you. Amen.

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.

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Protherapeia

Posted on May 10, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

A lots of things happen. So many. Too many. They sneak up on us. Then, it’s too late. Pastor Anglow has disappeared. For most of us this will be our saddest day. Chief Powers called me early this morning to give me the news. The Pastor has been missing for a month. If we went to church, we would’ve known something was wrong sooner. Chief Powers had some choice words to say about that. But I told him: “Chief, just because I’m a Christian doesn’t mean I have to go to church, goddamnit. I love my neighbors and all that crap, so why do I have to go to church? Back off copper!”

I had seen a lot of detective shows on Amazon Prime, so I knew what I was doing—establishing my innocence with Chief Powers by acting like a tough guy. In the shows I watch, tough guys turn out to be kind and caring nice guys. Anyway, what could I possibly have to do with the Pastor’s disappearance? I hardly knew him.

My cellphone rang.

It was Jasmine—I mean Mrs. Anglow, the Pastor’s wife. She probably lost her cat again. She’d come looking for her cat every week. I’d let her into my house and we’d look around. She’d crawl around on her hands and knees looking for her cat. She would get dirty and sweaty and I’d let her use my shower to wash off. She had a chronic tennis injury and couldn’t wash her back. So, I got into the shower and helped her. I’d put my arms around her waist and use two washcloths to slowly and gently wash her back.

She had called me to tell me her husband was missing and she had lost her cat. I told her she was welcome to come over and look for it. She sighed and thanked me.

While we were looking for her cat, Jasmine told me her husband had won the $10,000,000 Sonic Boom Lotto and had taken off with Chief Powers’s daughter, a Junior at Pot Crank High School. Jasmine was too embarrassed to tell anybody, but her husband had given her $2,000,000 to keep her mouth shut while she was undergoing a divorce from him.

Pastor Anglow was going to marry the Chief’s daughter!

When the Chief found out about the whole thing, he vowed to pull the Pastor over for a traffic stop and shoot him in the face. That never happened. In an epic car chase after the Pastor, the Chief drove over Dead Man’s cliff. The car went up in flames, and the Chief was killed when the car exploded.

Jasmine and I got married. We have four children—three girls and a boy. We still enjoy looking for her cat.

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.

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Protrope

Posted on May 9, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

“If you don’t have another baby pretty soon, I’m going to leave you on somebody’s porch.” Whoops. I should’ve said “litter.” I was talking to Dinah, the poodle and queen of my puppy mill. Jaques had been after her all week, but she would run away from him or bite him, or both. This was the first time something like this had happened. Dog reproduction had always been fail safe, with nature following its course naturally and reliably.

If Dinah was done reproducing, I could give her away to somebody as a pet. My niece Joanie had been pestering me for a dog since Christmas. I checked with my brother and he said it was ok. So, I got a food dish, a bag of food, a collar, and a leash at the pet store where I sold most of my puppies, and then, headed for my brother’s with Dinah. My brother was waiting at the door. Dinah barked and wagged her tail as she went through the front door. She sniffed around the house and jumped up onto the couch with Joanie. Joanie was elated and gave Dinah a big hug.

Joanie would take Dinah for walks, bathe her, brush her, feed her and generally care of her like a doting mother.

Then it happened.

Dinah got off her leash and was “accosted” by a coyote. Joanie told me Dinah and the Coyote were “dancing together.” My God! Dinah was bred by a coyote. This was a total complete shock.

Dinah became pregnant and gave birth to a litter of four “Pooyotees.” One of the puppies had two heads! One head was Poodle, the other was Coyote. He was healthy and grew right along with the other pups. We named him Flambeau after one of the characters on “Father Brown Mysteries,” a lovable thief who made repeated appearances on the show.

Flambeau’s heads would bark at each other, and sometimes he seemed to have a hard time deciding which way to go. The heads would growl at each other and eventually make a decision. Sometimes, the heads would fight over whether to chase a ball, or sit, or shake hands. Clearly, the two heads had minds of their own that were fraught with conflict.

Flambeau was living with me, so I had to struggle with his problems. I bought him a shock collar and would give him a jolt whenever he would start fighting with himself. He would yelp and stop the fighting. One night while I was sleeping, Flambeau pulled out the bedside lamp’s plug from its outlet. He chewed the chord to bare wire about a foot up from the plug, wrapped it around my neck, and plugged it back in.

I was nearly electrocuted. To this day, I do’t know how he got the chord wrapped around my neck. I’ll ever forget the smell of my neck burning. I knew why he did it. It was retribution for the shock collar I used on him.

I discovered he was the highest dog I.Q. In the world, and that’s how I advertised him in my traveling show: “Pooyote Pacesetter: The Genius Two-Headed Dog.”

Flambeau could paint beautiful symmetrical designs with his two noses dipped in acrylic paint. He could bark-sing in harmony with himself. His favorite was “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” He could compete with himself in pulling on a chew toy. Audience members loved it when they paid $5.00 to be licked on the face by both of his heads.

We had a successful 8 year run when Flambeau dropped dead after licking an audience member’s face. Flambeau was murdered. The person was an animal rights activist who had smeared cyanide paste on his face “to liberate the dog from slavery.” I thought murder was a weird kind of liberation. The murderer, a Columbia University graduate student, was given six months in jail for animal cruelty.

I was heartbroken. Flambeau was irreplaceable. I retired and started collecting Social Security. In order to afford an apartment and eat, I have four roommates. They treat me like a dog and I like it. I have a basket by the front door.

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.

