Monthly Archives: December 2025

Pysma

Posted on December 6, 2025 | Leave a comment

Pysma (pys’-ma): The asking of multiple questions successively (which would together require a complex reply). A rhetorical use of the question.

Why is the sky blue? Why does it get cold in winter? Why am I a man? What time does the train leave? Where am I going.L Am in coming? What are these little bugs crawling around my crotch? I can answer that! They’re crotch crickets, my old friends. I’m going to observe them with my OED magnifying glass before I kill them with “Spinosad.” It costs over $300 and instantly whacks them.

I focused in and observed the crotch crickets. It looked like they were square dancing. There was no music coming from my pants, so I concluded they were marching, not dancing. Every once in a while two or three would give me a nip. it itched like a mosquito bite. I couldn’t slap them to death, their bodies were like shells. Then, they started doing acrobatics. They were tumbling and they had built a tower out of my pubic hair. They were diving off the tower into a little puddle of blood they had made from biting me.

It was disgusting and fascinating at the same time. For a couple of minutes I considered training a troupe of crotch cricket acrobats. I even thought of a name for them: “The Nice Lice Acrobats.” I would afford them a place in my crotch where they would live while we travelled the country putting on shows.

I would give audience members cheap complimentary magnifying glasses, pull down my pants and lay on a table exhibiting my crotch crickets and MC-ing the show: “Ladies and gentlemen! Turn your attention to the tower of hair as Little Carl will leap into the pool of blood from the very top of the tower!”

Then I realized something had gone wrong. It was my PTSD. It was the residue of my numerous encounters with crotch crickets when I was in the Army. The prostitutes around Ft. Bragg were al infected, but I couldn’t help myself. Every Monday I’d hit the dispensary for a can of crotch cricket killer powder—DDT—after a weekend of cavorting with bug-infested whores.

I pulled out my Spinosad, twisted the cap, pulled down my pants, and sprinkled a dose on my crotch. It worked. The crotch crickets died immediately and fell like little snowflakes to the floor. Already, I missed them—the little itchy nips and the daring acrobatics. I felt a sort of withdrawal from having an itchy crotch. I didn’t know what to do.

I went into counseling.

My psychologist kept scratching her crotch while we were talking. She called my crotch crickets “crabs” with a little smile on her face and admitted she had a case. In one of our sessions, I asked her to infect me. she sad it was unethical, but she had become fond of me and would be glad to do it. She gave me some of her crabs in her office with the door locked.

Now, she gives me crabs on Fridays, I whack them on Mondays and then go back on Friday for another dose. It is complicated, but it is therapeutic.

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

Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Ratiocinatio

Posted on December 5, 2025 | Leave a comment

Ratiocinatio (ra’-ti-o-cin-a’-ti-o): Reasoning (typically with oneself) by asking questions. Sometimes equivalent to anthypophora. More specifically, ratiocinatio can mean making statements, then asking the reason (ratio) for such an affirmation, then answering oneself. In this latter sense ratiocinatiois closely related to aetiologia. [As a questioning strategy, it is also related to erotima {the general term for a rhetorical question}.]

“Why did the chicken cross the road?“ I was holding it by the neck. Its mangled body was oozing giblets and intestines, hanging down and swinging like bloody pendulums. But time had run out for this young chicken, my prize Rhode Island Red, Betty. She had attempted to cross the road. She was run over by a 15-wheeler carrying a load of potatoes from Boise, Idaho to Chicago, Illinois. He didn’t even stop after flattening Betty, making her look like a Hippy wall hanging alongside the white line.

How did this happen? Why did this happen?

Betty has just laid her second egg before she took off across the road. Maybe she felt lighter and faster and just wanted to run. I was settling in on that answer when I saw Cockadoodle, the neighbor’s rooster, strutting up and down the road shoulder, flapping his wings, and crowing.

There it was: Cockadoodle had lured Betty to her death. She was an innocent young hen. She was not wise to the ways of the barnyard. Cockadoodle knew this and killed her. Does Cockadoodle deserve to die? Yes! Most certainly!

I went home and got my flamethrower that I use to burn weeds. Today I would use it to burn a rooster. I brought my dog Thyme to catch Cockadoodle and deliver him to my feet. Everything went well, up until Thyme delivered Cockadoodle to my feet. Cockadoodle ran away. Thyme caught him, and we went through the running away and catching several times, until finally, Thyme bit down hard and killed Cockadoodle. I put the dead rooster in the road where Betty was killed and lit hm on fire.

This is called “Justice.” Right?

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

Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Repotia

Posted on December 4, 2025 | Leave a comment

Repotia (re-po’-ti-a): 1. The repetition of a phrase with slight differences in style, diction, tone, etc. 2. A discourse celebrating a wedding feast.

I had been “married” 75 times. I was in the visa business. It’s a complicated process. It takes time, but in the end all you need is a marriage license. You get married. You get divorced. I live in Nevada where divorcing is a piece of cake.