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Proverb

Posted on May 8, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

I needed to go somewhere in life. All my friends from high school were raging successes—they all invented things.. Ann Banks had invented a wearable vibrator. Busy women used it for convenience sake. Driving to work, sitting in a bar on a barstool, waiting in the checkout line at the super market, at the dentist, etc. You can imagine what a success it was. Then, there was Egbert Flange who had invented the inflatable walking stick. You could deflate it, roll it up, and stick it in your pocket. It had a Co2 cartridge integrated into its design. You pressed a small button the the top and it would re-inflate as you left a theatre or the movies, or other venues where it was better not to have a walking stick in the way. Giles Goatsbreath invented a self-heating Pop Tart, no oven or microwave needed. You just pounded on it with your fist and it would heat up in 3 seconds.

So far, I had not had a successful invention. Everything I came up with was too far-fetched to be made. Like, for example, the flying swimming pool. I couldn’t get it off the ground—literally. I used a helicopter concept, but the helicopter’s prop wash blew the water out of the pool. Then, I tried a blimp attached with cables to the pool. But, the pool was so heavy, I couldn’t find a blimp big enough to lift it. So, I had a giant hot air balloon made. The balloon’s flame severely burned two of the pool’s passengers, so I gave up on the flying swimming pool.

One day, I ran across the proverb “No pain, no gain.” I started hitting myself on the thumb with a hammer, hoping the pain would grant me some gain. The thumb hammering wasn’t working so I hired my podiatrist to pinch me up and down my legs once a week. I got no gain out of that pain either. I was desperate.

I found a woman named Madam Chains on the internet. Here motto was “No Pain, No Gain!” This had to work. Clearly, she was a professional. Her avatar was a rubber SCUBA suit with a belt sander coming out the neck. If I didn’t get some gain out of Madam Chains’ ministrations, I was doomed.

She told me to stand by the side of the road and step out in front of car that looked like it was weaving, being driven by a drunk. She taught me techniques for getting hit by car and being seriously, but not fatally injured. The “drunk” behind the wheel would be held liable and I would garner a huge insurance payout.

I endured a lot of pain, but got a HUGE amount of gain: $2,000,000. I gave Madam Chains 10%. I’ve given up on inventing things. I just travel around with my girlfriend Chrissie and my pet eagle named Flamingo.

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.

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Prozeugma

Posted on May 7, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

I’m goin’ to Kansas City. Kansas City, what a place. On a train. On a plane. On a skateboard. On my feet. On a chopper. On an electric bicycle. It’s all the same to me. I’m goin’ to Kansas City. They got some grease- drippin’ barbecue there and I’m gonna’ get me some. I might have the beef. I might have the pork. I hope my boss lets me take two days off work, so I can go to Kansas City and have my tastebuds transmit the holy flavor to my head. I’ll eat ten sandwiches and then go home—home from Kansas City, back to my boring meaningless life; no house, no car, no wife. Maybe I’ll stay in Kansas City permanently. I’ll work in a barbecue van and make my mark.

Now, I work at a marble factory in a former Dodge motor car assembly plant in Detroit. The marbles are made in China. We just put them in cardboard boxes with our brand on them. The brand is “Dynamite Dubs.” It signifies our marbles’ ability to knock out two or more opponents’ marbles with a single shot. My job is to tuck in the box’s flap in to keep the marbles from falling out. It is a boring job, but the pay is good. I eat out at MacDonald’s every night. Sometimes, I splurge on a Value Meal. I weigh 320 lbs., just like the President. At least I can be proud of something!

The boss told me I couldn’t take two days off. In fact, he told me he needed me 24/7 to help guard the plant when the tariffs kicked in. He was certain there would be violence when the price of marbles went up 145%. Already, there was talk on the street. He was issuing everybody an M-16. He had gotten permission from “Bullet” Bassey (Detroit’s Police Chief) to shoot anybody standing outside the marble plant. He said they were a “national security threat” and we were authorized to “kill ‘em all.” We were supplied ammunition by ICE, and, as a bonus, five boxes of hand grenades to be used at the “slightest provocation.” Bob, the center fielder for the plant’s softball team, was elated. He could reach home plate every time with his “canon arm.” He said, “My arm has a whole new meaning! I can’t wait.” ICE also told us it was Ok to shoot children, as long as we didn’t aim for the head. ICE was concerned that the “mess” a head shot makes might arouse the ire of the commie libtards and cause them to post unflattering things on social media.

I was freaking out. Now I knew first-hand what the Twilight Zone was all about. I quit my job. I charged up my bicycle and headed for Kansas City. I arrived one week later. I had gotten two flat tires along the way, and had to charge up five times. The first thing I did when I got to Kansas City, was have four pork barbecue sandwiches. Then, I went looking for a job. I got a job in a barbecue van. It was perfect. My biggest hope fulfilled!

I was eating up to 9 barbecue sandwiches per day. I know it sounds insane, but I couldn’t help myself. I shot up to 400lbs and started to waddle like a giant duck. Then, one day I had a King-Kong sized heart attack. I died and came back to life three times in the ambulance. They say my heart looks like a big lump of Crisco, and if I don’t stop pigging out on barbecue sandwichs, I’ll die. I’ve cut back to 4 barbecue sandwiches a day. In one month, I’ve lost 3 pounds. I feel fit.

At night, I dream I am a giant barbecue sandwich being eaten by Taylor Swift. Her teeth caress my bun and she bites and chews me up slowly and seductively in little loving nibbles. I am having my name legally changed to Barbecue Sandwich. But most important, I have developed a men’s barbecue sandwich scented cologne called “Face Sauce.” Our slogan is “Lick my face. Zero calories.” It’s selling like crazy.

So, I just read the newspaper. Detroit is in flames. No children killed yet.

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.

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