I had “gone around the world” with my visa brides. The one I liked the least was German. She bossed me around, making me do too much for her—laundry, clean house, cook, water the houseplants, and go to Cliff’s all times of the day and night to buy her chocolate with almonds in it. We had to live together for 2 months for her visa to “stick.” It was hell for me. At one point I considered pushing her down the basement stairs. Then, the worst possible thing happened that can happen to somebody like me: she told me she loved me more than apfelkuchen (Apple Cake) and she wanted to stay married. Luckily, I had a way out. I reported her to my friend at ICE. ICE were there in ten minutes, tasered her, handcuffed her and took her into custody. She yelled “You are like Gestapo!” At that, one of the agents hit her on the head with his truncheon. She was deported to Belize and, given her status as a “criminal,” the divorce was quickly executed.

My best visa catch is Seezy Bellacola. She’s from Trabib (not East Trabib). I didn’t think East Trabib actually existed, let alone, Trabib. Growing up in New Jersey, it was known as a metaphor for a a far-away place in somebody’s head where they might be hopelessly lost. For example, if somebody was really lost in their head, we would say he was in East Trabib. Seezy told me there were many lost people in Trabib. Even the Pime Minister did not know where he came from, but he thought it might be England. Anyway, we decided to get married for real & stay together. Our “visa” wedding been bland, but the second one was going to be an extravaganza—Seezy was an heiress.

So, we got married. My best man, Jumper Johnson, gave a pretty good wedding speech:

“When two people get married, they are actually married. My friend Lyle and Seezy are married because they got married—both of them together, married together, married, right here. Married. They will walk down life’s sidewalks and streets together, and drive them too, in their new black Audi. Some day one of them will die, unless they both die together in a plane crash, a car wreck, or a terrorist attack, or maybe an armed robbery or house fire when home alone. One will be alone. One will be depressed. One will find a new partner and start all over again, in a new and happy marriage. The other will be dead, maybe wearing a new suit, buried in a coffin somewhere, or maybe, posing as ashes in a jar on a shelf in the garage.

This is how it goes. Enjoy your Audi.”

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Restrictio

Posted on December 3, 2025 | Leave a comment

Restrictio (re-strik’-ti-o): Making an exception to a previously made statement. Restricting or limiting what has already been said.

I will walk from Boothbay Harbor, ME to Derry, NH, tracing the route my ancestors took when they arrived in the New World. Only, I was going in the opposite direction from the route they took. At the last minute I decided to travel via skateboard to celebrate my late mother’s life-long desire to be a figure skater. Then, I realized that skate boarding and figure skating are two very different things. It would be like celebrating Earth Day by littering. Not a good match.

So, after giving it a lot of thought, I decided to travel by electric scooter. Quiet. Fairly speedy. Easy to ride. Good for the environment. I would carry a back pack with all my essentials—clean underpants and socks, toothbrush & toothpaste, deoderant, wallet, collapsible cup, washcloth, flashlight, chapstick, transistor radio, compass, Preparation-H, iPhone, binoculars, nail clippers, sun glasses, SPF 100 sunscreen, Q-tips, two cans of beans, can opener, water bottle, pen, butt wipes, spork, eye drops, and a Buck knife.

I was packed and ready to go when I reazied I had no idea how I’d keep the scooter charged up. So, I decided to drive my Chevy Impala. I could make it to Derry on one tank of gas and I could load everything in the trunk and bring my dog Chris (short for “Christmas” when I got him as a gift from my wife). I loaded the car, Chris hopped in, and I turned the key. Nothing happened. The impala was dead. I called my mechanic “Bolts” Jackson and he told me he couldn’t come and pick up the car until next week.

I called Uber. For $300 each way they could take me. There were probably better options, but in the state of mind I was in, I couldn’t see them. I just wanted to get to Derry! My wife tried to talk me out of my pilgrimage, but she failed. I was going! We got about 10 miles out of Boothbay Harbor when the Uber driver pulled onto the road shoulder. He pointed a pistol at me and said “I’ll take that $300 now.” I told him I was using a credit card and said “Asshole” and kicked me out of the car and took off. I walked to Freeport, to LL Bean’s.

OMG! There was a car from Rhode Island in the parking lot with the keys in the ignition. I jumped in and turned the key. A siren went off and red smoke started billowing out from under the hood. But, the car had started! I jammed it in drive and took off for Derry. Thank god they don’t have live toll takers on the Turnpike in Maine and New Hampshire. The car was still smoking and the siren wailing when I got to Derry. I jumped out and ran to the docks where my ancestors landed. There were no docks. Derby is inland. There’s a lake nearby and that’s it. It was heartbreaking. One thing I know for sure, 1697 was when they landed/arrved there. They were all convicts in a “company” from Scotland who were sent to the New World to “Make Scotland great again.”

I hitchhiked back to Boothbay Harbor. I got a ride with a lobster buoy salesman. They were custom pained to “your specifications.” They are made from “iron-lite” rock-hard styrofoam guaranteed to float for 500 years. They could be passed down through generations as a sort of family lobster-loom. His name was “Red” and he travelled up and down the coast from New York to Maine. The name of his business was “Bobbing Buoys.” He asked me if I wanted to be his sidekick. Given what I had just been through, I eagerly accepted. After six months, I discovered that he was selling special bouys that could be used to sell drugs. The buoys were hollowed out with trap doors. They were filled with ziplock bags loaded with cocaine or ecstasy and “hauled” by customers. Red didn’t handle any drugs, just the hollowed-out buoys.

I decided I didn’t want to live so close to criminality. Accordingly, I quit Bobbing Buoy. I went to work for “Red’s Eats” in Wiscasset. I’ve moved my family into a trailer in Back Narrows. Strangely enough, Red is my landlord. He drives a Cadillac now with a gold lobster buoy hood ornament and a horn that plays “Sea Cruise,” sung by Freddy Canon in the sixties. Ewwweee baby!

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Sarcasmus

Posted on December 2, 2025 | Leave a comment

Sarcasmus (sar’kaz’-mus): Use of mockery, verbal taunts, or bitter irony.

“You look like a balloon filled with helium. I think you might float away to the trough where you spend your days snuffling. Let’s call you Pork Roll—you can’t oink your way out of this. You’ve disgusted too many people.”

He just stood there looking at me with his beady little eyes, drool dripping from his chin, his fat pink skin twitching. I admit it. I took it out on the pigs, specifically, Big Pink. He was a Hampshire pig, known for their intelligence. In WWII they were used to guard cricket pitches and ammunition dumps. If they saw something amiss, they would pull the rope on the alarm whistle, alerting nearby troops and cricket players. Supposedly, they saved 100s of lives. I didn’t believe it. All Big Pink wants to do is eat slop and roll around in the mud.

What a useless piece of crap—good to eat on special occasions, and that’s the end of it. “You’re nothing but a four-legged ham or a side of bacon, crispy and delicious.” At that, Big Pink jumped his pen and came at me, tusks dripping with saliva. I wasn’t going to apologize. I pulled my nine-inch switchblade knife. If I could get the right angle, I could poke him in the heart and kill him. As soon as he saw the knife he stopped dead, turned around, and shot a stream of pigshit at me. It hit me in the face. I almost puked, but I kept my head.

I picked up a bucket for a shield. There was an axe hanging by the pen. I grabbed it and slowly approached Big Pink. He eyed me cautiously and gave me a low-volume oink. I said, “You fat piece of shit. It’s time to go outside.” He seemed like he had calmed down. I held my hand out. He grabbed it and started chewing it. There was nothing else I could do—I split his skull with the axe.

Already, I could smell the bacon and eggs. Maybe some pancakes too. Finally, dead, Big Pink would be worth a damn. In life, he was a stinking leach, now he’s a good-tasting meal. I’m glad I killed him. I’m already looking forward to wringing some chickens’ necks.

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Scesis Onomaton

Posted on December 1, 2025 | Leave a comment

Scesis Onomaton (ske’-sis-o-no’-ma-ton): 1. A sentence constructed only of nouns and adjectives (typically in a regular pattern). 2. A series of successive, synonymous expressions.

“Big Buffalo prairie cabal.” That’s what I called it. The massive herd was slowly moving toward me, heads down, except for the alpha Buffalo “Shaggy,” head up with a dead rabbit impaled on one of his horns.

The buffalos picked up the pace and soon were galloping full tilt toward me. Did they want to kill me? I answered “Yes” in my head and jumped behind a large boulder.

The herd came streaming by—hundreds of buffalo. They smelled like unwashed underwear. They made a mooing sound like a car with a dead battery—ruh, ruh, ruh, ruh, ruh—only louder. It was a nightmare. I tried praying but I couldn’t remember how. So, I just yelled “Help!” There was a naked guy riding a white buffalo wearing a buffalo horn hat and thick eye shadow. He yelled “Stop!” And the herd stopped on his command. He looked at me and said “I am the Buffalo God. Go now! Go back to your family. Go back to your friends. Go back to MTV if it still exists. Or, you can ride the plains with me.”

I took him up on his offer, stripped naked and climbed on the buffalo he pointed out. “Her name’s Pandora” he said. I asked what we do in cold weather. He told me we fly to a nudist colony in Florida for the winter and that he was able to make us invisible for the flight.

We rode the plains all summer long. When it came time to go south naked, we took an Uber to the airport. We were arrested for public nudity at the airport’s entrance. Something had gone wrong with the Buffalo God’s invisibility spell. I was shocked and disappointed.

Under questioning, the police told me he was a certified nutcase. But then, he disappeared from his cell. Nobody could find him. Then, the police station’s entrance door opened and closed by itself. The Buffalo God had fixed his spell! The next thing I knew, I disappeared too!

We did a reprise of our trip to the airport, boarded a United Airlines flight to Miami, and then, took a bus to “Nudy, Nudy Nudist Colony.” We swam. We fished. We para-sailed. We water-skied. We ate the best food. We drank the best cocktails.

We both looked forward to returning to the buffalo.

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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